The Republic

Plato
(Translator: Benjamin Jowett)

Published: -380
Categorie(s): Non-Fiction, Human Science, Philosophy
Source: Gutenberg.org

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About Plato:
Plato (Greek: Plátōn, "wide, broad-shouldered") (428/427 BC
– 348/347 BC) was an ancient Greek philosopher, the second of
the great trio of ancient Greeks –Socrates, Plato, originally
named Aristocles, and Aristotle– who between them laid the
philosophical foundations of Western culture. Plato was also a
mathematician, writer of philosophical dialogues, and founder
of the Academy in Athens, the first institution of higher learn-
ing in the western world. Plato is widely believed to have been
a student of Socrates and to have been deeply influenced by
his teacher's unjust death. Plato's brilliance as a writer and
thinker can be witnessed by reading his Socratic dialogues.
Some of the dialogues, letters, and other works that are
ascribed to him are considered spurious. Plato is thought to
have lectured at the Academy, although the pedagogical func-
tion of his dialogues, if any, is not known with certainty. They
have historically been used to teach philosophy, logic, rhetoric,
mathematics, and other subjects about which he wrote.
Source: Wikipedia

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INTRODUCTION AND ANALYSIS.
The Republic of Plato is the longest of his works with the ex-
ception of the Laws, and is certainly the greatest of them.
There are nearer approaches to modern metaphysics in the
Philebus and in the Sophist; the Politicus or Statesman is more
ideal; the form and institutions of the State are more clearly
drawn out in the Laws; as works of art, the Symposium and the
Protagoras are of higher excellence. But no other Dialogue of
Plato has the same largeness of view and the same perfection
of style; no other shows an equal knowledge of the world, or
contains more of those thoughts which are new as well as old,
and not of one age only but of all. Nowhere in Plato is there a
deeper irony or a greater wealth of humour or imagery, or
more dramatic power. Nor in any other of his writings is the at-
tempt made to interweave life and speculation, or to connect
politics with philosophy. The Republic is the centre around
which the other Dialogues may be grouped; here philosophy
reaches the highest point (cp, especially in Books V, VI, VII) to
which ancient thinkers ever attained. Plato among the Greeks,
like Bacon among the moderns, was the first who conceived a
method of knowledge, although neither of them always distin-
guished the bare outline or form from the substance of truth;
and both of them had to be content with an abstraction of sci-
ence which was not yet realized. He was the greatest meta-
physical genius whom the world has seen; and in him, more
than in any other ancient thinker, the germs of future know-
ledge are contained. The sciences of logic and psychology,
which have supplied so many instruments of thought to after-
ages, are based upon the analyses of Socrates and Plato. The
principles of definition, the law of contradiction, the fallacy of
arguing in a circle, the distinction between the essence and ac-
cidents of a thing or notion, between means and ends, between
causes and conditions; also the division of the mind into the ra-
tional, concupiscent, and irascible elements, or of pleasures
and desires into necessary and unnecessary—these and other
great forms of thought are all of them to be found in the Re-
public, and were probably first invented by Plato. The greatest
of all logical truths, and the one of which writers on philosophy
are most apt to lose sight, the difference between words and

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things, has been most strenuously insisted on by him (cp. Rep.;
Polit.; Cratyl), although he has not always avoided the confu-
sion of them in his own writings (e.g. Rep.). But he does not
bind up truth in logical formulae,—logic is still veiled in meta-
physics; and the science which he imagines to 'contemplate all
truth and all existence' is very unlike the doctrine of the syllo-
gism which Aristotle claims to have discovered (Soph. Elenchi).
Neither must we forget that the Republic is but the third part
of a still larger design which was to have included an ideal his-
tory of Athens, as well as a political and physical philosophy.
The fragment of the Critias has given birth to a world-famous
fiction, second only in importance to the tale of Troy and the le-
gend of Arthur; and is said as a fact to have inspired some of
the early navigators of the sixteenth century. This mythical
tale, of which the subject was a history of the wars of the
Athenians against the Island of Atlantis, is supposed to be foun-
ded upon an unfinished poem of Solon, to which it would have
stood in the same relation as the writings of the logographers
to the poems of Homer. It would have told of a struggle for
Liberty (cp. Tim.), intended to represent the conflict of Persia
and Hellas. We may judge from the noble commencement of
the Timaeus, from the fragment of the Critias itself, and from
the third book of the Laws, in what manner Plato would have
treated this high argument. We can only guess why the great
design was abandoned; perhaps because Plato became sensible
of some incongruity in a fictitious history, or because he had
lost his interest in it, or because advancing years forbade the
completion of it; and we may please ourselves with the fancy
that had this imaginary narrative ever been finished, we should
have found Plato himself sympathising with the struggle for
Hellenic independence (cp. Laws), singing a hymn of triumph
over Marathon and Salamis, perhaps making the reflection of
Herodotus where he contemplates the growth of the Athenian
empire—'How brave a thing is freedom of speech, which has
made the Athenians so far exceed every other state of Hellas in
greatness!' or, more probably, attributing the victory to the an-
cient good order of Athens and to the favor of Apollo and
Athene (cp. Introd. to Critias).
Again, Plato may be regarded as the 'captain' ('arhchegoz')
or leader of a goodly band of followers; for in the Republic is to

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be found the original of Cicero's De Republica, of St.
Augustine's City of God, of the Utopia of Sir Thomas More, and
of the numerous other imaginary States which are framed upon
the same model. The extent to which Aristotle or the Aristoteli-
an school were indebted to him in the Politics has been little
recognised, and the recognition is the more necessary because
it is not made by Aristotle himself. The two philosophers had
more in common than they were conscious of; and probably
some elements of Plato remain still undetected in Aristotle. In
English philosophy too, many affinities may be traced, not only
in the works of the Cambridge Platonists, but in great original
writers like Berkeley or Coleridge, to Plato and his ideas. That
there is a truth higher than experience, of which the mind
bears witness to herself, is a conviction which in our own gen-
eration has been enthusiastically asserted, and is perhaps gain-
ing ground. Of the Greek authors who at the Renaissance
brought a new life into the world Plato has had the greatest in-
fluence. The Republic of Plato is also the first treatise upon
education, of which the writings of Milton and Locke,
Rousseau, Jean Paul, and Goethe are the legitimate descend-
ants. Like Dante or Bunyan, he has a revelation of another life;
like Bacon, he is profoundly impressed with the unity of know-
ledge; in the early Church he exercised a real influence on
theology, and at the Revival of Literature on politics. Even the
fragments of his words when 'repeated at second-hand'
(Symp.) have in all ages ravished the hearts of men, who have
seen reflected in them their own higher nature. He is the fath-
er of idealism in philosophy, in politics, in literature. And many
of the latest conceptions of modern thinkers and statesmen,
such as the unity of knowledge, the reign of law, and the equal-
ity of the sexes, have been anticipated in a dream by him.
The argument of the Republic is the search after Justice, the
nature of which is first hinted at by Cephalus, the just and
blameless old man—then discussed on the basis of proverbial
morality by Socrates and Polemarchus—then caricatured by
Thrasymachus and partially explained by Socrates—reduced to
an abstraction by Glaucon and Adeimantus, and having become
invisible in the individual reappears at length in the ideal State
which is constructed by Socrates. The first care of the rulers is
to be education, of which an outline is drawn after the old

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Hellenic model, providing only for an improved religion and
morality, and more simplicity in music and gymnastic, a manli-
er strain of poetry, and greater harmony of the individual and
the State. We are thus led on to the conception of a higher
State, in which 'no man calls anything his own,' and in which
there is neither 'marrying nor giving in marriage,' and 'kings
are philosophers' and 'philosophers are kings;' and there is an-
other and higher education, intellectual as well as moral and
religious, of science as well as of art, and not of youth only but
of the whole of life. Such a State is hardly to be realized in this
world and quickly degenerates. To the perfect ideal succeeds
the government of the soldier and the lover of honour, this
again declining into democracy, and democracy into tyranny,
in an imaginary but regular order having not much resemb-
lance to the actual facts. When 'the wheel has come full circle'
we do not begin again with a new period of human life; but we
have passed from the best to the worst, and there we end. The
subject is then changed and the old quarrel of poetry and
philosophy which had been more lightly treated in the earlier
books of the Republic is now resumed and fought out to a con-
clusion. Poetry is discovered to be an imitation thrice removed
from the truth, and Homer, as well as the dramatic poets, hav-
ing been condemned as an imitator, is sent into banishment
along with them. And the idea of the State is supplemented by
the revelation of a future life.
The division into books, like all similar divisions (Cp. Sir G.C.
Lewis in the Classical Museum.), is probably later than the age
of Plato. The natural divisions are five in number;—(1) Book I
and the first half of Book II down to the paragraph beginning,
'I had always admired the genius of Glaucon and Adeimantus,'
which is introductory; the first book containing a refutation of
the popular and sophistical notions of justice, and concluding,
like some of the earlier Dialogues, without arriving at any def-
inite result. To this is appended a restatement of the nature of
justice according to common opinion, and an answer is deman-
ded to the question—What is justice, stripped of appearances?
The second division (2) includes the remainder of the second
and the whole of the third and fourth books, which are mainly
occupied with the construction of the first State and the first
education. The third division (3) consists of the fifth, sixth, and

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seventh books, in which philosophy rather than justice is the
subject of enquiry, and the second State is constructed on prin-
ciples of communism and ruled by philosophers, and the con-
templation of the idea of good takes the place of the social and
political virtues. In the eighth and ninth books (4) the perver-
sions of States and of the individuals who correspond to them
are reviewed in succession; and the nature of pleasure and the
principle of tyranny are further analysed in the individual man.
The tenth book (5) is the conclusion of the whole, in which the
relations of philosophy to poetry are finally determined, and
the happiness of the citizens in this life, which has now been
assured, is crowned by the vision of another.
Or a more general division into two parts may be adopted;
the first (Books I - IV) containing the description of a State
framed generally in accordance with Hellenic notions of reli-
gion and morality, while in the second (Books V - X) the Hellen-
ic State is transformed into an ideal kingdom of philosophy, of
which all other governments are the perversions. These two
points of view are really opposed, and the opposition is only
veiled by the genius of Plato. The Republic, like the Phaedrus
(see Introduction to Phaedrus), is an imperfect whole; the high-
er light of philosophy breaks through the regularity of the Hel-
lenic temple, which at last fades away into the heavens. Wheth-
er this imperfection of structure arises from an enlargement of
the plan; or from the imperfect reconcilement in the writer's
own mind of the struggling elements of thought which are now
first brought together by him; or, perhaps, from the composi-
tion of the work at different times—are questions, like the sim-
ilar question about the Iliad and the Odyssey, which are worth
asking, but which cannot have a distinct answer. In the age of
Plato there was no regular mode of publication, and an author
would have the less scruple in altering or adding to a work
which was known only to a few of his friends. There is no ab-
surdity in supposing that he may have laid his labours aside for
a time, or turned from one work to another; and such interrup-
tions would be more likely to occur in the case of a long than of
a short writing. In all attempts to determine the chronological
order of the Platonic writings on internal evidence, this uncer-
tainty about any single Dialogue being composed at one time is
a disturbing element, which must be admitted to affect longer

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works, such as the Republic and the Laws, more than shorter
ones. But, on the other hand, the seeming discrepancies of the
Republic may only arise out of the discordant elements which
the philosopher has attempted to unite in a single whole, per-
haps without being himself able to recognise the inconsistency
which is obvious to us. For there is a judgment of after ages
which few great writers have ever been able to anticipate for
themselves. They do not perceive the want of connexion in
their own writings, or the gaps in their systems which are vis-
ible enough to those who come after them. In the beginnings of
literature and philosophy, amid the first efforts of thought and
language, more inconsistencies occur than now, when the
paths of speculation are well worn and the meaning of words
precisely defined. For consistency, too, is the growth of time;
and some of the greatest creations of the human mind have
been wanting in unity. Tried by this test, several of the Platonic
Dialogues, according to our modern ideas, appear to be defect-
ive, but the deficiency is no proof that they were composed at
different times or by different hands. And the supposition that
the Republic was written uninterruptedly and by a continuous
effort is in some degree confirmed by the numerous references
from one part of the work to another.
The second title, 'Concerning Justice,' is not the one by which
the Republic is quoted, either by Aristotle or generally in an-
tiquity, and, like the other second titles of the Platonic Dia-
logues, may therefore be assumed to be of later date. Morgen-
stern and others have asked whether the definition of justice,
which is the professed aim, or the construction of the State is
the principal argument of the work. The answer is, that the two
blend in one, and are two faces of the same truth; for justice is
the order of the State, and the State is the visible embodiment
of justice under the conditions of human society. The one is the
soul and the other is the body, and the Greek ideal of the State,
as of the individual, is a fair mind in a fair body. In Hegelian
phraseology the state is the reality of which justice is the idea.
Or, described in Christian language, the kingdom of God is
within, and yet developes into a Church or external kingdom;
'the house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens,' is re-
duced to the proportions of an earthly building. Or, to use a
Platonic image, justice and the State are the warp and the woof

8
which run through the whole texture. And when the constitu-
tion of the State is completed, the conception of justice is not
dismissed, but reappears under the same or different names
throughout the work, both as the inner law of the individual
soul, and finally as the principle of rewards and punishments in
another life. The virtues are based on justice, of which common
honesty in buying and selling is the shadow, and justice is
based on the idea of good, which is the harmony of the world,
and is reflected both in the institutions of states and in motions
of the heavenly bodies (cp. Tim.). The Timaeus, which takes up
the political rather than the ethical side of the Republic, and is
chiefly occupied with hypotheses concerning the outward
world, yet contains many indications that the same law is sup-
posed to reign over the State, over nature, and over man.
Too much, however, has been made of this question both in
ancient and modern times. There is a stage of criticism in
which all works, whether of nature or of art, are referred to
design. Now in ancient writings, and indeed in literature gen-
erally, there remains often a large element which was not com-
prehended in the original design. For the plan grows under the
author's hand; new thoughts occur to him in the act of writing;
he has not worked out the argument to the end before he be-
gins. The reader who seeks to find some one idea under which
the whole may be conceived, must necessarily seize on the
vaguest and most general. Thus Stallbaum, who is dissatisfied
with the ordinary explanations of the argument of the Repub-
lic, imagines himself to have found the true argument 'in the
representation of human life in a State perfected by justice,
and governed according to the idea of good.' There may be
some use in such general descriptions, but they can hardly be
said to express the design of the writer. The truth is, that we
may as well speak of many designs as of one; nor need any-
thing be excluded from the plan of a great work to which the
mind is naturally led by the association of ideas, and which
does not interfere with the general purpose. What kind or de-
gree of unity is to be sought after in a building, in the plastic
arts, in poetry, in prose, is a problem which has to be determ-
ined relatively to the subject-matter. To Plato himself, the en-
quiry 'what was the intention of the writer,' or 'what was the
principal argument of the Republic' would have been hardly

9
intelligible, and therefore had better be at once dismissed (cp.
the Introduction to the Phaedrus).
Is not the Republic the vehicle of three or four great truths
which, to Plato's own mind, are most naturally represented in
the form of the State? Just as in the Jewish prophets the reign
of Messiah, or 'the day of the Lord,' or the suffering Servant or
people of God, or the 'Sun of righteousness with healing in his
wings' only convey, to us at least, their great spiritual ideals,
so through the Greek State Plato reveals to us his own
thoughts about divine perfection, which is the idea of
good—like the sun in the visible world;—about human perfec-
tion, which is justice—about education beginning in youth and
continuing in later years—about poets and sophists and tyrants
who are the false teachers and evil rulers of mankind—about
'the world' which is the embodiment of them—about a kingdom
which exists nowhere upon earth but is laid up in heaven to be
the pattern and rule of human life. No such inspired creation is
at unity with itself, any more than the clouds of heaven when
the sun pierces through them. Every shade of light and dark, of
truth, and of fiction which is the veil of truth, is allowable in a
work of philosophical imagination. It is not all on the same
plane; it easily passes from ideas to myths and fancies, from
facts to figures of speech. It is not prose but poetry, at least a
great part of it, and ought not to be judged by the rules of logic
or the probabilities of history. The writer is not fashioning his
ideas into an artistic whole; they take possession of him and
are too much for him. We have no need therefore to discuss
whether a State such as Plato has conceived is practicable or
not, or whether the outward form or the inward life came first
into the mind of the writer. For the practicability of his ideas
has nothing to do with their truth; and the highest thoughts to
which he attains may be truly said to bear the greatest 'marks
of design'—justice more than the external frame-work of the
State, the idea of good more than justice. The great science of
dialectic or the organisation of ideas has no real content; but is
only a type of the method or spirit in which the higher know-
ledge is to be pursued by the spectator of all time and all exist-
ence. It is in the fifth, sixth, and seventh books that Plato
reaches the 'summit of speculation,' and these, although they
fail to satisfy the requirements of a modern thinker, may

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therefore be regarded as the most important, as they are also
the most original, portions of the work.
It is not necessary to discuss at length a minor question
which has been raised by Boeckh, respecting the imaginary
date at which the conversation was held (the year 411 B.C.
which is proposed by him will do as well as any other); for a
writer of fiction, and especially a writer who, like Plato, is no-
toriously careless of chronology (cp. Rep., Symp., etc.), only
aims at general probability. Whether all the persons mentioned
in the Republic could ever have met at any one time is not a
difficulty which would have occurred to an Athenian reading
the work forty years later, or to Plato himself at the time of
writing (any more than to Shakespeare respecting one of his
own dramas); and need not greatly trouble us now. Yet this
may be a question having no answer 'which is still worth ask-
ing,' because the investigation shows that we cannot argue his-
torically from the dates in Plato; it would be useless therefore
to waste time in inventing far-fetched reconcilements of them
in order to avoid chronological difficulties, such, for example,
as the conjecture of C.F. Hermann, that Glaucon and Adei-
mantus are not the brothers but the uncles of Plato (cp. Apol.),
or the fancy of Stallbaum that Plato intentionally left anachron-
isms indicating the dates at which some of his Dialogues were
written.
The principal characters in the Republic are Cephalus, Pole-
marchus, Thrasymachus, Socrates, Glaucon, and Adeimantus.
Cephalus appears in the introduction only, Polemarchus drops
at the end of the first argument, and Thrasymachus is reduced
to silence at the close of the first book. The main discussion is
carried on by Socrates, Glaucon, and Adeimantus. Among the
company are Lysias (the orator) and Euthydemus, the sons of
Cephalus and brothers of Polemarchus, an unknown Charman-
tides—these are mute auditors; also there is Cleitophon, who
once interrupts, where, as in the Dialogue which bears his
name, he appears as the friend and ally of Thrasymachus.
Cephalus, the patriarch of the house, has been appropriately
engaged in offering a sacrifice. He is the pattern of an old man
who has almost done with life, and is at peace with himself and
with all mankind. He feels that he is drawing nearer to the
world below, and seems to linger around the memory of the

11
past. He is eager that Socrates should come to visit him, fond
of the poetry of the last generation, happy in the consciousness
of a well-spent life, glad at having escaped from the tyranny of
youthful lusts. His love of conversation, his affection, his indif-
ference to riches, even his garrulity, are interesting traits of
character. He is not one of those who have nothing to say, be-
cause their whole mind has been absorbed in making money.
Yet he acknowledges that riches have the advantage of placing
men above the temptation to dishonesty or falsehood. The re-
spectful attention shown to him by Socrates, whose love of con-
versation, no less than the mission imposed upon him by the
Oracle, leads him to ask questions of all men, young and old
alike, should also be noted. Who better suited to raise the
question of justice than Cephalus, whose life might seem to be
the expression of it? The moderation with which old age is pic-
tured by Cephalus as a very tolerable portion of existence is
characteristic, not only of him, but of Greek feeling generally,
and contrasts with the exaggeration of Cicero in the De Senec-
tute. The evening of life is described by Plato in the most ex-
pressive manner, yet with the fewest possible touches. As
Cicero remarks (Ep. ad Attic.), the aged Cephalus would have
been out of place in the discussion which follows, and which he
could neither have understood nor taken part in without a viol-
ation of dramatic propriety (cp. Lysimachus in the Laches).
His 'son and heir' Polemarchus has the frankness and im-
petuousness of youth; he is for detaining Socrates by force in
the opening scene, and will not 'let him off' on the subject of
women and children. Like Cephalus, he is limited in his point of
view, and represents the proverbial stage of morality which
has rules of life rather than principles; and he quotes Si-
monides (cp. Aristoph. Clouds) as his father had quoted Pindar.
But after this he has no more to say; the answers which he
makes are only elicited from him by the dialectic of Socrates.
He has not yet experienced the influence of the Sophists like
Glaucon and Adeimantus, nor is he sensible of the necessity of
refuting them; he belongs to the pre-Socratic or pre-dialectical
age. He is incapable of arguing, and is bewildered by Socrates
to such a degree that he does not know what he is saying. He is
made to admit that justice is a thief, and that the virtues follow
the analogy of the arts. From his brother Lysias (contra

12
Eratosth.) we learn that he fell a victim to the Thirty Tyrants,
but no allusion is here made to his fate, nor to the circum-
stance that Cephalus and his family were of Syracusan origin,
and had migrated from Thurii to Athens.
The 'Chalcedonian giant,' Thrasymachus, of whom we have
already heard in the Phaedrus, is the personification of the
Sophists, according to Plato's conception of them, in some of
their worst characteristics. He is vain and blustering, refusing
to discourse unless he is paid, fond of making an oration, and
hoping thereby to escape the inevitable Socrates; but a mere
child in argument, and unable to foresee that the next 'move'
(to use a Platonic expression) will 'shut him up.' He has
reached the stage of framing general notions, and in this re-
spect is in advance of Cephalus and Polemarchus. But he is in-
capable of defending them in a discussion, and vainly tries to
cover his confusion with banter and insolence. Whether such
doctrines as are attributed to him by Plato were really held
either by him or by any other Sophist is uncertain; in the in-
fancy of philosophy serious errors about morality might easily
grow up—they are certainly put into the mouths of speakers in
Thucydides; but we are concerned at present with Plato's de-
scription of him, and not with the historical reality. The in-
equality of the contest adds greatly to the humour of the scene.
The pompous and empty Sophist is utterly helpless in the
hands of the great master of dialectic, who knows how to touch
all the springs of vanity and weakness in him. He is greatly ir-
ritated by the irony of Socrates, but his noisy and imbecile rage
only lays him more and more open to the thrusts of his assail-
ant. His determination to cram down their throats, or put 'bod-
ily into their souls' his own words, elicits a cry of horror from
Socrates. The state of his temper is quite as worthy of remark
as the process of the argument. Nothing is more amusing than
his complete submission when he has been once thoroughly
beaten. At first he seems to continue the discussion with re-
luctance, but soon with apparent good-will, and he even testi-
fies his interest at a later stage by one or two occasional re-
marks. When attacked by Glaucon he is humorously protected
by Socrates 'as one who has never been his enemy and is now
his friend.' From Cicero and Quintilian and from Aristotle's
Rhetoric we learn that the Sophist whom Plato has made so

13
ridiculous was a man of note whose writings were preserved in
later ages. The play on his name which was made by his con-
temporary Herodicus (Aris. Rhet.), 'thou wast ever bold in
battle,' seems to show that the description of him is not devoid
of verisimilitude.
When Thrasymachus has been silenced, the two principal re-
spondents, Glaucon and Adeimantus, appear on the scene:
here, as in Greek tragedy (cp. Introd. to Phaedo), three actors
are introduced. At first sight the two sons of Ariston may seem
to wear a family likeness, like the two friends Simmias and
Cebes in the Phaedo. But on a nearer examination of them the
similarity vanishes, and they are seen to be distinct characters.
Glaucon is the impetuous youth who can 'just never have
enough of fechting' (cp. the character of him in Xen. Mem. iii.
6); the man of pleasure who is acquainted with the mysteries of
love; the 'juvenis qui gaudet canibus,' and who improves the
breed of animals; the lover of art and music who has all the ex-
periences of youthful life. He is full of quickness and penetra-
tion, piercing easily below the clumsy platitudes of
Thrasymachus to the real difficulty; he turns out to the light
the seamy side of human life, and yet does not lose faith in the
just and true. It is Glaucon who seizes what may be termed the
ludicrous relation of the philosopher to the world, to whom a
state of simplicity is 'a city of pigs,' who is always prepared
with a jest when the argument offers him an opportunity, and
who is ever ready to second the humour of Socrates and to ap-
preciate the ridiculous, whether in the connoisseurs of music,
or in the lovers of theatricals, or in the fantastic behaviour of
the citizens of democracy. His weaknesses are several times al-
luded to by Socrates, who, however, will not allow him to be at-
tacked by his brother Adeimantus. He is a soldier, and, like
Adeimantus, has been distinguished at the battle of Megara
(anno 456?)… The character of Adeimantus is deeper and
graver, and the profounder objections are commonly put into
his mouth. Glaucon is more demonstrative, and generally
opens the game. Adeimantus pursues the argument further.
Glaucon has more of the liveliness and quick sympathy of
youth; Adeimantus has the maturer judgment of a grown-up
man of the world. In the second book, when Glaucon insists
that justice and injustice shall be considered without regard to

14
their consequences, Adeimantus remarks that they are re-
garded by mankind in general only for the sake of their con-
sequences; and in a similar vein of reflection he urges at the
beginning of the fourth book that Socrates fails in making his
citizens happy, and is answered that happiness is not the first
but the second thing, not the direct aim but the indirect con-
sequence of the good government of a State. In the discussion
about religion and mythology, Adeimantus is the respondent,
but Glaucon breaks in with a slight jest, and carries on the con-
versation in a lighter tone about music and gymnastic to the
end of the book. It is Adeimantus again who volunteers the cri-
ticism of common sense on the Socratic method of argument,
and who refuses to let Socrates pass lightly over the question
of women and children. It is Adeimantus who is the respondent
in the more argumentative, as Glaucon in the lighter and more
imaginative portions of the Dialogue. For example, throughout
the greater part of the sixth book, the causes of the corruption
of philosophy and the conception of the idea of good are dis-
cussed with Adeimantus. Glaucon resumes his place of princip-
al respondent; but he has a difficulty in apprehending the high-
er education of Socrates, and makes some false hits in the
course of the discussion. Once more Adeimantus returns with
the allusion to his brother Glaucon whom he compares to the
contentious State; in the next book he is again superseded, and
Glaucon continues to the end.
Thus in a succession of characters Plato represents the suc-
cessive stages of morality, beginning with the Athenian gentle-
man of the olden time, who is followed by the practical man of
that day regulating his life by proverbs and saws; to him suc-
ceeds the wild generalization of the Sophists, and lastly come
the young disciples of the great teacher, who know the sophist-
ical arguments but will not be convinced by them, and desire to
go deeper into the nature of things. These too, like Cephalus,
Polemarchus, Thrasymachus, are clearly distinguished from
one another. Neither in the Republic, nor in any other Dialogue
of Plato, is a single character repeated.
The delineation of Socrates in the Republic is not wholly con-
sistent. In the first book we have more of the real Socrates,
such as he is depicted in the Memorabilia of Xenophon, in the
earliest Dialogues of Plato, and in the Apology. He is ironical,

15
provoking, questioning, the old enemy of the Sophists, ready to
put on the mask of Silenus as well as to argue seriously. But in
the sixth book his enmity towards the Sophists abates; he ac-
knowledges that they are the representatives rather than the
corrupters of the world. He also becomes more dogmatic and
constructive, passing beyond the range either of the political or
the speculative ideas of the real Socrates. In one passage Plato
himself seems to intimate that the time had now come for So-
crates, who had passed his whole life in philosophy, to give his
own opinion and not to be always repeating the notions of oth-
er men. There is no evidence that either the idea of good or the
conception of a perfect state were comprehended in the So-
cratic teaching, though he certainly dwelt on the nature of the
universal and of final causes (cp. Xen. Mem.; Phaedo); and a
deep thinker like him, in his thirty or forty years of public
teaching, could hardly have failed to touch on the nature of
family relations, for which there is also some positive evidence
in the Memorabilia (Mem.) The Socratic method is nominally
retained; and every inference is either put into the mouth of
the respondent or represented as the common discovery of him
and Socrates. But any one can see that this is a mere form, of
which the affectation grows wearisome as the work advances.
The method of enquiry has passed into a method of teaching in
which by the help of interlocutors the same thesis is looked at
from various points of view. The nature of the process is truly
characterized by Glaucon, when he describes himself as a com-
panion who is not good for much in an investigation, but can
see what he is shown, and may, perhaps, give the answer to a
question more fluently than another.
Neither can we be absolutely certain that Socrates himself
taught the immortality of the soul, which is unknown to his dis-
ciple Glaucon in the Republic (cp. Apol.); nor is there any reas-
on to suppose that he used myths or revelations of another
world as a vehicle of instruction, or that he would have ban-
ished poetry or have denounced the Greek mythology. His fa-
vorite oath is retained, and a slight mention is made of the dae-
monium, or internal sign, which is alluded to by Socrates as a
phenomenon peculiar to himself. A real element of Socratic
teaching, which is more prominent in the Republic than in any
of the other Dialogues of Plato, is the use of example and

16
illustration (Greek): 'Let us apply the test of common in-
stances.' 'You,' says Adeimantus, ironically, in the sixth book,
'are so unaccustomed to speak in images.' And this use of ex-
amples or images, though truly Socratic in origin, is enlarged
by the genius of Plato into the form of an allegory or parable,
which embodies in the concrete what has been already de-
scribed, or is about to be described, in the abstract. Thus the
figure of the cave in Book VII is a recapitulation of the divisions
of knowledge in Book VI. The composite animal in Book IX is
an allegory of the parts of the soul. The noble captain and the
ship and the true pilot in Book VI are a figure of the relation of
the people to the philosophers in the State which has been de-
scribed. Other figures, such as the dog, or the marriage of the
portionless maiden, or the drones and wasps in the eighth and
ninth books, also form links of connexion in long passages, or
are used to recall previous discussions.
Plato is most true to the character of his master when he de-
scribes him as 'not of this world.' And with this representation
of him the ideal state and the other paradoxes of the Republic
are quite in accordance, though they cannot be shown to have
been speculations of Socrates. To him, as to other great teach-
ers both philosophical and religious, when they looked upward,
the world seemed to be the embodiment of error and evil. The
common sense of mankind has revolted against this view, or
has only partially admitted it. And even in Socrates himself the
sterner judgement of the multitude at times passes into a sort
of ironical pity or love. Men in general are incapable of philo-
sophy, and are therefore at enmity with the philosopher; but
their misunderstanding of him is unavoidable: for they have
never seen him as he truly is in his own image; they are only
acquainted with artificial systems possessing no native force of
truth—words which admit of many applications. Their leaders
have nothing to measure with, and are therefore ignorant of
their own stature. But they are to be pitied or laughed at, not
to be quarrelled with; they mean well with their nostrums, if
they could only learn that they are cutting off a Hydra's head.
This moderation towards those who are in error is one of the
most characteristic features of Socrates in the Republic. In all
the different representations of Socrates, whether of Xenophon
or Plato, and amid the differences of the earlier or later

17
Dialogues, he always retains the character of the unwearied
and disinterested seeker after truth, without which he would
have ceased to be Socrates.
Leaving the characters we may now analyse the contents of
the Republic, and then proceed to consider (1) The general as-
pects of this Hellenic ideal of the State, (2) The modern lights
in which the thoughts of Plato may be read.
BOOK I. The Republic opens with a truly Greek scene—a fest-
ival in honour of the goddess Bendis which is held in the Pir-
aeus; to this is added the promise of an equestrian torch-race
in the evening. The whole work is supposed to be recited by
Socrates on the day after the festival to a small party, consist-
ing of Critias, Timaeus, Hermocrates, and another; this we
learn from the first words of the Timaeus.
When the rhetorical advantage of reciting the Dialogue has
been gained, the attention is not distracted by any reference to
the audience; nor is the reader further reminded of the ex-
traordinary length of the narrative. Of the numerous company,
three only take any serious part in the discussion; nor are we
informed whether in the evening they went to the torch-race,
or talked, as in the Symposium, through the night. The manner
in which the conversation has arisen is described as fol-
lows:—Socrates and his companion Glaucon are about to leave
the festival when they are detained by a message from Pole-
marchus, who speedily appears accompanied by Adeimantus,
the brother of Glaucon, and with playful violence compels them
to remain, promising them not only the torch-race, but the
pleasure of conversation with the young, which to Socrates is a
far greater attraction. They return to the house of Cephalus,
Polemarchus' father, now in extreme old age, who is found sit-
ting upon a cushioned seat crowned for a sacrifice. 'You should
come to me oftener, Socrates, for I am too old to go to you; and
at my time of life, having lost other pleasures, I care the more
for conversation.' Socrates asks him what he thinks of age, to
which the old man replies, that the sorrows and discontents of
age are to be attributed to the tempers of men, and that age is
a time of peace in which the tyranny of the passions is no
longer felt. Yes, replies Socrates, but the world will say, Ceph-
alus, that you are happy in old age because you are rich. 'And
there is something in what they say, Socrates, but not so much

18
as they imagine—as Themistocles replied to the Seriphian,
"Neither you, if you had been an Athenian, nor I, if I had been a
Seriphian, would ever have been famous," I might in like man-
ner reply to you, Neither a good poor man can be happy in age,
nor yet a bad rich man.' Socrates remarks that Cephalus ap-
pears not to care about riches, a quality which he ascribes to
his having inherited, not acquired them, and would like to
know what he considers to be the chief advantage of them.
Cephalus answers that when you are old the belief in the world
below grows upon you, and then to have done justice and never
to have been compelled to do injustice through poverty, and
never to have deceived anyone, are felt to be unspeakable
blessings. Socrates, who is evidently preparing for an argu-
ment, next asks, What is the meaning of the word justice? To
tell the truth and pay your debts? No more than this? Or must
we admit exceptions? Ought I, for example, to put back into the
hands of my friend, who has gone mad, the sword which I bor-
rowed of him when he was in his right mind? 'There must be
exceptions.' 'And yet,' says Polemarchus, 'the definition which
has been given has the authority of Simonides.' Here Cephalus
retires to look after the sacrifices, and bequeaths, as Socrates
facetiously remarks, the possession of the argument to his heir,
Polemarchus…
The description of old age is finished, and Plato, as his man-
ner is, has touched the key-note of the whole work in asking for
the definition of justice, first suggesting the question which
Glaucon afterwards pursues respecting external goods, and
preparing for the concluding mythus of the world below in the
slight allusion of Cephalus. The portrait of the just man is a
natural frontispiece or introduction to the long discourse which
follows, and may perhaps imply that in all our perplexity about
the nature of justice, there is no difficulty in discerning 'who is
a just man.' The first explanation has been supported by a say-
ing of Simonides; and now Socrates has a mind to show that
the resolution of justice into two unconnected precepts, which
have no common principle, fails to satisfy the demands of
dialectic.
… He proceeds: What did Simonides mean by this saying of
his? Did he mean that I was to give back arms to a madman?
'No, not in that case, not if the parties are friends, and evil

19
would result. He meant that you were to do what was proper,
good to friends and harm to enemies.' Every act does
something to somebody; and following this analogy, Socrates
asks, What is this due and proper thing which justice does, and
to whom? He is answered that justice does good to friends and
harm to enemies. But in what way good or harm? 'In making al-
liances with the one, and going to war with the other.' Then in
time of peace what is the good of justice? The answer is that
justice is of use in contracts, and contracts are money partner-
ships. Yes; but how in such partnerships is the just man of
more use than any other man? 'When you want to have money
safely kept and not used.' Then justice will be useful when
money is useless. And there is another difficulty: justice, like
the art of war or any other art, must be of opposites, good at
attack as well as at defence, at stealing as well as at guarding.
But then justice is a thief, though a hero notwithstanding, like
Autolycus, the Homeric hero, who was 'excellent above all men
in theft and perjury'—to such a pass have you and Homer and
Simonides brought us; though I do not forget that the thieving
must be for the good of friends and the harm of enemies. And
still there arises another question: Are friends to be inter-
preted as real or seeming; enemies as real or seeming? And
are our friends to be only the good, and our enemies to be the
evil? The answer is, that we must do good to our seeming and
real good friends, and evil to our seeming and real evil en-
emies—good to the good, evil to the evil. But ought we to
render evil for evil at all, when to do so will only make men
more evil? Can justice produce injustice any more than the art
of horsemanship can make bad horsemen, or heat produce
cold? The final conclusion is, that no sage or poet ever said
that the just return evil for evil; this was a maxim of some rich
and mighty man, Periander, Perdiccas, or Ismenias the Theban
(about B.C. 398-381)…
Thus the first stage of aphoristic or unconscious morality is
shown to be inadequate to the wants of the age; the authority
of the poets is set aside, and through the winding mazes of dia-
lectic we make an approach to the Christian precept of forgive-
ness of injuries. Similar words are applied by the Persian mys-
tic poet to the Divine being when the questioning spirit is
stirred within him:—'If because I do evil, Thou punishest me by

20
evil, what is the difference between Thee and me?' In this both
Plato and Kheyam rise above the level of many Christian (?)
theologians. The first definition of justice easily passes into the
second; for the simple words 'to speak the truth and pay your
debts' is substituted the more abstract 'to do good to your
friends and harm to your enemies.' Either of these explanations
gives a sufficient rule of life for plain men, but they both fall
short of the precision of philosophy. We may note in passing
the antiquity of casuistry, which not only arises out of the con-
flict of established principles in particular cases, but also out of
the effort to attain them, and is prior as well as posterior to our
fundamental notions of morality. The 'interrogation' of moral
ideas; the appeal to the authority of Homer; the conclusion that
the maxim, 'Do good to your friends and harm to your en-
emies,' being erroneous, could not have been the word of any
great man, are all of them very characteristic of the Platonic
Socrates.
… Here Thrasymachus, who has made several attempts to in-
terrupt, but has hitherto been kept in order by the company,
takes advantage of a pause and rushes into the arena, begin-
ning, like a savage animal, with a roar. 'Socrates,' he says,
'what folly is this?—Why do you agree to be vanquished by one
another in a pretended argument?' He then prohibits all the or-
dinary definitions of justice; to which Socrates replies that he
cannot tell how many twelve is, if he is forbidden to say 2 x 6,
or 3 x 4, or 6 x 2, or 4 x 3. At first Thrasymachus is reluctant to
argue; but at length, with a promise of payment on the part of
the company and of praise from Socrates, he is induced to
open the game. 'Listen,' he says, 'my answer is that might is
right, justice the interest of the stronger: now praise me.' Let
me understand you first. Do you mean that because Polydamas
the wrestler, who is stronger than we are, finds the eating of
beef for his interest, the eating of beef is also for our interest,
who are not so strong? Thrasymachus is indignant at the illus-
tration, and in pompous words, apparently intended to restore
dignity to the argument, he explains his meaning to be that the
rulers make laws for their own interests. But suppose, says So-
crates, that the ruler or stronger makes a mistake—then the in-
terest of the stronger is not his interest. Thrasymachus is
saved from this speedy downfall by his disciple Cleitophon,

21
who introduces the word 'thinks;'—not the actual interest of
the ruler, but what he thinks or what seems to be his interest,
is justice. The contradiction is escaped by the unmeaning eva-
sion: for though his real and apparent interests may differ,
what the ruler thinks to be his interest will always remain what
he thinks to be his interest.
Of course this was not the original assertion, nor is the new
interpretation accepted by Thrasymachus himself. But So-
crates is not disposed to quarrel about words, if, as he signific-
antly insinuates, his adversary has changed his mind. In what
follows Thrasymachus does in fact withdraw his admission that
the ruler may make a mistake, for he affirms that the ruler as a
ruler is infallible. Socrates is quite ready to accept the new po-
sition, which he equally turns against Thrasymachus by the
help of the analogy of the arts. Every art or science has an in-
terest, but this interest is to be distinguished from the acci-
dental interest of the artist, and is only concerned with the
good of the things or persons which come under the art. And
justice has an interest which is the interest not of the ruler or
judge, but of those who come under his sway.
Thrasymachus is on the brink of the inevitable conclusion,
when he makes a bold diversion. 'Tell me, Socrates,' he says,
'have you a nurse?' What a question! Why do you ask?
'Because, if you have, she neglects you and lets you go about
drivelling, and has not even taught you to know the shepherd
from the sheep. For you fancy that shepherds and rulers never
think of their own interest, but only of their sheep or subjects,
whereas the truth is that they fatten them for their use, sheep
and subjects alike. And experience proves that in every relation
of life the just man is the loser and the unjust the gainer, espe-
cially where injustice is on the grand scale, which is quite an-
other thing from the petty rogueries of swindlers and burglars
and robbers of temples. The language of men proves this—our
'gracious' and 'blessed' tyrant and the like—all which tends to
show (1) that justice is the interest of the stronger; and (2) that
injustice is more profitable and also stronger than justice.'
Thrasymachus, who is better at a speech than at a close ar-
gument, having deluged the company with words, has a mind
to escape. But the others will not let him go, and Socrates adds
a humble but earnest request that he will not desert them at

22
such a crisis of their fate. 'And what can I do more for you?' he
says; 'would you have me put the words bodily into your souls?'
God forbid! replies Socrates; but we want you to be consistent
in the use of terms, and not to employ 'physician' in an exact
sense, and then again 'shepherd' or 'ruler' in an inexact,—if the
words are strictly taken, the ruler and the shepherd look only
to the good of their people or flocks and not to their own:
whereas you insist that rulers are solely actuated by love of of-
fice. 'No doubt about it,' replies Thrasymachus. Then why are
they paid? Is not the reason, that their interest is not compre-
hended in their art, and is therefore the concern of another art,
the art of pay, which is common to the arts in general, and
therefore not identical with any one of them? Nor would any
man be a ruler unless he were induced by the hope of reward
or the fear of punishment;—the reward is money or honour, the
punishment is the necessity of being ruled by a man worse
than himself. And if a State (or Church) were composed en-
tirely of good men, they would be affected by the last motive
only; and there would be as much 'nolo episcopari' as there is
at present of the opposite…
The satire on existing governments is heightened by the
simple and apparently incidental manner in which the last re-
mark is introduced. There is a similar irony in the argument
that the governors of mankind do not like being in office, and
that therefore they demand pay.
… Enough of this: the other assertion of Thrasymachus is far
more important—that the unjust life is more gainful than the
just. Now, as you and I, Glaucon, are not convinced by him, we
must reply to him; but if we try to compare their respective
gains we shall want a judge to decide for us; we had better
therefore proceed by making mutual admissions of the truth to
one another.
Thrasymachus had asserted that perfect injustice was more
gainful than perfect justice, and after a little hesitation he is in-
duced by Socrates to admit the still greater paradox that in-
justice is virtue and justice vice. Socrates praises his frank-
ness, and assumes the attitude of one whose only wish is to un-
derstand the meaning of his opponents. At the same time he is
weaving a net in which Thrasymachus is finally enclosed. The
admission is elicited from him that the just man seeks to gain

23
an advantage over the unjust only, but not over the just, while
the unjust would gain an advantage over either. Socrates, in
order to test this statement, employs once more the favourite
analogy of the arts. The musician, doctor, skilled artist of any
sort, does not seek to gain more than the skilled, but only more
than the unskilled (that is to say, he works up to a rule, stand-
ard, law, and does not exceed it), whereas the unskilled makes
random efforts at excess. Thus the skilled falls on the side of
the good, and the unskilled on the side of the evil, and the just
is the skilled, and the unjust is the unskilled.
There was great difficulty in bringing Thrasymachus to the
point; the day was hot and he was streaming with perspiration,
and for the first time in his life he was seen to blush. But his
other thesis that injustice was stronger than justice has not yet
been refuted, and Socrates now proceeds to the consideration
of this, which, with the assistance of Thrasymachus, he hopes
to clear up; the latter is at first churlish, but in the judicious
hands of Socrates is soon restored to good-humour: Is there
not honour among thieves? Is not the strength of injustice only
a remnant of justice? Is not absolute injustice absolute weak-
ness also? A house that is divided against itself cannot stand;
two men who quarrel detract from one another's strength, and
he who is at war with himself is the enemy of himself and the
gods. Not wickedness therefore, but semi-wickedness flour-
ishes in states,—a remnant of good is needed in order to make
union in action possible,—there is no kingdom of evil in this
world.
Another question has not been answered: Is the just or the
unjust the happier? To this we reply, that every art has an end
and an excellence or virtue by which the end is accomplished.
And is not the end of the soul happiness, and justice the excel-
lence of the soul by which happiness is attained? Justice and
happiness being thus shown to be inseparable, the question
whether the just or the unjust is the happier has disappeared.
Thrasymachus replies: 'Let this be your entertainment, So-
crates, at the festival of Bendis.' Yes; and a very good enter-
tainment with which your kindness has supplied me, now that
you have left off scolding. And yet not a good entertain-
ment—but that was my own fault, for I tasted of too many
things. First of all the nature of justice was the subject of our

24
enquiry, and then whether justice is virtue and wisdom, or evil
and folly; and then the comparative advantages of just and un-
just: and the sum of all is that I know not what justice is; how
then shall I know whether the just is happy or not?…
Thus the sophistical fabric has been demolished, chiefly by
appealing to the analogy of the arts. 'Justice is like the arts (1)
in having no external interest, and (2) in not aiming at excess,
and (3) justice is to happiness what the implement of the work-
man is to his work.' At this the modern reader is apt to
stumble, because he forgets that Plato is writing in an age
when the arts and the virtues, like the moral and intellectual
faculties, were still undistinguished. Among early enquirers in-
to the nature of human action the arts helped to fill up the void
of speculation; and at first the comparison of the arts and the
virtues was not perceived by them to be fallacious. They only
saw the points of agreement in them and not the points of dif-
ference. Virtue, like art, must take means to an end; good man-
ners are both an art and a virtue; character is naturally de-
scribed under the image of a statue; and there are many other
figures of speech which are readily transferred from art to
morals. The next generation cleared up these perplexities; or
at least supplied after ages with a further analysis of them. The
contemporaries of Plato were in a state of transition, and had
not yet fully realized the common-sense distinction of Aristotle,
that 'virtue is concerned with action, art with production' (Nic.
Eth.), or that 'virtue implies intention and constancy of pur-
pose,' whereas 'art requires knowledge only'. And yet in the ab-
surdities which follow from some uses of the analogy, there
seems to be an intimation conveyed that virtue is more than
art. This is implied in the reductio ad absurdum that 'justice is
a thief,' and in the dissatisfaction which Socrates expresses at
the final result.
The expression 'an art of pay' which is described as 'common
to all the arts' is not in accordance with the ordinary use of lan-
guage. Nor is it employed elsewhere either by Plato or by any
other Greek writer. It is suggested by the argument, and seems
to extend the conception of art to doing as well as making.
Another flaw or inaccuracy of language may be noted in the
words 'men who are injured are made more unjust.' For those

25
who are injured are not necessarily made worse, but only
harmed or ill-treated.
The second of the three arguments, 'that the just does not
aim at excess,' has a real meaning, though wrapped up in an
enigmatical form. That the good is of the nature of the finite is
a peculiarly Hellenic sentiment, which may be compared with
the language of those modern writers who speak of virtue as
fitness, and of freedom as obedience to law. The mathematical
or logical notion of limit easily passes into an ethical one, and
even finds a mythological expression in the conception of envy
(Greek). Ideas of measure, equality, order, unity, proportion,
still linger in the writings of moralists; and the true spirit of the
fine arts is better conveyed by such terms than by superlatives.

'When workmen strive to do better than well,

They do confound their skill in covetousness.' (King
John.)

The harmony of the soul and body, and of the parts of the
soul with one another, a harmony 'fairer than that of musical
notes,' is the true Hellenic mode of conceiving the perfection of
human nature.
In what may be called the epilogue of the discussion with
Thrasymachus, Plato argues that evil is not a principle of
strength, but of discord and dissolution, just touching the ques-
tion which has been often treated in modern times by theolo-
gians and philosophers, of the negative nature of evil. In the
last argument we trace the germ of the Aristotelian doctrine of
an end and a virtue directed towards the end, which again is
suggested by the arts. The final reconcilement of justice and
happiness and the identity of the individual and the State are
also intimated. Socrates reassumes the character of a 'know-
nothing;' at the same time he appears to be not wholly satisfied
with the manner in which the argument has been conducted.
Nothing is concluded; but the tendency of the dialectical pro-
cess, here as always, is to enlarge our conception of ideas, and
to widen their application to human life.
BOOK II. Thrasymachus is pacified, but the intrepid Glaucon
insists on continuing the argument. He is not satisfied with the
indirect manner in which, at the end of the last book, Socrates

26
had disposed of the question 'Whether the just or the unjust is
the happier.' He begins by dividing goods into three
classes:—first, goods desirable in themselves; secondly, goods
desirable in themselves and for their results; thirdly, goods de-
sirable for their results only. He then asks Socrates in which of
the three classes he would place justice. In the second class,
replies Socrates, among goods desirable for themselves and
also for their results. 'Then the world in general are of another
mind, for they say that justice belongs to the troublesome class
of goods which are desirable for their results only. Socrates an-
swers that this is the doctrine of Thrasymachus which he re-
jects. Glaucon thinks that Thrasymachus was too ready to
listen to the voice of the charmer, and proposes to consider the
nature of justice and injustice in themselves and apart from the
results and rewards of them which the world is always dinning
in his ears. He will first of all speak of the nature and origin of
justice; secondly, of the manner in which men view justice as a
necessity and not a good; and thirdly, he will prove the reason-
ableness of this view.
'To do injustice is said to be a good; to suffer injustice an
evil. As the evil is discovered by experience to be greater than
the good, the sufferers, who cannot also be doers, make a com-
pact that they will have neither, and this compact or mean is
called justice, but is really the impossibility of doing injustice.
No one would observe such a compact if he were not obliged.
Let us suppose that the just and unjust have two rings, like
that of Gyges in the well-known story, which make them invis-
ible, and then no difference will appear in them, for every one
will do evil if he can. And he who abstains will be regarded by
the world as a fool for his pains. Men may praise him in public
out of fear for themselves, but they will laugh at him in their
hearts (Cp. Gorgias.)
'And now let us frame an ideal of the just and unjust. Imagine
the unjust man to be master of his craft, seldom making mis-
takes and easily correcting them; having gifts of money,
speech, strength—the greatest villain bearing the highest char-
acter: and at his side let us place the just in his nobleness and
simplicity—being, not seeming—without name or re-
ward—clothed in his justice only—the best of men who is
thought to be the worst, and let him die as he has lived. I might

27
add (but I would rather put the rest into the mouth of the pan-
egyrists of injustice—they will tell you) that the just man will
be scourged, racked, bound, will have his eyes put out, and will
at last be crucified (literally impaled)—and all this because he
ought to have preferred seeming to being. How different is the
case of the unjust who clings to appearance as the true reality!
His high character makes him a ruler; he can marry where he
likes, trade where he likes, help his friends and hurt his en-
emies; having got rich by dishonesty he can worship the gods
better, and will therefore be more loved by them than the just.'
I was thinking what to answer, when Adeimantus joined in
the already unequal fray. He considered that the most import-
ant point of all had been omitted:—'Men are taught to be just
for the sake of rewards; parents and guardians make reputa-
tion the incentive to virtue. And other advantages are promised
by them of a more solid kind, such as wealthy marriages and
high offices. There are the pictures in Homer and Hesiod of fat
sheep and heavy fleeces, rich corn-fields and trees toppling
with fruit, which the gods provide in this life for the just. And
the Orphic poets add a similar picture of another. The heroes
of Musaeus and Eumolpus lie on couches at a festival, with gar-
lands on their heads, enjoying as the meed of virtue a paradise
of immortal drunkenness. Some go further, and speak of a fair
posterity in the third and fourth generation. But the wicked
they bury in a slough and make them carry water in a sieve:
and in this life they attribute to them the infamy which Glaucon
was assuming to be the lot of the just who are supposed to be
unjust.
'Take another kind of argument which is found both in poetry
and prose:—"Virtue," as Hesiod says, "is honourable but diffi-
cult, vice is easy and profitable." You may often see the wicked
in great prosperity and the righteous afflicted by the will of
heaven. And mendicant prophets knock at rich men's doors,
promising to atone for the sins of themselves or their fathers in
an easy fashion with sacrifices and festive games, or with
charms and invocations to get rid of an enemy good or bad by
divine help and at a small charge;—they appeal to books pro-
fessing to be written by Musaeus and Orpheus, and carry away
the minds of whole cities, and promise to "get souls out of

28
purgatory;" and if we refuse to listen to them, no one knows
what will happen to us.
'When a lively-minded ingenuous youth hears all this, what
will be his conclusion? "Will he," in the language of Pindar,
"make justice his high tower, or fortify himself with crooked
deceit?" Justice, he reflects, without the appearance of justice,
is misery and ruin; injustice has the promise of a glorious life.
Appearance is master of truth and lord of happiness. To ap-
pearance then I will turn,—I will put on the show of virtue and
trail behind me the fox of Archilochus. I hear some one saying
that "wickedness is not easily concealed," to which I reply that
"nothing great is easy." Union and force and rhetoric will do
much; and if men say that they cannot prevail over the gods,
still how do we know that there are gods? Only from the poets,
who acknowledge that they may be appeased by sacrifices.
Then why not sin and pay for indulgences out of your sin? For
if the righteous are only unpunished, still they have no further
reward, while the wicked may be unpunished and have the
pleasure of sinning too. But what of the world below? Nay, says
the argument, there are atoning powers who will set that mat-
ter right, as the poets, who are the sons of the gods, tell us;
and this is confirmed by the authority of the State.
'How can we resist such arguments in favour of injustice?
Add good manners, and, as the wise tell us, we shall make the
best of both worlds. Who that is not a miserable caitiff will re-
frain from smiling at the praises of justice? Even if a man
knows the better part he will not be angry with others; for he
knows also that more than human virtue is needed to save a
man, and that he only praises justice who is incapable of
injustice.
'The origin of the evil is that all men from the beginning, her-
oes, poets, instructors of youth, have always asserted "the tem-
poral dispensation," the honours and profits of justice. Had we
been taught in early youth the power of justice and injustice in-
herent in the soul, and unseen by any human or divine eye, we
should not have needed others to be our guardians, but every
one would have been the guardian of himself. This is what I
want you to show, Socrates;—other men use arguments which
rather tend to strengthen the position of Thrasymachus that
"might is right;" but from you I expect better things. And

29
please, as Glaucon said, to exclude reputation; let the just be
thought unjust and the unjust just, and do you still prove to us
the superiority of justice'…
The thesis, which for the sake of argument has been main-
tained by Glaucon, is the converse of that of
Thrasymachus—not right is the interest of the stronger, but
right is the necessity of the weaker. Starting from the same
premises he carries the analysis of society a step further
back;—might is still right, but the might is the weakness of the
many combined against the strength of the few.
There have been theories in modern as well as in ancient
times which have a family likeness to the speculations of
Glaucon; e.g. that power is the foundation of right; or that a
monarch has a divine right to govern well or ill; or that virtue
is self-love or the love of power; or that war is the natural state
of man; or that private vices are public benefits. All such theor-
ies have a kind of plausibility from their partial agreement with
experience. For human nature oscillates between good and
evil, and the motives of actions and the origin of institutions
may be explained to a certain extent on either hypothesis ac-
cording to the character or point of view of a particular
thinker. The obligation of maintaining authority under all cir-
cumstances and sometimes by rather questionable means is
felt strongly and has become a sort of instinct among civilized
men. The divine right of kings, or more generally of govern-
ments, is one of the forms under which this natural feeling is
expressed. Nor again is there any evil which has not some ac-
companiment of good or pleasure; nor any good which is free
from some alloy of evil; nor any noble or generous thought
which may not be attended by a shadow or the ghost of a shad-
ow of self-interest or of self-love. We know that all human ac-
tions are imperfect; but we do not therefore attribute them to
the worse rather than to the better motive or principle. Such a
philosophy is both foolish and false, like that opinion of the
clever rogue who assumes all other men to be like himself. And
theories of this sort do not represent the real nature of the
State, which is based on a vague sense of right gradually cor-
rected and enlarged by custom and law (although capable also
of perversion), any more than they describe the origin of soci-
ety, which is to be sought in the family and in the social and

30
religious feelings of man. Nor do they represent the average
character of individuals, which cannot be explained simply on a
theory of evil, but has always a counteracting element of good.
And as men become better such theories appear more and
more untruthful to them, because they are more conscious of
their own disinterestedness. A little experience may make a
man a cynic; a great deal will bring him back to a truer and
kindlier view of the mixed nature of himself and his fellow men.
The two brothers ask Socrates to prove to them that the just
is happy when they have taken from him all that in which hap-
piness is ordinarily supposed to consist. Not that there is (1)
any absurdity in the attempt to frame a notion of justice apart
from circumstances. For the ideal must always be a paradox
when compared with the ordinary conditions of human life.
Neither the Stoical ideal nor the Christian ideal is true as a
fact, but they may serve as a basis of education, and may exer-
cise an ennobling influence. An ideal is none the worse be-
cause 'some one has made the discovery' that no such ideal
was ever realized. And in a few exceptional individuals who are
raised above the ordinary level of humanity, the ideal of happi-
ness may be realized in death and misery. This may be the
state which the reason deliberately approves, and which the
utilitarian as well as every other moralist may be bound in cer-
tain cases to prefer.
Nor again, (2) must we forget that Plato, though he agrees
generally with the view implied in the argument of the two
brothers, is not expressing his own final conclusion, but rather
seeking to dramatize one of the aspects of ethical truth. He is
developing his idea gradually in a series of positions or situ-
ations. He is exhibiting Socrates for the first time undergoing
the Socratic interrogation. Lastly, (3) the word 'happiness' in-
volves some degree of confusion because associated in the lan-
guage of modern philosophy with conscious pleasure or satis-
faction, which was not equally present to his mind.
Glaucon has been drawing a picture of the misery of the just
and the happiness of the unjust, to which the misery of the tyr-
ant in Book IX is the answer and parallel. And still the unjust
must appear just; that is 'the homage which vice pays to vir-
tue.' But now Adeimantus, taking up the hint which had been
already given by Glaucon, proceeds to show that in the opinion

31
of mankind justice is regarded only for the sake of rewards and
reputation, and points out the advantage which is given to such
arguments as those of Thrasymachus and Glaucon by the con-
ventional morality of mankind. He seems to feel the difficulty
of 'justifying the ways of God to man.' Both the brothers touch
upon the question, whether the morality of actions is determ-
ined by their consequences; and both of them go beyond the
position of Socrates, that justice belongs to the class of goods
not desirable for themselves only, but desirable for themselves
and for their results, to which he recalls them. In their attempt
to view justice as an internal principle, and in their condemna-
tion of the poets, they anticipate him. The common life of
Greece is not enough for them; they must penetrate deeper in-
to the nature of things.
It has been objected that justice is honesty in the sense of
Glaucon and Adeimantus, but is taken by Socrates to mean all
virtue. May we not more truly say that the old-fashioned notion
of justice is enlarged by Socrates, and becomes equivalent to
universal order or well-being, first in the State, and secondly in
the individual? He has found a new answer to his old question
(Protag.), 'whether the virtues are one or many,' viz. that one is
the ordering principle of the three others. In seeking to estab-
lish the purely internal nature of justice, he is met by the fact
that man is a social being, and he tries to harmonise the two
opposite theses as well as he can. There is no more inconsist-
ency in this than was inevitable in his age and country; there is
no use in turning upon him the cross lights of modern philo-
sophy, which, from some other point of view, would appear
equally inconsistent. Plato does not give the final solution of
philosophical questions for us; nor can he be judged of by our
standard.
The remainder of the Republic is developed out of the ques-
tion of the sons of Ariston. Three points are deserving of re-
mark in what immediately follows:—First, that the answer of
Socrates is altogether indirect. He does not say that happiness
consists in the contemplation of the idea of justice, and still
less will he be tempted to affirm the Stoical paradox that the
just man can be happy on the rack. But first he dwells on the
difficulty of the problem and insists on restoring man to his
natural condition, before he will answer the question at all. He

32
too will frame an ideal, but his ideal comprehends not only ab-
stract justice, but the whole relations of man. Under the fanci-
ful illustration of the large letters he implies that he will only
look for justice in society, and that from the State he will pro-
ceed to the individual. His answer in substance amounts to
this,—that under favourable conditions, i.e. in the perfect
State, justice and happiness will coincide, and that when
justice has been once found, happiness may be left to take care
of itself. That he falls into some degree of inconsistency, when
in the tenth book he claims to have got rid of the rewards and
honours of justice, may be admitted; for he has left those which
exist in the perfect State. And the philosopher 'who retires un-
der the shelter of a wall' can hardly have been esteemed happy
by him, at least not in this world. Still he maintains the true at-
titude of moral action. Let a man do his duty first, without ask-
ing whether he will be happy or not, and happiness will be the
inseparable accident which attends him. 'Seek ye first the king-
dom of God and his righteousness, and all these things shall be
added unto you.'
Secondly, it may be remarked that Plato preserves the genu-
ine character of Greek thought in beginning with the State and
in going on to the individual. First ethics, then politics—this is
the order of ideas to us; the reverse is the order of history.
Only after many struggles of thought does the individual assert
his right as a moral being. In early ages he is not ONE, but one
of many, the citizen of a State which is prior to him; and he has
no notion of good or evil apart from the law of his country or
the creed of his church. And to this type he is constantly tend-
ing to revert, whenever the influence of custom, or of party
spirit, or the recollection of the past becomes too strong for
him.
Thirdly, we may observe the confusion or identification of the
individual and the State, of ethics and politics, which pervades
early Greek speculation, and even in modern times retains a
certain degree of influence. The subtle difference between the
collective and individual action of mankind seems to have es-
caped early thinkers, and we too are sometimes in danger of
forgetting the conditions of united human action, whenever we
either elevate politics into ethics, or lower ethics to the stand-
ard of politics. The good man and the good citizen only

33
coincide in the perfect State; and this perfection cannot be at-
tained by legislation acting upon them from without, but, if at
all, by education fashioning them from within.
… Socrates praises the sons of Ariston, 'inspired offspring of
the renowned hero,' as the elegiac poet terms them; but he
does not understand how they can argue so eloquently on be-
half of injustice while their character shows that they are unin-
fluenced by their own arguments. He knows not how to answer
them, although he is afraid of deserting justice in the hour of
need. He therefore makes a condition, that having weak eyes
he shall be allowed to read the large letters first and then go
on to the smaller, that is, he must look for justice in the State
first, and will then proceed to the individual. Accordingly he
begins to construct the State.
Society arises out of the wants of man. His first want is food;
his second a house; his third a coat. The sense of these needs
and the possibility of satisfying them by exchange, draw indi-
viduals together on the same spot; and this is the beginning of
a State, which we take the liberty to invent, although necessity
is the real inventor. There must be first a husbandman,
secondly a builder, thirdly a weaver, to which may be added a
cobbler. Four or five citizens at least are required to make a
city. Now men have different natures, and one man will do one
thing better than many; and business waits for no man. Hence
there must be a division of labour into different employments;
into wholesale and retail trade; into workers, and makers of
workmen's tools; into shepherds and husbandmen. A city which
includes all this will have far exceeded the limit of four or five,
and yet not be very large. But then again imports will be re-
quired, and imports necessitate exports, and this implies vari-
ety of produce in order to attract the taste of purchasers; also
merchants and ships. In the city too we must have a market
and money and retail trades; otherwise buyers and sellers will
never meet, and the valuable time of the producers will be
wasted in vain efforts at exchange. If we add hired servants the
State will be complete. And we may guess that somewhere in
the intercourse of the citizens with one another justice and in-
justice will appear.
Here follows a rustic picture of their way of life. They spend
their days in houses which they have built for themselves; they

34
make their own clothes and produce their own corn and wine.
Their principal food is meal and flour, and they drink in moder-
ation. They live on the best of terms with each other, and take
care not to have too many children. 'But,' said Glaucon, inter-
posing, 'are they not to have a relish?' Certainly; they will have
salt and olives and cheese, vegetables and fruits, and chestnuts
to roast at the fire. ''Tis a city of pigs, Socrates.' Why, I replied,
what do you want more? 'Only the comforts of life,—sofas and
tables, also sauces and sweets.' I see; you want not only a
State, but a luxurious State; and possibly in the more complex
frame we may sooner find justice and injustice. Then the fine
arts must go to work—every conceivable instrument and orna-
ment of luxury will be wanted. There will be dancers, painters,
sculptors, musicians, cooks, barbers, tire-women, nurses,
artists; swineherds and neatherds too for the animals, and
physicians to cure the disorders of which luxury is the source.
To feed all these superfluous mouths we shall need a part of
our neighbour's land, and they will want a part of ours. And
this is the origin of war, which may be traced to the same
causes as other political evils. Our city will now require the
slight addition of a camp, and the citizen will be converted into
a soldier. But then again our old doctrine of the division of la-
bour must not be forgotten. The art of war cannot be learned
in a day, and there must be a natural aptitude for military du-
ties. There will be some warlike natures who have this
aptitude—dogs keen of scent, swift of foot to pursue, and
strong of limb to fight. And as spirit is the foundation of cour-
age, such natures, whether of men or animals, will be full of
spirit. But these spirited natures are apt to bite and devour one
another; the union of gentleness to friends and fierceness
against enemies appears to be an impossibility, and the guardi-
an of a State requires both qualities. Who then can be a guardi-
an? The image of the dog suggests an answer. For dogs are
gentle to friends and fierce to strangers. Your dog is a philo-
sopher who judges by the rule of knowing or not knowing; and
philosophy, whether in man or beast, is the parent of gentle-
ness. The human watchdogs must be philosophers or lovers of
learning which will make them gentle. And how are they to be
learned without education?

35
 But what shall their education be? Is any better than the old-
fashioned sort which is comprehended under the name of mu-
sic and gymnastic? Music includes literature, and literature is
of two kinds, true and false. 'What do you mean?' he said. I
mean that children hear stories before they learn gymnastics,
and that the stories are either untrue, or have at most one or
two grains of truth in a bushel of falsehood. Now early life is
very impressible, and children ought not to learn what they will
have to unlearn when they grow up; we must therefore have a
censorship of nursery tales, banishing some and keeping oth-
ers. Some of them are very improper, as we may see in the
great instances of Homer and Hesiod, who not only tell lies but
bad lies; stories about Uranus and Saturn, which are immoral
as well as false, and which should never be spoken of to young
persons, or indeed at all; or, if at all, then in a mystery, after
the sacrifice, not of an Eleusinian pig, but of some unprocur-
able animal. Shall our youth be encouraged to beat their fath-
ers by the example of Zeus, or our citizens be incited to quarrel
by hearing or seeing representations of strife among the gods?
Shall they listen to the narrative of Hephaestus binding his
mother, and of Zeus sending him flying for helping her when
she was beaten? Such tales may possibly have a mystical inter-
pretation, but the young are incapable of understanding al-
legory. If any one asks what tales are to be allowed, we will an-
swer that we are legislators and not book-makers; we only lay
down the principles according to which books are to be writ-
ten; to write them is the duty of others.
And our first principle is, that God must be represented as he
is; not as the author of all things, but of good only. We will not
suffer the poets to say that he is the steward of good and evil,
or that he has two casks full of destinies;—or that Athene and
Zeus incited Pandarus to break the treaty; or that God caused
the sufferings of Niobe, or of Pelops, or the Trojan war; or that
he makes men sin when he wishes to destroy them. Either
these were not the actions of the gods, or God was just, and
men were the better for being punished. But that the deed was
evil, and God the author, is a wicked, suicidal fiction which we
will allow no one, old or young, to utter. This is our first and
great principle—God is the author of good only.

36
 And the second principle is like unto it:—With God is no vari-
ableness or change of form. Reason teaches us this; for if we
suppose a change in God, he must be changed either by anoth-
er or by himself. By another?—but the best works of nature
and art and the noblest qualities of mind are least liable to be
changed by any external force. By himself?—but he cannot
change for the better; he will hardly change for the worse. He
remains for ever fairest and best in his own image. Therefore
we refuse to listen to the poets who tell us of Here begging in
the likeness of a priestess or of other deities who prowl about
at night in strange disguises; all that blasphemous nonsense
with which mothers fool the manhood out of their children
must be suppressed. But some one will say that God, who is
himself unchangeable, may take a form in relation to us. Why
should he? For gods as well as men hate the lie in the soul, or
principle of falsehood; and as for any other form of lying which
is used for a purpose and is regarded as innocent in certain ex-
ceptional cases—what need have the gods of this? For they are
not ignorant of antiquity like the poets, nor are they afraid of
their enemies, nor is any madman a friend of theirs. God then
is true, he is absolutely true; he changes not, he deceives not,
by day or night, by word or sign. This is our second great prin-
ciple—God is true. Away with the lying dream of Agamemnon
in Homer, and the accusation of Thetis against Apollo in
Aeschylus…
In order to give clearness to his conception of the State,
Plato proceeds to trace the first principles of mutual need and
of division of labour in an imaginary community of four or five
citizens. Gradually this community increases; the division of la-
bour extends to countries; imports necessitate exports; a medi-
um of exchange is required, and retailers sit in the market-
place to save the time of the producers. These are the steps by
which Plato constructs the first or primitive State, introducing
the elements of political economy by the way. As he is going to
frame a second or civilized State, the simple naturally comes
before the complex. He indulges, like Rousseau, in a picture of
primitive life—an idea which has indeed often had a powerful
influence on the imagination of mankind, but he does not seri-
ously mean to say that one is better than the other (Politicus);
nor can any inference be drawn from the description of the

37
first state taken apart from the second, such as Aristotle ap-
pears to draw in the Politics. We should not interpret a Platon-
ic dialogue any more than a poem or a parable in too literal or
matter-of-fact a style. On the other hand, when we compare the
lively fancy of Plato with the dried-up abstractions of modern
treatises on philosophy, we are compelled to say with Prot-
agoras, that the 'mythus is more interesting' (Protag.)
Several interesting remarks which in modern times would
have a place in a treatise on Political Economy are scattered up
and down the writings of Plato: especially Laws, Population;
Free Trade; Adulteration; Wills and Bequests; Begging; Eryxi-
as, (though not Plato's), Value and Demand; Republic, Division
of Labour. The last subject, and also the origin of Retail Trade,
is treated with admirable lucidity in the second book of the Re-
public. But Plato never combined his economic ideas into a sys-
tem, and never seems to have recognized that Trade is one of
the great motive powers of the State and of the world. He
would make retail traders only of the inferior sort of citizens
(Rep., Laws), though he remarks, quaintly enough (Laws), that
'if only the best men and the best women everywhere were
compelled to keep taverns for a time or to carry on retail trade,
etc., then we should knew how pleasant and agreeable all
these things are.'
The disappointment of Glaucon at the 'city of pigs,' the
ludicrous description of the ministers of luxury in the more re-
fined State, and the afterthought of the necessity of doctors,
the illustration of the nature of the guardian taken from the
dog, the desirableness of offering some almost unprocurable
victim when impure mysteries are to be celebrated, the beha-
viour of Zeus to his father and of Hephaestus to his mother, are
touches of humour which have also a serious meaning. In
speaking of education Plato rather startles us by affirming that
a child must be trained in falsehood first and in truth after-
wards. Yet this is not very different from saying that children
must be taught through the medium of imagination as well as
reason; that their minds can only develope gradually, and that
there is much which they must learn without understanding.
This is also the substance of Plato's view, though he must be
acknowledged to have drawn the line somewhat differently
from modern ethical writers, respecting truth and falsehood.

38
To us, economies or accommodations would not be allowable
unless they were required by the human faculties or necessary
for the communication of knowledge to the simple and ignor-
ant. We should insist that the word was inseparable from the
intention, and that we must not be 'falsely true,' i.e. speak or
act falsely in support of what was right or true. But Plato
would limit the use of fictions only by requiring that they
should have a good moral effect, and that such a dangerous
weapon as falsehood should be employed by the rulers alone
and for great objects.
A Greek in the age of Plato attached no importance to the
question whether his religion was an historical fact. He was
just beginning to be conscious that the past had a history; but
he could see nothing beyond Homer and Hesiod. Whether their
narratives were true or false did not seriously affect the politic-
al or social life of Hellas. Men only began to suspect that they
were fictions when they recognised them to be immoral. And
so in all religions: the consideration of their morality comes
first, afterwards the truth of the documents in which they are
recorded, or of the events natural or supernatural which are
told of them. But in modern times, and in Protestant countries
perhaps more than in Catholic, we have been too much in-
clined to identify the historical with the moral; and some have
refused to believe in religion at all, unless a superhuman ac-
curacy was discernible in every part of the record. The facts of
an ancient or religious history are amongst the most important
of all facts; but they are frequently uncertain, and we only
learn the true lesson which is to be gathered from them when
we place ourselves above them. These reflections tend to show
that the difference between Plato and ourselves, though not
unimportant, is not so great as might at first sight appear. For
we should agree with him in placing the moral before the his-
torical truth of religion; and, generally, in disregarding those
errors or misstatements of fact which necessarily occur in the
early stages of all religions. We know also that changes in the
traditions of a country cannot be made in a day; and are there-
fore tolerant of many things which science and criticism would
condemn.
We note in passing that the allegorical interpretation of
mythology, said to have been first introduced as early as the

39
sixth century before Christ by Theagenes of Rhegium, was well
established in the age of Plato, and here, as in the Phaedrus,
though for a different reason, was rejected by him. That ana-
chronisms whether of religion or law, when men have reached
another stage of civilization, should be got rid of by fictions is
in accordance with universal experience. Great is the art of in-
terpretation; and by a natural process, which when once dis-
covered was always going on, what could not be altered was
explained away. And so without any palpable inconsistency
there existed side by side two forms of religion, the tradition
inherited or invented by the poets and the customary worship
of the temple; on the other hand, there was the religion of the
philosopher, who was dwelling in the heaven of ideas, but did
not therefore refuse to offer a cock to Aesculapius, or to be
seen saying his prayers at the rising of the sun. At length the
antagonism between the popular and philosophical religion,
never so great among the Greeks as in our own age, disap-
peared, and was only felt like the difference between the reli-
gion of the educated and uneducated among ourselves. The
Zeus of Homer and Hesiod easily passed into the 'royal mind'
of Plato (Philebus); the giant Heracles became the knight-er-
rant and benefactor of mankind. These and still more wonder-
ful transformations were readily effected by the ingenuity of
Stoics and neo-Platonists in the two or three centuries before
and after Christ. The Greek and Roman religions were gradu-
ally permeated by the spirit of philosophy; having lost their an-
cient meaning, they were resolved into poetry and morality;
and probably were never purer than at the time of their decay,
when their influence over the world was waning.
A singular conception which occurs towards the end of the
book is the lie in the soul; this is connected with the Platonic
and Socratic doctrine that involuntary ignorance is worse than
voluntary. The lie in the soul is a true lie, the corruption of the
highest truth, the deception of the highest part of the soul,
from which he who is deceived has no power of delivering him-
self. For example, to represent God as false or immoral, or, ac-
cording to Plato, as deluding men with appearances or as the
author of evil; or again, to affirm with Protagoras that 'know-
ledge is sensation,' or that 'being is becoming,' or with
Thrasymachus 'that might is right,' would have been regarded

40
by Plato as a lie of this hateful sort. The greatest unconscious-
ness of the greatest untruth, e.g. if, in the language of the
Gospels (John), 'he who was blind' were to say 'I see,' is anoth-
er aspect of the state of mind which Plato is describing. The lie
in the soul may be further compared with the sin against the
Holy Ghost (Luke), allowing for the difference between Greek
and Christian modes of speaking. To this is opposed the lie in
words, which is only such a deception as may occur in a play or
poem, or allegory or figure of speech, or in any sort of accom-
modation,—which though useless to the gods may be useful to
men in certain cases. Socrates is here answering the question
which he had himself raised about the propriety of deceiving a
madman; and he is also contrasting the nature of God and man.
For God is Truth, but mankind can only be true by appearing
sometimes to be partial, or false. Reserving for another place
the greater questions of religion or education, we may note fur-
ther, (1) the approval of the old traditional education of
Greece; (2) the preparation which Plato is making for the at-
tack on Homer and the poets; (3) the preparation which he is
also making for the use of economies in the State; (4) the con-
temptuous and at the same time euphemistic manner in which
here as below he alludes to the 'Chronique Scandaleuse' of the
gods.
BOOK III. There is another motive in purifying religion,
which is to banish fear; for no man can be courageous who is
afraid of death, or who believes the tales which are repeated
by the poets concerning the world below. They must be gently
requested not to abuse hell; they may be reminded that their
stories are both untrue and discouraging. Nor must they be
angry if we expunge obnoxious passages, such as the depress-
ing words of Achilles—'I would rather be a serving-man than
rule over all the dead;' and the verses which tell of the squalid
mansions, the senseless shadows, the flitting soul mourning
over lost strength and youth, the soul with a gibber going be-
neath the earth like smoke, or the souls of the suitors which
flutter about like bats. The terrors and horrors of Cocytus and
Styx, ghosts and sapless shades, and the rest of their Tartarean
nomenclature, must vanish. Such tales may have their use; but
they are not the proper food for soldiers. As little can we admit
the sorrows and sympathies of the Homeric heroes:—Achilles,

41
the son of Thetis, in tears, throwing ashes on his head, or pa-
cing up and down the sea-shore in distraction; or Priam, the
cousin of the gods, crying aloud, rolling in the mire. A good
man is not prostrated at the loss of children or fortune. Neither
is death terrible to him; and therefore lamentations over the
dead should not be practised by men of note; they should be
the concern of inferior persons only, whether women or men.
Still worse is the attribution of such weakness to the gods; as
when the goddesses say, 'Alas! my travail!' and worst of all,
when the king of heaven himself laments his inability to save
Hector, or sorrows over the impending doom of his dear
Sarpedon. Such a character of God, if not ridiculed by our
young men, is likely to be imitated by them. Nor should our cit-
izens be given to excess of laughter—'Such violent delights' are
followed by a violent re-action. The description in the Iliad of
the gods shaking their sides at the clumsiness of Hephaestus
will not be admitted by us. 'Certainly not.'
Truth should have a high place among the virtues, for false-
hood, as we were saying, is useless to the gods, and only useful
to men as a medicine. But this employment of falsehood must
remain a privilege of state; the common man must not in re-
turn tell a lie to the ruler; any more than the patient would tell
a lie to his physician, or the sailor to his captain.
In the next place our youth must be temperate, and temper-
ance consists in self-control and obedience to authority. That is
a lesson which Homer teaches in some places: 'The Achaeans
marched on breathing prowess, in silent awe of their lead-
ers;'—but a very different one in other places: 'O heavy with
wine, who hast the eyes of a dog, but the heart of a stag.' Lan-
guage of the latter kind will not impress self-control on the
minds of youth. The same may be said about his praises of eat-
ing and drinking and his dread of starvation; also about the
verses in which he tells of the rapturous loves of Zeus and
Here, or of how Hephaestus once detained Ares and Aphrodite
in a net on a similar occasion. There is a nobler strain heard in
the words:—'Endure, my soul, thou hast endured worse.' Nor
must we allow our citizens to receive bribes, or to say, 'Gifts
persuade the gods, gifts reverend kings;' or to applaud the ig-
noble advice of Phoenix to Achilles that he should get money
out of the Greeks before he assisted them; or the meanness of

42
Achilles himself in taking gifts from Agamemnon; or his requir-
ing a ransom for the body of Hector; or his cursing of Apollo;
or his insolence to the river-god Scamander; or his dedication
to the dead Patroclus of his own hair which had been already
dedicated to the other river-god Spercheius; or his cruelty in
dragging the body of Hector round the walls, and slaying the
captives at the pyre: such a combination of meanness and
cruelty in Cheiron's pupil is inconceivable. The amatory ex-
ploits of Peirithous and Theseus are equally unworthy. Either
these so-called sons of gods were not the sons of gods, or they
were not such as the poets imagine them, any more than the
gods themselves are the authors of evil. The youth who be-
lieves that such things are done by those who have the blood of
heaven flowing in their veins will be too ready to imitate their
example.
Enough of gods and heroes;—what shall we say about men?
What the poets and story-tellers say—that the wicked prosper
and the righteous are afflicted, or that justice is another's
gain? Such misrepresentations cannot be allowed by us. But in
this we are anticipating the definition of justice, and had there-
fore better defer the enquiry.
The subjects of poetry have been sufficiently treated; next
follows style. Now all poetry is a narrative of events past,
present, or to come; and narrative is of three kinds, the simple,
the imitative, and a composition of the two. An instance will
make my meaning clear. The first scene in Homer is of the last
or mixed kind, being partly description and partly dialogue.
But if you throw the dialogue into the 'oratio obliqua,' the pas-
sage will run thus: The priest came and prayed Apollo that the
Achaeans might take Troy and have a safe return if Agamem-
non would only give him back his daughter; and the other
Greeks assented, but Agamemnon was wroth, and so on—The
whole then becomes descriptive, and the poet is the only
speaker left; or, if you omit the narrative, the whole becomes
dialogue. These are the three styles—which of them is to be ad-
mitted into our State? 'Do you ask whether tragedy and com-
edy are to be admitted?' Yes, but also something more—Is it
not doubtful whether our guardians are to be imitators at all?
Or rather, has not the question been already answered, for we
have decided that one man cannot in his life play many parts,

43
any more than he can act both tragedy and comedy, or be
rhapsodist and actor at once? Human nature is coined into
very small pieces, and as our guardians have their own busi-
ness already, which is the care of freedom, they will have
enough to do without imitating. If they imitate they should im-
itate, not any meanness or baseness, but the good only; for the
mask which the actor wears is apt to become his face. We can-
not allow men to play the parts of women, quarrelling, weep-
ing, scolding, or boasting against the gods,—least of all when
making love or in labour. They must not represent slaves, or
bullies, or cowards, drunkards, or madmen, or blacksmiths, or
neighing horses, or bellowing bulls, or sounding rivers, or a ra-
ging sea. A good or wise man will be willing to perform good
and wise actions, but he will be ashamed to play an inferior
part which he has never practised; and he will prefer to employ
the descriptive style with as little imitation as possible. The
man who has no self-respect, on the contrary, will imitate any-
body and anything; sounds of nature and cries of animals alike;
his whole performance will be imitation of gesture and voice.
Now in the descriptive style there are few changes, but in the
dramatic there are a great many. Poets and musicians use
either, or a compound of both, and this compound is very at-
tractive to youth and their teachers as well as to the vulgar.
But our State in which one man plays one part only is not adap-
ted for complexity. And when one of these polyphonous panto-
mimic gentlemen offers to exhibit himself and his poetry we
will show him every observance of respect, but at the same
time tell him that there is no room for his kind in our State; we
prefer the rough, honest poet, and will not depart from our ori-
ginal models (Laws).
Next as to the music. A song or ode has three parts,—the
subject, the harmony, and the rhythm; of which the two last
are dependent upon the first. As we banished strains of lament-
ation, so we may now banish the mixed Lydian harmonies,
which are the harmonies of lamentation; and as our citizens
are to be temperate, we may also banish convivial harmonies,
such as the Ionian and pure Lydian. Two remain—the Dorian
and Phrygian, the first for war, the second for peace; the one
expressive of courage, the other of obedience or instruction or
religious feeling. And as we reject varieties of harmony, we

44
shall also reject the many-stringed, variously-shaped instru-
ments which give utterance to them, and in particular the
flute, which is more complex than any of them. The lyre and
the harp may be permitted in the town, and the Pan's-pipe in
the fields. Thus we have made a purgation of music, and will
now make a purgation of metres. These should be like the har-
monies, simple and suitable to the occasion. There are four
notes of the tetrachord, and there are three ratios of metre,
3/2, 2/2, 2/1, which have all their characteristics, and the feet
have different characteristics as well as the rhythms. But about
this you and I must ask Damon, the great musician, who
speaks, if I remember rightly, of a martial measure as well as
of dactylic, trochaic, and iambic rhythms, which he arranges so
as to equalize the syllables with one another, assigning to each
the proper quantity. We only venture to affirm the general
principle that the style is to conform to the subject and the
metre to the style; and that the simplicity and harmony of the
soul should be reflected in them all. This principle of simplicity
has to be learnt by every one in the days of his youth, and may
be gathered anywhere, from the creative and constructive arts,
as well as from the forms of plants and animals.
Other artists as well as poets should be warned against
meanness or unseemliness. Sculpture and painting equally
with music must conform to the law of simplicity. He who viol-
ates it cannot be allowed to work in our city, and to corrupt the
taste of our citizens. For our guardians must grow up, not amid
images of deformity which will gradually poison and corrupt
their souls, but in a land of health and beauty where they will
drink in from every object sweet and harmonious influences.
And of all these influences the greatest is the education given
by music, which finds a way into the innermost soul and im-
parts to it the sense of beauty and of deformity. At first the ef-
fect is unconscious; but when reason arrives, then he who has
been thus trained welcomes her as the friend whom he always
knew. As in learning to read, first we acquire the elements or
letters separately, and afterwards their combinations, and can-
not recognize reflections of them until we know the letters
themselves;—in like manner we must first attain the elements
or essential forms of the virtues, and then trace their combina-
tions in life and experience. There is a music of the soul which

45
answers to the harmony of the world; and the fairest object of
a musical soul is the fair mind in the fair body. Some defect in
the latter may be excused, but not in the former. True love is
the daughter of temperance, and temperance is utterly op-
posed to the madness of bodily pleasure. Enough has been said
of music, which makes a fair ending with love.
Next we pass on to gymnastics; about which I would remark,
that the soul is related to the body as a cause to an effect, and
therefore if we educate the mind we may leave the education
of the body in her charge, and need only give a general outline
of the course to be pursued. In the first place the guardians
must abstain from strong drink, for they should be the last per-
sons to lose their wits. Whether the habits of the palaestra are
suitable to them is more doubtful, for the ordinary gymnastic is
a sleepy sort of thing, and if left off suddenly is apt to endanger
health. But our warrior athletes must be wide-awake dogs, and
must also be inured to all changes of food and climate. Hence
they will require a simpler kind of gymnastic, akin to their
simple music; and for their diet a rule may be found in Homer,
who feeds his heroes on roast meat only, and gives them no
fish although they are living at the sea-side, nor boiled meats
which involve an apparatus of pots and pans; and, if I am not
mistaken, he nowhere mentions sweet sauces. Sicilian cookery
and Attic confections and Corinthian courtezans, which are to
gymnastic what Lydian and Ionian melodies are to music, must
be forbidden. Where gluttony and intemperance prevail the
town quickly fills with doctors and pleaders; and law and medi-
cine give themselves airs as soon as the freemen of a State
take an interest in them. But what can show a more disgraceful
state of education than to have to go abroad for justice because
you have none of your own at home? And yet there IS a worse
stage of the same disease—when men have learned to take a
pleasure and pride in the twists and turns of the law; not con-
sidering how much better it would be for them so to order their
lives as to have no need of a nodding justice. And there is a like
disgrace in employing a physician, not for the cure of wounds
or epidemic disorders, but because a man has by laziness and
luxury contracted diseases which were unknown in the days of
Asclepius. How simple is the Homeric practice of medicine.
Eurypylus after he has been wounded drinks a posset of

46
Pramnian wine, which is of a heating nature; and yet the sons
of Asclepius blame neither the damsel who gives him the drink,
nor Patroclus who is attending on him. The truth is that this
modern system of nursing diseases was introduced by Herodi-
cus the trainer; who, being of a sickly constitution, by a com-
pound of training and medicine tortured first himself and then
a good many other people, and lived a great deal longer than
he had any right. But Asclepius would not practise this art, be-
cause he knew that the citizens of a well-ordered State have no
leisure to be ill, and therefore he adopted the 'kill or cure'
method, which artisans and labourers employ. 'They must be at
their business,' they say, 'and have no time for coddling: if they
recover, well; if they don't, there is an end of them.' Whereas
the rich man is supposed to be a gentleman who can afford to
be ill. Do you know a maxim of Phocylides—that 'when a man
begins to be rich' (or, perhaps, a little sooner) 'he should prac-
tise virtue'? But how can excessive care of health be inconsist-
ent with an ordinary occupation, and yet consistent with that
practice of virtue which Phocylides inculcates? When a student
imagines that philosophy gives him a headache, he never does
anything; he is always unwell. This was the reason why
Asclepius and his sons practised no such art. They were acting
in the interest of the public, and did not wish to preserve use-
less lives, or raise up a puny offspring to wretched sires. Hon-
est diseases they honestly cured; and if a man was wounded,
they applied the proper remedies, and then let him eat and
drink what he liked. But they declined to treat intemperate and
worthless subjects, even though they might have made large
fortunes out of them. As to the story of Pindar, that Asclepius
was slain by a thunderbolt for restoring a rich man to life, that
is a lie—following our old rule we must say either that he did
not take bribes, or that he was not the son of a god.
Glaucon then asks Socrates whether the best physicians and
the best judges will not be those who have had severally the
greatest experience of diseases and of crimes. Socrates draws
a distinction between the two professions. The physician
should have had experience of disease in his own body, for he
cures with his mind and not with his body. But the judge con-
trols mind by mind; and therefore his mind should not be cor-
rupted by crime. Where then is he to gain experience? How is

47
he to be wise and also innocent? When young a good man is
apt to be deceived by evil-doers, because he has no pattern of
evil in himself; and therefore the judge should be of a certain
age; his youth should have been innocent, and he should have
acquired insight into evil not by the practice of it, but by the
observation of it in others. This is the ideal of a judge; the crim-
inal turned detective is wonderfully suspicious, but when in
company with good men who have experience, he is at fault,
for he foolishly imagines that every one is as bad as himself.
Vice may be known of virtue, but cannot know virtue. This is
the sort of medicine and this the sort of law which will prevail
in our State; they will be healing arts to better natures; but the
evil body will be left to die by the one, and the evil soul will be
put to death by the other. And the need of either will be greatly
diminished by good music which will give harmony to the soul,
and good gymnastic which will give health to the body. Not
that this division of music and gymnastic really corresponds to
soul and body; for they are both equally concerned with the
soul, which is tamed by the one and aroused and sustained by
the other. The two together supply our guardians with their
twofold nature. The passionate disposition when it has too
much gymnastic is hardened and brutalized, the gentle or
philosophic temper which has too much music becomes ener-
vated. While a man is allowing music to pour like water
through the funnel of his ears, the edge of his soul gradually
wears away, and the passionate or spirited element is melted
out of him. Too little spirit is easily exhausted; too much
quickly passes into nervous irritability. So, again, the athlete
by feeding and training has his courage doubled, but he soon
grows stupid; he is like a wild beast, ready to do everything by
blows and nothing by counsel or policy. There are two prin-
ciples in man, reason and passion, and to these, not to the soul
and body, the two arts of music and gymnastic correspond. He
who mingles them in harmonious concord is the true musi-
cian,—he shall be the presiding genius of our State.
The next question is, Who are to be our rulers? First, the eld-
er must rule the younger; and the best of the elders will be the
best guardians. Now they will be the best who love their sub-
jects most, and think that they have a common interest with
them in the welfare of the state. These we must select; but

48
they must be watched at every epoch of life to see whether
they have retained the same opinions and held out against
force and enchantment. For time and persuasion and the love
of pleasure may enchant a man into a change of purpose, and
the force of grief and pain may compel him. And therefore our
guardians must be men who have been tried by many tests,
like gold in the refiner's fire, and have been passed first
through danger, then through pleasure, and at every age have
come out of such trials victorious and without stain, in full
command of themselves and their principles; having all their
faculties in harmonious exercise for their country's good.
These shall receive the highest honours both in life and death.
(It would perhaps be better to confine the term 'guardians' to
this select class: the younger men may be called 'auxiliaries.')
And now for one magnificent lie, in the belief of which, Oh
that we could train our rulers!—at any rate let us make the at-
tempt with the rest of the world. What I am going to tell is only
another version of the legend of Cadmus; but our unbelieving
generation will be slow to accept such a story. The tale must
be imparted, first to the rulers, then to the soldiers, lastly to
the people. We will inform them that their youth was a dream,
and that during the time when they seemed to be undergoing
their education they were really being fashioned in the earth,
who sent them up when they were ready; and that they must
protect and cherish her whose children they are, and regard
each other as brothers and sisters. 'I do not wonder at your be-
ing ashamed to propound such a fiction.' There is more behind.
These brothers and sisters have different natures, and some of
them God framed to rule, whom he fashioned of gold; others he
made of silver, to be auxiliaries; others again to be husband-
men and craftsmen, and these were formed by him of brass
and iron. But as they are all sprung from a common stock, a
golden parent may have a silver son, or a silver parent a
golden son, and then there must be a change of rank; the son
of the rich must descend, and the child of the artisan rise, in
the social scale; for an oracle says 'that the State will come to
an end if governed by a man of brass or iron.' Will our citizens
ever believe all this? 'Not in the present generation, but in the
next, perhaps, Yes.'

49
 Now let the earthborn men go forth under the command of
their rulers, and look about and pitch their camp in a high
place, which will be safe against enemies from without, and
likewise against insurrections from within. There let them sac-
rifice and set up their tents; for soldiers they are to be and not
shopkeepers, the watchdogs and guardians of the sheep; and
luxury and avarice will turn them into wolves and tyrants.
Their habits and their dwellings should correspond to their
education. They should have no property; their pay should only
meet their expenses; and they should have common meals.
Gold and silver we will tell them that they have from God, and
this divine gift in their souls they must not alloy with that
earthly dross which passes under the name of gold. They only
of the citizens may not touch it, or be under the same roof with
it, or drink from it; it is the accursed thing. Should they ever
acquire houses or lands or money of their own, they will be-
come householders and tradesmen instead of guardians, en-
emies and tyrants instead of helpers, and the hour of ruin, both
to themselves and the rest of the State, will be at hand.
The religious and ethical aspect of Plato's education will
hereafter be considered under a separate head. Some lesser
points may be more conveniently noticed in this place.
1. The constant appeal to the authority of Homer, whom,
with grave irony, Plato, after the manner of his age, summons
as a witness about ethics and psychology, as well as about diet
and medicine; attempting to distinguish the better lesson from
the worse, sometimes altering the text from design; more than
once quoting or alluding to Homer inaccurately, after the man-
ner of the early logographers turning the Iliad into prose, and
delighting to draw far-fetched inferences from his words, or to
make ludicrous applications of them. He does not, like Her-
acleitus, get into a rage with Homer and Archilochus (Heracl.),
but uses their words and expressions as vehicles of a higher
truth; not on a system like Theagenes of Rhegium or Metrodor-
us, or in later times the Stoics, but as fancy may dictate. And
the conclusions drawn from them are sound, although the
premises are fictitious. These fanciful appeals to Homer add a
charm to Plato's style, and at the same time they have the ef-
fect of a satire on the follies of Homeric interpretation. To us
(and probably to himself), although they take the form of

50
arguments, they are really figures of speech. They may be com-
pared with modern citations from Scripture, which have often
a great rhetorical power even when the original meaning of the
words is entirely lost sight of. The real, like the Platonic So-
crates, as we gather from the Memorabilia of Xenophon, was
fond of making similar adaptations. Great in all ages and coun-
tries, in religion as well as in law and literature, has been the
art of interpretation.
2. 'The style is to conform to the subject and the metre to the
style.' Notwithstanding the fascination which the word 'classic-
al' exercises over us, we can hardly maintain that this rule is
observed in all the Greek poetry which has come down to us.
We cannot deny that the thought often exceeds the power of
lucid expression in Aeschylus and Pindar; or that rhetoric gets
the better of the thought in the Sophist-poet Euripides. Only
perhaps in Sophocles is there a perfect harmony of the two; in
him alone do we find a grace of language like the beauty of a
Greek statue, in which there is nothing to add or to take away;
at least this is true of single plays or of large portions of them.
The connection in the Tragic Choruses and in the Greek lyric
poets is not unfrequently a tangled thread which in an age be-
fore logic the poet was unable to draw out. Many thoughts and
feelings mingled in his mind, and he had no power of disenga-
ging or arranging them. For there is a subtle influence of logic
which requires to be transferred from prose to poetry, just as
the music and perfection of language are infused by poetry into
prose. In all ages the poet has been a bad judge of his own
meaning (Apol.); for he does not see that the word which is full
of associations to his own mind is difficult and unmeaning to
that of another; or that the sequence which is clear to himself
is puzzling to others. There are many passages in some of our
greatest modern poets which are far too obscure; in which
there is no proportion between style and subject, in which any
half-expressed figure, any harsh construction, any distorted
collocation of words, any remote sequence of ideas is admitted;
and there is no voice 'coming sweetly from nature,' or music
adding the expression of feeling to thought. As if there could
be poetry without beauty, or beauty without ease and clear-
ness. The obscurities of early Greek poets arose necessarily out
of the state of language and logic which existed in their age.

51
They are not examples to be followed by us; for the use of lan-
guage ought in every generation to become clearer and clear-
er. Like Shakespere, they were great in spite, not in con-
sequence, of their imperfections of expression. But there is no
reason for returning to the necessary obscurity which pre-
vailed in the infancy of literature. The English poets of the last
century were certainly not obscure; and we have no excuse for
losing what they had gained, or for going back to the earlier or
transitional age which preceded them. The thought of our own
times has not out-stripped language; a want of Plato's 'art of
measuring' is the rule cause of the disproportion between
them.
3. In the third book of the Republic a nearer approach is
made to a theory of art than anywhere else in Plato. His views
may be summed up as follows:—True art is not fanciful and im-
itative, but simple and ideal,—the expression of the highest
moral energy, whether in action or repose. To live among
works of plastic art which are of this noble and simple charac-
ter, or to listen to such strains, is the best of influences,—the
true Greek atmosphere, in which youth should be brought up.
That is the way to create in them a natural good taste, which
will have a feeling of truth and beauty in all things. For though
the poets are to be expelled, still art is recognized as another
aspect of reason—like love in the Symposium, extending over
the same sphere, but confined to the preliminary education,
and acting through the power of habit; and this conception of
art is not limited to strains of music or the forms of plastic art,
but pervades all nature and has a wide kindred in the world.
The Republic of Plato, like the Athens of Pericles, has an artist-
ic as well as a political side.
There is hardly any mention in Plato of the creative arts; only
in two or three passages does he even allude to them (Rep.;
Soph.). He is not lost in rapture at the great works of Phidias,
the Parthenon, the Propylea, the statues of Zeus or Athene. He
would probably have regarded any abstract truth of number or
figure as higher than the greatest of them. Yet it is hard to sup-
pose that some influence, such as he hopes to inspire in youth,
did not pass into his own mind from the works of art which he
saw around him. We are living upon the fragments of them,
and find in a few broken stones the standard of truth and

52
beauty. But in Plato this feeling has no expression; he nowhere
says that beauty is the object of art; he seems to deny that wis-
dom can take an external form (Phaedrus); he does not distin-
guish the fine from the mechanical arts. Whether or no, like
some writers, he felt more than he expressed, it is at any rate
remarkable that the greatest perfection of the fine arts should
coincide with an almost entire silence about them. In one very
striking passage he tells us that a work of art, like the State, is
a whole; and this conception of a whole and the love of the
newly-born mathematical sciences may be regarded, if not as
the inspiring, at any rate as the regulating principles of Greek
art (Xen. Mem.; and Sophist).
4. Plato makes the true and subtle remark that the physician
had better not be in robust health; and should have known
what illness is in his own person. But the judge ought to have
had no similar experience of evil; he is to be a good man who,
having passed his youth in innocence, became acquainted late
in life with the vices of others. And therefore, according to
Plato, a judge should not be young, just as a young man ac-
cording to Aristotle is not fit to be a hearer of moral philo-
sophy. The bad, on the other hand, have a knowledge of vice,
but no knowledge of virtue. It may be doubted, however,
whether this train of reflection is well founded. In a remark-
able passage of the Laws it is acknowledged that the evil may
form a correct estimate of the good. The union of gentleness
and courage in Book ii. at first seemed to be a paradox, yet was
afterwards ascertained to be a truth. And Plato might also have
found that the intuition of evil may be consistent with the ab-
horrence of it. There is a directness of aim in virtue which
gives an insight into vice. And the knowledge of character is in
some degree a natural sense independent of any special experi-
ence of good or evil.
5. One of the most remarkable conceptions of Plato, because
un-Greek and also very different from anything which existed
at all in his age of the world, is the transposition of ranks. In
the Spartan state there had been enfranchisement of Helots
and degradation of citizens under special circumstances. And
in the ancient Greek aristocracies, merit was certainly recog-
nized as one of the elements on which government was based.
The founders of states were supposed to be their benefactors,

53
who were raised by their great actions above the ordinary level
of humanity; at a later period, the services of warriors and le-
gislators were held to entitle them and their descendants to
the privileges of citizenship and to the first rank in the state.
And although the existence of an ideal aristocracy is slenderly
proven from the remains of early Greek history, and we have a
difficulty in ascribing such a character, however the idea may
be defined, to any actual Hellenic state—or indeed to any state
which has ever existed in the world—still the rule of the best
was certainly the aspiration of philosophers, who probably ac-
commodated a good deal their views of primitive history to
their own notions of good government. Plato further insists on
applying to the guardians of his state a series of tests by which
all those who fell short of a fixed standard were either removed
from the governing body, or not admitted to it; and this 'aca-
demic' discipline did to a certain extent prevail in Greek states,
especially in Sparta. He also indicates that the system of caste,
which existed in a great part of the ancient, and is by no means
extinct in the modern European world, should be set aside
from time to time in favour of merit. He is aware how deeply
the greater part of mankind resent any interference with the
order of society, and therefore he proposes his novel idea in
the form of what he himself calls a 'monstrous fiction.' (Com-
pare the ceremony of preparation for the two 'great waves' in
Book v.) Two principles are indicated by him: first, that there is
a distinction of ranks dependent on circumstances prior to the
individual: second, that this distinction is and ought to be
broken through by personal qualities. He adapts mythology like
the Homeric poems to the wants of the state, making 'the
Phoenician tale' the vehicle of his ideas. Every Greek state had
a myth respecting its own origin; the Platonic republic may
also have a tale of earthborn men. The gravity and verisimilit-
ude with which the tale is told, and the analogy of Greek tradi-
tion, are a sufficient verification of the 'monstrous falsehood.'
Ancient poetry had spoken of a gold and silver and brass and
iron age succeeding one another, but Plato supposes these dif-
ferences in the natures of men to exist together in a single
state. Mythology supplies a figure under which the lesson may
be taught (as Protagoras says, 'the myth is more interesting'),
and also enables Plato to touch lightly on new principles

54
without going into details. In this passage he shadows forth a
general truth, but he does not tell us by what steps the trans-
position of ranks is to be effected. Indeed throughout the Re-
public he allows the lower ranks to fade into the distance. We
do not know whether they are to carry arms, and whether in
the fifth book they are or are not included in the communistic
regulations respecting property and marriage. Nor is there any
use in arguing strictly either from a few chance words, or from
the silence of Plato, or in drawing inferences which were bey-
ond his vision. Aristotle, in his criticism on the position of the
lower classes, does not perceive that the poetical creation is
'like the air, invulnerable,' and cannot be penetrated by the
shafts of his logic (Pol.).
6. Two paradoxes which strike the modern reader as in the
highest degree fanciful and ideal, and which suggest to him
many reflections, are to be found in the third book of the Re-
public: first, the great power of music, so much beyond any in-
fluence which is experienced by us in modern times, when the
art or science has been far more developed, and has found the
secret of harmony, as well as of melody; secondly, the indefin-
ite and almost absolute control which the soul is supposed to
exercise over the body.
In the first we suspect some degree of exaggeration, such as
we may also observe among certain masters of the art, not un-
known to us, at the present day. With this natural enthusiasm,
which is felt by a few only, there seems to mingle in Plato a
sort of Pythagorean reverence for numbers and numerical pro-
portion to which Aristotle is a stranger. Intervals of sound and
number are to him sacred things which have a law of their
own, not dependent on the variations of sense. They rise above
sense, and become a connecting link with the world of ideas.
But it is evident that Plato is describing what to him appears to
be also a fact. The power of a simple and characteristic melody
on the impressible mind of the Greek is more than we can eas-
ily appreciate. The effect of national airs may bear some com-
parison with it. And, besides all this, there is a confusion
between the harmony of musical notes and the harmony of soul
and body, which is so potently inspired by them.
The second paradox leads up to some curious and interesting
questions—How far can the mind control the body? Is the

55
relation between them one of mutual antagonism or of mutual
harmony? Are they two or one, and is either of them the cause
of the other? May we not at times drop the opposition between
them, and the mode of describing them, which is so familiar to
us, and yet hardly conveys any precise meaning, and try to
view this composite creature, man, in a more simple manner?
Must we not at any rate admit that there is in human nature a
higher and a lower principle, divided by no distinct line, which
at times break asunder and take up arms against one another?
Or again, they are reconciled and move together, either uncon-
sciously in the ordinary work of life, or consciously in the pur-
suit of some noble aim, to be attained not without an effort,
and for which every thought and nerve are strained. And then
the body becomes the good friend or ally, or servant or instru-
ment of the mind. And the mind has often a wonderful and al-
most superhuman power of banishing disease and weakness
and calling out a hidden strength. Reason and the desires, the
intellect and the senses are brought into harmony and obedi-
ence so as to form a single human being. They are ever part-
ing, ever meeting; and the identity or diversity of their tenden-
cies or operations is for the most part unnoticed by us. When
the mind touches the body through the appetites, we acknow-
ledge the responsibility of the one to the other. There is a tend-
ency in us which says 'Drink.' There is another which says, 'Do
not drink; it is not good for you.' And we all of us know which is
the rightful superior. We are also responsible for our health, al-
though into this sphere there enter some elements of necessity
which may be beyond our control. Still even in the manage-
ment of health, care and thought, continued over many years,
may make us almost free agents, if we do not exact too much of
ourselves, and if we acknowledge that all human freedom is
limited by the laws of nature and of mind.
We are disappointed to find that Plato, in the general con-
demnation which he passes on the practice of medicine prevail-
ing in his own day, depreciates the effects of diet. He would
like to have diseases of a definite character and capable of re-
ceiving a definite treatment. He is afraid of invalidism interfer-
ing with the business of life. He does not recognize that time is
the great healer both of mental and bodily disorders; and that
remedies which are gradual and proceed little by little are

56
safer than those which produce a sudden catastrophe. Neither
does he see that there is no way in which the mind can more
surely influence the body than by the control of eating and
drinking; or any other action or occasion of human life on
which the higher freedom of the will can be more simple or
truly asserted.
7. Lesser matters of style may be remarked.
(1) The affected ignorance of music, which is Plato's way of
expressing that he is passing lightly over the subject.
(2) The tentative manner in which here, as in the second
book, he proceeds with the construction of the State.
(3) The description of the State sometimes as a reality, and
then again as a work of imagination only; these are the arts by
which he sustains the reader's interest.
(4) Connecting links, or the preparation for the entire expul-
sion of the poets in Book X.
(5) The companion pictures of the lover of litigation and the
valetudinarian, the satirical jest about the maxim of Phocylides,
the manner in which the image of the gold and silver citizens is
taken up into the subject, and the argument from the practice
of Asclepius, should not escape notice.
BOOK IV. Adeimantus said: 'Suppose a person to argue, So-
crates, that you make your citizens miserable, and this by their
own free-will; they are the lords of the city, and yet instead of
having, like other men, lands and houses and money of their
own, they live as mercenaries and are always mounting guard.'
You may add, I replied, that they receive no pay but only their
food, and have no money to spend on a journey or a mistress.
'Well, and what answer do you give?' My answer is, that our
guardians may or may not be the happiest of men,—I should
not be surprised to find in the long-run that they were,—but
this is not the aim of our constitution, which was designed for
the good of the whole and not of any one part. If I went to a
sculptor and blamed him for having painted the eye, which is
the noblest feature of the face, not purple but black, he would
reply: 'The eye must be an eye, and you should look at the
statue as a whole.' 'Now I can well imagine a fool's paradise, in
which everybody is eating and drinking, clothed in purple and
fine linen, and potters lie on sofas and have their wheel at
hand, that they may work a little when they please; and

57
cobblers and all the other classes of a State lose their distinct-
ive character. And a State may get on without cobblers; but
when the guardians degenerate into boon companions, then
the ruin is complete. Remember that we are not talking of
peasants keeping holiday, but of a State in which every man is
expected to do his own work. The happiness resides not in this
or that class, but in the State as a whole. I have another re-
mark to make:—A middle condition is best for artisans; they
should have money enough to buy tools, and not enough to be
independent of business. And will not the same condition be
best for our citizens? If they are poor, they will be mean; if
rich, luxurious and lazy; and in neither case contented. 'But
then how will our poor city be able to go to war against an en-
emy who has money?' There may be a difficulty in fighting
against one enemy; against two there will be none. In the first
place, the contest will be carried on by trained warriors
against well-to-do citizens: and is not a regular athlete an easy
match for two stout opponents at least? Suppose also, that be-
fore engaging we send ambassadors to one of the two cities,
saying, 'Silver and gold we have not; do you help us and take
our share of the spoil;'—who would fight against the lean, wiry
dogs, when they might join with them in preying upon the fat-
ted sheep? 'But if many states join their resources, shall we not
be in danger?' I am amused to hear you use the word 'state' of
any but our own State. They are 'states,' but not 'a
state'—many in one. For in every state there are two hostile na-
tions, rich and poor, which you may set one against the other.
But our State, while she remains true to her principles, will be
in very deed the mightiest of Hellenic states.
To the size of the state there is no limit but the necessity of
unity; it must be neither too large nor too small to be one. This
is a matter of secondary importance, like the principle of trans-
position which was intimated in the parable of the earthborn
men. The meaning there implied was that every man should do
that for which he was fitted, and be at one with himself, and
then the whole city would be united. But all these things are
secondary, if education, which is the great matter, be duly re-
garded. When the wheel has once been set in motion, the
speed is always increasing; and each generation improves
upon the preceding, both in physical and moral qualities. The

58
care of the governors should be directed to preserve music and
gymnastic from innovation; alter the songs of a country, Da-
mon says, and you will soon end by altering its laws. The
change appears innocent at first, and begins in play; but the
evil soon becomes serious, working secretly upon the charac-
ters of individuals, then upon social and commercial relations,
and lastly upon the institutions of a state; and there is ruin and
confusion everywhere. But if education remains in the estab-
lished form, there will be no danger. A restorative process will
be always going on; the spirit of law and order will raise up
what has fallen down. Nor will any regulations be needed for
the lesser matters of life—rules of deportment or fashions of
dress. Like invites like for good or for evil. Education will cor-
rect deficiencies and supply the power of self-government. Far
be it from us to enter into the particulars of legislation; let the
guardians take care of education, and education will take care
of all other things.
But without education they may patch and mend as they
please; they will make no progress, any more than a patient
who thinks to cure himself by some favourite remedy and will
not give up his luxurious mode of living. If you tell such per-
sons that they must first alter their habits, then they grow
angry; they are charming people. 'Charming,—nay, the very re-
verse.' Evidently these gentlemen are not in your good graces,
nor the state which is like them. And such states there are
which first ordain under penalty of death that no one shall alter
the constitution, and then suffer themselves to be flattered into
and out of anything; and he who indulges them and fawns upon
them, is their leader and saviour. 'Yes, the men are as bad as
the states.' But do you not admire their cleverness? 'Nay, some
of them are stupid enough to believe what the people tell
them.' And when all the world is telling a man that he is six
feet high, and he has no measure, how can he believe anything
else? But don't get into a passion: to see our statesmen trying
their nostrums, and fancying that they can cut off at a blow the
Hydra-like rogueries of mankind, is as good as a play. Minute
enactments are superfluous in good states, and are useless in
bad ones.
And now what remains of the work of legislation? Nothing for
us; but to Apollo the god of Delphi we leave the ordering of the

59
greatest of all things—that is to say, religion. Only our ances-
tral deity sitting upon the centre and navel of the earth will be
trusted by us if we have any sense, in an affair of such mag-
nitude. No foreign god shall be supreme in our realms…
Here, as Socrates would say, let us 'reflect on' (Greek) what
has preceded: thus far we have spoken not of the happiness of
the citizens, but only of the well-being of the State. They may
be the happiest of men, but our principal aim in founding the
State was not to make them happy. They were to be guardians,
not holiday-makers. In this pleasant manner is presented to us
the famous question both of ancient and modern philosophy,
touching the relation of duty to happiness, of right to utility.
First duty, then happiness, is the natural order of our moral
ideas. The utilitarian principle is valuable as a corrective of er-
ror, and shows to us a side of ethics which is apt to be neg-
lected. It may be admitted further that right and utility are co-
extensive, and that he who makes the happiness of mankind his
object has one of the highest and noblest motives of human ac-
tion. But utility is not the historical basis of morality; nor the
aspect in which moral and religious ideas commonly occur to
the mind. The greatest happiness of all is, as we believe, the
far-off result of the divine government of the universe. The
greatest happiness of the individual is certainly to be found in
a life of virtue and goodness. But we seem to be more assured
of a law of right than we can be of a divine purpose, that 'all
mankind should be saved;' and we infer the one from the other.
And the greatest happiness of the individual may be the re-
verse of the greatest happiness in the ordinary sense of the
term, and may be realised in a life of pain, or in a voluntary
death. Further, the word 'happiness' has several ambiguities; it
may mean either pleasure or an ideal life, happiness subjective
or objective, in this world or in another, of ourselves only or of
our neighbours and of all men everywhere. By the modern
founder of Utilitarianism the self-regarding and disinterested
motives of action are included under the same term, although
they are commonly opposed by us as benevolence and self-love.
The word happiness has not the definiteness or the sacredness
of 'truth' and 'right'; it does not equally appeal to our higher
nature, and has not sunk into the conscience of mankind. It is
associated too much with the comforts and conveniences of

60
life; too little with 'the goods of the soul which we desire for
their own sake.' In a great trial, or danger, or temptation, or in
any great and heroic action, it is scarcely thought of. For these
reasons 'the greatest happiness' principle is not the true found-
ation of ethics. But though not the first principle, it is the
second, which is like unto it, and is often of easier application.
For the larger part of human actions are neither right nor
wrong, except in so far as they tend to the happiness of man-
kind (Introd. to Gorgias and Philebus).
The same question reappears in politics, where the useful or
expedient seems to claim a larger sphere and to have a greater
authority. For concerning political measures, we chiefly ask:
How will they affect the happiness of mankind? Yet here too we
may observe that what we term expediency is merely the law
of right limited by the conditions of human society. Right and
truth are the highest aims of government as well as of individu-
als; and we ought not to lose sight of them because we cannot
directly enforce them. They appeal to the better mind of na-
tions; and sometimes they are too much for merely temporal
interests to resist. They are the watchwords which all men use
in matters of public policy, as well as in their private dealings;
the peace of Europe may be said to depend upon them. In the
most commercial and utilitarian states of society the power of
ideas remains. And all the higher class of statesmen have in
them something of that idealism which Pericles is said to have
gathered from the teaching of Anaxagoras. They recognise that
the true leader of men must be above the motives of ambition,
and that national character is of greater value than material
comfort and prosperity. And this is the order of thought in
Plato; first, he expects his citizens to do their duty, and then
under favourable circumstances, that is to say, in a well-
ordered State, their happiness is assured. That he was far from
excluding the modern principle of utility in politics is suffi-
ciently evident from other passages; in which 'the most benefi-
cial is affirmed to be the most honourable', and also 'the most
sacred'.
We may note
(1) The manner in which the objection of Adeimantus here, is
designed to draw out and deepen the argument of Socrates.

61
 (2) The conception of a whole as lying at the foundation both
of politics and of art, in the latter supplying the only principle
of criticism, which, under the various names of harmony, sym-
metry, measure, proportion, unity, the Greek seems to have ap-
plied to works of art.
(3) The requirement that the State should be limited in size,
after the traditional model of a Greek state; as in the Politics of
Aristotle, the fact that the cities of Hellas were small is conver-
ted into a principle.
(4) The humorous pictures of the lean dogs and the fatted
sheep, of the light active boxer upsetting two stout gentlemen
at least, of the 'charming' patients who are always making
themselves worse; or again, the playful assumption that there
is no State but our own; or the grave irony with which the
statesman is excused who believes that he is six feet high be-
cause he is told so, and having nothing to measure with is to be
pardoned for his ignorance—he is too amusing for us to be ser-
iously angry with him.
(5) The light and superficial manner in which religion is
passed over when provision has been made for two great prin-
ciples,—first, that religion shall be based on the highest con-
ception of the gods, secondly, that the true national or Hellenic
type shall be maintained…
Socrates proceeds: But where amid all this is justice? Son of
Ariston, tell me where. Light a candle and search the city, and
get your brother and the rest of our friends to help in seeking
for her. 'That won't do,' replied Glaucon, 'you yourself prom-
ised to make the search and talked about the impiety of desert-
ing justice.' Well, I said, I will lead the way, but do you follow.
My notion is, that our State being perfect will contain all the
four virtues—wisdom, courage, temperance, justice. If we elim-
inate the three first, the unknown remainder will be justice.
First then, of wisdom: the State which we have called into
being will be wise because politic. And policy is one among
many kinds of skill,—not the skill of the carpenter, or of the
worker in metal, or of the husbandman, but the skill of him
who advises about the interests of the whole State. Of such a
kind is the skill of the guardians, who are a small class in num-
ber, far smaller than the blacksmiths; but in them is

62
concentrated the wisdom of the State. And if this small ruling
class have wisdom, then the whole State will be wise.
Our second virtue is courage, which we have no difficulty in
finding in another class—that of soldiers. Courage may be
defined as a sort of salvation—the never-failing salvation of the
opinions which law and education have prescribed concerning
dangers. You know the way in which dyers first prepare the
white ground and then lay on the dye of purple or of any other
colour. Colours dyed in this way become fixed, and no soap or
lye will ever wash them out. Now the ground is education, and
the laws are the colours; and if the ground is properly laid,
neither the soap of pleasure nor the lye of pain or fear will ever
wash them out. This power which preserves right opinion
about danger I would ask you to call 'courage,' adding the epi-
thet 'political' or 'civilized' in order to distinguish it from mere
animal courage and from a higher courage which may here-
after be discussed.
Two virtues remain; temperance and justice. More than the
preceding virtues temperance suggests the idea of harmony.
Some light is thrown upon the nature of this virtue by the pop-
ular description of a man as 'master of himself'—which has an
absurd sound, because the master is also the servant. The ex-
pression really means that the better principle in a man mas-
ters the worse. There are in cities whole classes—women,
slaves and the like—who correspond to the worse, and a few
only to the better; and in our State the former class are held
under control by the latter. Now to which of these classes does
temperance belong? 'To both of them.' And our State if any will
be the abode of temperance; and we were right in describing
this virtue as a harmony which is diffused through the whole,
making the dwellers in the city to be of one mind, and attuning
the upper and middle and lower classes like the strings of an
instrument, whether you suppose them to differ in wisdom,
strength or wealth.
And now we are near the spot; let us draw in and surround
the cover and watch with all our eyes, lest justice should slip
away and escape. Tell me, if you see the thicket move first.
'Nay, I would have you lead.' Well then, offer up a prayer and
follow. The way is dark and difficult; but we must push on. I be-
gin to see a track. 'Good news.' Why, Glaucon, our dulness of

63
scent is quite ludicrous! While we are straining our eyes into
the distance, justice is tumbling out at our feet. We are as bad
as people looking for a thing which they have in their hands.
Have you forgotten our old principle of the division of labour,
or of every man doing his own business, concerning which we
spoke at the foundation of the State—what but this was
justice? Is there any other virtue remaining which can compete
with wisdom and temperance and courage in the scale of polit-
ical virtue? For 'every one having his own' is the great object of
government; and the great object of trade is that every man
should do his own business. Not that there is much harm in a
carpenter trying to be a cobbler, or a cobbler transforming
himself into a carpenter; but great evil may arise from the cob-
bler leaving his last and turning into a guardian or legislator,
or when a single individual is trainer, warrior, legislator, all in
one. And this evil is injustice, or every man doing another's
business. I do not say that as yet we are in a condition to arrive
at a final conclusion. For the definition which we believe to
hold good in states has still to be tested by the individual. Hav-
ing read the large letters we will now come back to the small.
From the two together a brilliant light may be struck out…
Socrates proceeds to discover the nature of justice by a
method of residues. Each of the first three virtues corresponds
to one of the three parts of the soul and one of the three
classes in the State, although the third, temperance, has more
of the nature of a harmony than the first two. If there be a
fourth virtue, that can only be sought for in the relation of the
three parts in the soul or classes in the State to one another. It
is obvious and simple, and for that very reason has not been
found out. The modern logician will be inclined to object that
ideas cannot be separated like chemical substances, but that
they run into one another and may be only different aspects or
names of the same thing, and such in this instance appears to
be the case. For the definition here given of justice is verbally
the same as one of the definitions of temperance given by So-
crates in the Charmides, which however is only provisional,
and is afterwards rejected. And so far from justice remaining
over when the other virtues are eliminated, the justice and
temperance of the Republic can with difficulty be distin-
guished. Temperance appears to be the virtue of a part only,

64
and one of three, whereas justice is a universal virtue of the
whole soul. Yet on the other hand temperance is also described
as a sort of harmony, and in this respect is akin to justice.
Justice seems to differ from temperance in degree rather than
in kind; whereas temperance is the harmony of discordant ele-
ments, justice is the perfect order by which all natures and
classes do their own business, the right man in the right place,
the division and co-operation of all the citizens. Justice, again,
is a more abstract notion than the other virtues, and therefore,
from Plato's point of view, the foundation of them, to which
they are referred and which in idea precedes them. The pro-
posal to omit temperance is a mere trick of style intended to
avoid monotony.
There is a famous question discussed in one of the earlier
Dialogues of Plato (Protagoras; Arist. Nic. Ethics), 'Whether
the virtues are one or many?' This receives an answer which is
to the effect that there are four cardinal virtues (now for the
first time brought together in ethical philosophy), and one su-
preme over the rest, which is not like Aristotle's conception of
universal justice, virtue relative to others, but the whole of vir-
tue relative to the parts. To this universal conception of justice
or order in the first education and in the moral nature of man,
the still more universal conception of the good in the second
education and in the sphere of speculative knowledge seems to
succeed. Both might be equally described by the terms 'law,'
'order,' 'harmony;' but while the idea of good embraces 'all
time and all existence,' the conception of justice is not exten-
ded beyond man.
… Socrates is now going to identify the individual and the
State. But first he must prove that there are three parts of the
individual soul. His argument is as follows:—Quantity makes no
difference in quality. The word 'just,' whether applied to the in-
dividual or to the State, has the same meaning. And the term
'justice' implied that the same three principles in the State and
in the individual were doing their own business. But are they
really three or one? The question is difficult, and one which
can hardly be solved by the methods which we are now using;
but the truer and longer way would take up too much of our
time. 'The shorter will satisfy me.' Well then, you would admit
that the qualities of states mean the qualities of the individuals

65
who compose them? The Scythians and Thracians are passion-
ate, our own race intellectual, and the Egyptians and Phoeni-
cians covetous, because the individual members of each have
such and such a character; the difficulty is to determine wheth-
er the several principles are one or three; whether, that is to
say, we reason with one part of our nature, desire with anoth-
er, are angry with another, or whether the whole soul comes
into play in each sort of action. This enquiry, however, requires
a very exact definition of terms. The same thing in the same re-
lation cannot be affected in two opposite ways. But there is no
impossibility in a man standing still, yet moving his arms, or in
a top which is fixed on one spot going round upon its axis.
There is no necessity to mention all the possible exceptions; let
us provisionally assume that opposites cannot do or be or suf-
fer opposites in the same relation. And to the class of opposites
belong assent and dissent, desire and avoidance. And one form
of desire is thirst and hunger: and here arises a new
point—thirst is thirst of drink, hunger is hunger of food; not of
warm drink or of a particular kind of food, with the single ex-
ception of course that the very fact of our desiring anything im-
plies that it is good. When relative terms have no attributes,
their correlatives have no attributes; when they have attrib-
utes, their correlatives also have them. For example, the term
'greater' is simply relative to 'less,' and knowledge refers to a
subject of knowledge. But on the other hand, a particular
knowledge is of a particular subject. Again, every science has a
distinct character, which is defined by an object; medicine, for
example, is the science of health, although not to be confoun-
ded with health. Having cleared our ideas thus far, let us re-
turn to the original instance of thirst, which has a definite ob-
ject—drink. Now the thirsty soul may feel two distinct im-
pulses; the animal one saying 'Drink;' the rational one, which
says 'Do not drink.' The two impulses are contradictory; and
therefore we may assume that they spring from distinct prin-
ciples in the soul. But is passion a third principle, or akin to de-
sire? There is a story of a certain Leontius which throws some
light on this question. He was coming up from the Piraeus out-
side the north wall, and he passed a spot where there were
dead bodies lying by the executioner. He felt a longing desire
to see them and also an abhorrence of them; at first he turned

66
away and shut his eyes, then, suddenly tearing them open, he
said,—'Take your fill, ye wretches, of the fair sight.' Now is
there not here a third principle which is often found to come to
the assistance of reason against desire, but never of desire
against reason? This is passion or spirit, of the separate exist-
ence of which we may further convince ourselves by putting
the following case:—When a man suffers justly, if he be of a
generous nature he is not indignant at the hardships which he
undergoes: but when he suffers unjustly, his indignation is his
great support; hunger and thirst cannot tame him; the spirit
within him must do or die, until the voice of the shepherd, that
is, of reason, bidding his dog bark no more, is heard within.
This shows that passion is the ally of reason. Is passion then
the same with reason? No, for the former exists in children and
brutes; and Homer affords a proof of the distinction between
them when he says, 'He smote his breast, and thus rebuked his
soul.'
And now, at last, we have reached firm ground, and are able
to infer that the virtues of the State and of the individual are
the same. For wisdom and courage and justice in the State are
severally the wisdom and courage and justice in the individuals
who form the State. Each of the three classes will do the work
of its own class in the State, and each part in the individual
soul; reason, the superior, and passion, the inferior, will be
harmonized by the influence of music and gymnastic. The
counsellor and the warrior, the head and the arm, will act to-
gether in the town of Mansoul, and keep the desires in proper
subjection. The courage of the warrior is that quality which
preserves a right opinion about dangers in spite of pleasures
and pains. The wisdom of the counsellor is that small part of
the soul which has authority and reason. The virtue of temper-
ance is the friendship of the ruling and the subject principles,
both in the State and in the individual. Of justice we have
already spoken; and the notion already given of it may be con-
firmed by common instances. Will the just state or the just indi-
vidual steal, lie, commit adultery, or be guilty of impiety to
gods and men? 'No.' And is not the reason of this that the sev-
eral principles, whether in the state or in the individual, do
their own business? And justice is the quality which makes just
men and just states. Moreover, our old division of labour,

67
which required that there should be one man for one use, was
a dream or anticipation of what was to follow; and that dream
has now been realized in justice, which begins by binding to-
gether the three chords of the soul, and then acts harmoni-
ously in every relation of life. And injustice, which is the insub-
ordination and disobedience of the inferior elements in the
soul, is the opposite of justice, and is inharmonious and unnat-
ural, being to the soul what disease is to the body; for in the
soul as well as in the body, good or bad actions produce good
or bad habits. And virtue is the health and beauty and well-be-
ing of the soul, and vice is the disease and weakness and de-
formity of the soul.
Again the old question returns upon us: Is justice or injustice
the more profitable? The question has become ridiculous. For
injustice, like mortal disease, makes life not worth having.
Come up with me to the hill which overhangs the city and look
down upon the single form of virtue, and the infinite forms of
vice, among which are four special ones, characteristic both of
states and of individuals. And the state which corresponds to
the single form of virtue is that which we have been describ-
ing, wherein reason rules under one of two names—monarchy
and aristocracy. Thus there are five forms in all, both of states
and of souls…
In attempting to prove that the soul has three separate fac-
ulties, Plato takes occasion to discuss what makes difference of
faculties. And the criterion which he proposes is difference in
the working of the faculties. The same faculty cannot produce
contradictory effects. But the path of early reasoners is beset
by thorny entanglements, and he will not proceed a step
without first clearing the ground. This leads him into a tire-
some digression, which is intended to explain the nature of
contradiction. First, the contradiction must be at the same time
and in the same relation. Secondly, no extraneous word must
be introduced into either of the terms in which the contradict-
ory proposition is expressed: for example, thirst is of drink, not
of warm drink. He implies, what he does not say, that if, by the
advice of reason, or by the impulse of anger, a man is re-
strained from drinking, this proves that thirst, or desire under
which thirst is included, is distinct from anger and reason. But
suppose that we allow the term 'thirst' or 'desire' to be

68
modified, and say an 'angry thirst,' or a 'revengeful desire,'
then the two spheres of desire and anger overlap and become
confused. This case therefore has to be excluded. And still
there remains an exception to the rule in the use of the term
'good,' which is always implied in the object of desire. These
are the discussions of an age before logic; and any one who is
wearied by them should remember that they are necessary to
the clearing up of ideas in the first development of the human
faculties.
The psychology of Plato extends no further than the division
of the soul into the rational, irascible, and concupiscent ele-
ments, which, as far as we know, was first made by him, and
has been retained by Aristotle and succeeding ethical writers.
The chief difficulty in this early analysis of the mind is to define
exactly the place of the irascible faculty (Greek), which may be
variously described under the terms righteous indignation,
spirit, passion. It is the foundation of courage, which includes
in Plato moral courage, the courage of enduring pain, and of
surmounting intellectual difficulties, as well as of meeting
dangers in war. Though irrational, it inclines to side with the
rational: it cannot be aroused by punishment when justly inflic-
ted: it sometimes takes the form of an enthusiasm which sus-
tains a man in the performance of great actions. It is the 'lion
heart' with which the reason makes a treaty. On the other hand
it is negative rather than positive; it is indignant at wrong or
falsehood, but does not, like Love in the Symposium and
Phaedrus, aspire to the vision of Truth or Good. It is the per-
emptory military spirit which prevails in the government of
honour. It differs from anger (Greek), this latter term having
no accessory notion of righteous indignation. Although Aris-
totle has retained the word, yet we may observe that 'passion'
(Greek) has with him lost its affinity to the rational and has be-
come indistinguishable from 'anger' (Greek). And to this ver-
nacular use Plato himself in the Laws seems to revert, though
not always. By modern philosophy too, as well as in our ordin-
ary conversation, the words anger or passion are employed al-
most exclusively in a bad sense; there is no connotation of a
just or reasonable cause by which they are aroused. The feel-
ing of 'righteous indignation' is too partial and accidental to ad-
mit of our regarding it as a separate virtue or habit. We are

69
tempted also to doubt whether Plato is right in supposing that
an offender, however justly condemned, could be expected to
acknowledge the justice of his sentence; this is the spirit of a
philosopher or martyr rather than of a criminal.
We may observe how nearly Plato approaches Aristotle's
famous thesis, that 'good actions produce good habits.' The
words 'as healthy practices (Greek) produce health, so do just
practices produce justice,' have a sound very like the
Nicomachean Ethics. But we note also that an incidental re-
mark in Plato has become a far-reaching principle in Aristotle,
and an inseparable part of a great Ethical system.
There is a difficulty in understanding what Plato meant by
'the longer way': he seems to intimate some metaphysic of the
future which will not be satisfied with arguing from the prin-
ciple of contradiction. In the sixth and seventh books (compare
Sophist and Parmenides) he has given us a sketch of such a
metaphysic; but when Glaucon asks for the final revelation of
the idea of good, he is put off with the declaration that he has
not yet studied the preliminary sciences. How he would have
filled up the sketch, or argued about such questions from a
higher point of view, we can only conjecture. Perhaps he hoped
to find some a priori method of developing the parts out of the
whole; or he might have asked which of the ideas contains the
other ideas, and possibly have stumbled on the Hegelian iden-
tity of the 'ego' and the 'universal.' Or he may have imagined
that ideas might be constructed in some manner analogous to
the construction of figures and numbers in the mathematical
sciences. The most certain and necessary truth was to Plato
the universal; and to this he was always seeking to refer all
knowledge or opinion, just as in modern times we seek to rest
them on the opposite pole of induction and experience. The as-
pirations of metaphysicians have always tended to pass beyond
the limits of human thought and language: they seem to have
reached a height at which they are 'moving about in worlds un-
realized,' and their conceptions, although profoundly affecting
their own minds, become invisible or unintelligible to others.
We are not therefore surprized to find that Plato himself has
nowhere clearly explained his doctrine of ideas; or that his
school in a later generation, like his contemporaries Glaucon
and Adeimantus, were unable to follow him in this region of

70
speculation. In the Sophist, where he is refuting the scepticism
which maintained either that there was no such thing as pre-
dication, or that all might be predicated of all, he arrives at the
conclusion that some ideas combine with some, but not all with
all. But he makes only one or two steps forward on this path;
he nowhere attains to any connected system of ideas, or even
to a knowledge of the most elementary relations of the sci-
ences to one another.
BOOK V. I was going to enumerate the four forms of vice or
decline in states, when Polemarchus—he was sitting a little
farther from me than Adeimantus—taking him by the coat and
leaning towards him, said something in an undertone, of which
I only caught the words, 'Shall we let him off?' 'Certainly not,'
said Adeimantus, raising his voice. Whom, I said, are you not
going to let off? 'You,' he said. Why? 'Because we think that
you are not dealing fairly with us in omitting women and chil-
dren, of whom you have slily disposed under the general for-
mula that friends have all things in common.' And was I not
right? 'Yes,' he replied, 'but there are many sorts of commun-
ism or community, and we want to know which of them is right.
The company, as you have just heard, are resolved to have a
further explanation.' Thrasymachus said, 'Do you think that we
have come hither to dig for gold, or to hear you discourse?'
Yes, I said; but the discourse should be of a reasonable length.
Glaucon added, 'Yes, Socrates, and there is reason in spending
the whole of life in such discussions; but pray, without more
ado, tell us how this community is to be carried out, and how
the interval between birth and education is to be filled up.'
Well, I said, the subject has several difficulties—What is pos-
sible? is the first question. What is desirable? is the second.
'Fear not,' he replied, 'for you are speaking among friends.'
That, I replied, is a sorry consolation; I shall destroy my friends
as well as myself. Not that I mind a little innocent laughter; but
he who kills the truth is a murderer. 'Then,' said Glaucon,
laughing, 'in case you should murder us we will acquit you be-
forehand, and you shall be held free from the guilt of deceiving
us.'
Socrates proceeds:—The guardians of our state are to be
watch-dogs, as we have already said. Now dogs are not divided
into hes and shes—we do not take the masculine gender out to

71
hunt and leave the females at home to look after their puppies.
They have the same employments—the only difference between
them is that the one sex is stronger and the other weaker. But
if women are to have the same employments as men, they must
have the same education—they must be taught music and gym-
nastics, and the art of war. I know that a great joke will be
made of their riding on horseback and carrying weapons; the
sight of the naked old wrinkled women showing their agility in
the palaestra will certainly not be a vision of beauty, and may
be expected to become a famous jest. But we must not mind
the wits; there was a time when they might have laughed at
our present gymnastics. All is habit: people have at last found
out that the exposure is better than the concealment of the
person, and now they laugh no more. Evil only should be the
subject of ridicule.
The first question is, whether women are able either wholly
or partially to share in the employments of men. And here we
may be charged with inconsistency in making the proposal at
all. For we started originally with the division of labour; and
the diversity of employments was based on the difference of
natures. But is there no difference between men and women?
Nay, are they not wholly different? THERE was the difficulty,
Glaucon, which made me unwilling to speak of family relations.
However, when a man is out of his depth, whether in a pool or
in an ocean, he can only swim for his life; and we must try to
find a way of escape, if we can.
The argument is, that different natures have different uses,
and the natures of men and women are said to differ. But this
is only a verbal opposition. We do not consider that the differ-
ence may be purely nominal and accidental; for example, a
bald man and a hairy man are opposed in a single point of
view, but you cannot infer that because a bald man is a cobbler
a hairy man ought not to be a cobbler. Now why is such an in-
ference erroneous? Simply because the opposition between
them is partial only, like the difference between a male physi-
cian and a female physician, not running through the whole
nature, like the difference between a physician and a car-
penter. And if the difference of the sexes is only that the one
beget and the other bear children, this does not prove that
they ought to have distinct educations. Admitting that women

72
differ from men in capacity, do not men equally differ from one
another? Has not nature scattered all the qualities which our
citizens require indifferently up and down among the two
sexes? and even in their peculiar pursuits, are not women of-
ten, though in some cases superior to men, ridiculously enough
surpassed by them? Women are the same in kind as men, and
have the same aptitude or want of aptitude for medicine or
gymnastic or war, but in a less degree. One woman will be a
good guardian, another not; and the good must be chosen to be
the colleagues of our guardians. If however their natures are
the same, the inference is that their education must also be the
same; there is no longer anything unnatural or impossible in a
woman learning music and gymnastic. And the education
which we give them will be the very best, far superior to that of
cobblers, and will train up the very best women, and nothing
can be more advantageous to the State than this. Therefore let
them strip, clothed in their chastity, and share in the toils of
war and in the defence of their country; he who laughs at them
is a fool for his pains.
The first wave is past, and the argument is compelled to ad-
mit that men and women have common duties and pursuits. A
second and greater wave is rolling in—community of wives and
children; is this either expedient or possible? The expediency I
do not doubt; I am not so sure of the possibility. 'Nay, I think
that a considerable doubt will be entertained on both points.' I
meant to have escaped the trouble of proving the first, but as
you have detected the little stratagem I must even submit. Only
allow me to feed my fancy like the solitary in his walks, with a
dream of what might be, and then I will return to the question
of what can be.
In the first place our rulers will enforce the laws and make
new ones where they are wanted, and their allies or ministers
will obey. You, as legislator, have already selected the men;
and now you shall select the women. After the selection has
been made, they will dwell in common houses and have their
meals in common, and will be brought together by a necessity
more certain than that of mathematics. But they cannot be al-
lowed to live in licentiousness; that is an unholy thing, which
the rulers are determined to prevent. For the avoidance of this,
holy marriage festivals will be instituted, and their holiness will

73
be in proportion to their usefulness. And here, Glaucon, I
should like to ask (as I know that you are a breeder of birds
and animals), Do you not take the greatest care in the mating?
'Certainly.' And there is no reason to suppose that less care is
required in the marriage of human beings. But then our rulers
must be skilful physicians of the State, for they will often need
a strong dose of falsehood in order to bring about desirable
unions between their subjects. The good must be paired with
the good, and the bad with the bad, and the offspring of the
one must be reared, and of the other destroyed; in this way the
flock will be preserved in prime condition. Hymeneal festivals
will be celebrated at times fixed with an eye to population, and
the brides and bridegrooms will meet at them; and by an in-
genious system of lots the rulers will contrive that the brave
and the fair come together, and that those of inferior breed are
paired with inferiors—the latter will ascribe to chance what is
really the invention of the rulers. And when children are born,
the offspring of the brave and fair will be carried to an enclos-
ure in a certain part of the city, and there attended by suitable
nurses; the rest will be hurried away to places unknown. The
mothers will be brought to the fold and will suckle the chil-
dren; care however must be taken that none of them recognise
their own offspring; and if necessary other nurses may also be
hired. The trouble of watching and getting up at night will be
transferred to attendants. 'Then the wives of our guardians will
have a fine easy time when they are having children.' And quite
right too, I said, that they should.
The parents ought to be in the prime of life, which for a man
may be reckoned at thirty years—from twenty-five, when he
has 'passed the point at which the speed of life is greatest,' to
fifty-five; and at twenty years for a woman—from twenty to
forty. Any one above or below those ages who partakes in the
hymeneals shall be guilty of impiety; also every one who forms
a marriage connexion at other times without the consent of the
rulers. This latter regulation applies to those who are within
the specified ages, after which they may range at will, provided
they avoid the prohibited degrees of parents and children, or of
brothers and sisters, which last, however, are not absolutely
prohibited, if a dispensation be procured. 'But how shall we
know the degrees of affinity, when all things are common?' The

74
answer is, that brothers and sisters are all such as are born
seven or nine months after the espousals, and their parents
those who are then espoused, and every one will have many
children and every child many parents.
Socrates proceeds: I have now to prove that this scheme is
advantageous and also consistent with our entire polity. The
greatest good of a State is unity; the greatest evil, discord and
distraction. And there will be unity where there are no private
pleasures or pains or interests—where if one member suffers
all the members suffer, if one citizen is touched all are quickly
sensitive; and the least hurt to the little finger of the State runs
through the whole body and vibrates to the soul. For the true
State, like an individual, is injured as a whole when any part is
affected. Every State has subjects and rulers, who in a demo-
cracy are called rulers, and in other States masters: but in our
State they are called saviours and allies; and the subjects who
in other States are termed slaves, are by us termed nurturers
and paymasters, and those who are termed comrades and col-
leagues in other places, are by us called fathers and brothers.
And whereas in other States members of the same government
regard one of their colleagues as a friend and another as an en-
emy, in our State no man is a stranger to another; for every cit-
izen is connected with every other by ties of blood, and these
names and this way of speaking will have a corresponding real-
ity—brother, father, sister, mother, repeated from infancy in
the ears of children, will not be mere words. Then again the
citizens will have all things in common, in having common
property they will have common pleasures and pains.
Can there be strife and contention among those who are of
one mind; or lawsuits about property when men have nothing
but their bodies which they call their own; or suits about viol-
ence when every one is bound to defend himself? The permis-
sion to strike when insulted will be an 'antidote' to the knife
and will prevent disturbances in the State. But no younger man
will strike an elder; reverence will prevent him from laying
hands on his kindred, and he will fear that the rest of the fam-
ily may retaliate. Moreover, our citizens will be rid of the lesser
evils of life; there will be no flattery of the rich, no sordid
household cares, no borrowing and not paying. Compared with
the citizens of other States, ours will be Olympic victors, and

75
crowned with blessings greater still—they and their children
having a better maintenance during life, and after death an
honourable burial. Nor has the happiness of the individual
been sacrificed to the happiness of the State; our Olympic vic-
tor has not been turned into a cobbler, but he has a happiness
beyond that of any cobbler. At the same time, if any conceited
youth begins to dream of appropriating the State to himself, he
must be reminded that 'half is better than the whole.' 'I should
certainly advise him to stay where he is when he has the prom-
ise of such a brave life.'
But is such a community possible?—as among the animals, so
also among men; and if possible, in what way possible? About
war there is no difficulty; the principle of communism is adap-
ted to military service. Parents will take their children to look
on at a battle, just as potters' boys are trained to the business
by looking on at the wheel. And to the parents themselves, as
to other animals, the sight of their young ones will prove a
great incentive to bravery. Young warriors must learn, but they
must not run into danger, although a certain degree of risk is
worth incurring when the benefit is great. The young creatures
should be placed under the care of experienced veterans, and
they should have wings—that is to say, swift and tractable
steeds on which they may fly away and escape. One of the first
things to be done is to teach a youth to ride.
Cowards and deserters shall be degraded to the class of hus-
bandmen; gentlemen who allow themselves to be taken prison-
ers, may be presented to the enemy. But what shall be done to
the hero? First of all he shall be crowned by all the youths in
the army; secondly, he shall receive the right hand of fellow-
ship; and thirdly, do you think that there is any harm in his be-
ing kissed? We have already determined that he shall have
more wives than others, in order that he may have as many
children as possible. And at a feast he shall have more to eat;
we have the authority of Homer for honouring brave men with
'long chines,' which is an appropriate compliment, because
meat is a very strengthening thing. Fill the bowl then, and give
the best seats and meats to the brave—may they do them good!
And he who dies in battle will be at once declared to be of the
golden race, and will, as we believe, become one of Hesiod's
guardian angels. He shall be worshipped after death in the

76
manner prescribed by the oracle; and not only he, but all other
benefactors of the State who die in any other way, shall be ad-
mitted to the same honours.
The next question is, How shall we treat our enemies? Shall
Hellenes be enslaved? No; for there is too great a risk of the
whole race passing under the yoke of the barbarians. Or shall
the dead be despoiled? Certainly not; for that sort of thing is
an excuse for skulking, and has been the ruin of many an army.
There is meanness and feminine malice in making an enemy of
the dead body, when the soul which was the owner has
fled—like a dog who cannot reach his assailants, and quarrels
with the stones which are thrown at him instead. Again, the
arms of Hellenes should not be offered up in the temples of the
Gods; they are a pollution, for they are taken from brethren.
And on similar grounds there should be a limit to the devasta-
tion of Hellenic territory—the houses should not be burnt, nor
more than the annual produce carried off. For war is of two
kinds, civil and foreign; the first of which is properly termed
'discord,' and only the second 'war;' and war between Hellenes
is in reality civil war—a quarrel in a family, which is ever to be
regarded as unpatriotic and unnatural, and ought to be prosec-
uted with a view to reconciliation in a true phil-Hellenic spirit,
as of those who would chasten but not utterly enslave. The war
is not against a whole nation who are a friendly multitude of
men, women, and children, but only against a few guilty per-
sons; when they are punished peace will be restored. That is
the way in which Hellenes should war against one anoth-
er—and against barbarians, as they war against one another
now.
'But, my dear Socrates, you are forgetting the main question:
Is such a State possible? I grant all and more than you say
about the blessedness of being one family—fathers, brothers,
mothers, daughters, going out to war together; but I want to
ascertain the possibility of this ideal State.' You are too unmer-
ciful. The first wave and the second wave I have hardly es-
caped, and now you will certainly drown me with the third.
When you see the towering crest of the wave, I expect you to
take pity. 'Not a whit.'
Well, then, we were led to form our ideal polity in the search
after justice, and the just man answered to the just State. Is

77
this ideal at all the worse for being impracticable? Would the
picture of a perfectly beautiful man be any the worse because
no such man ever lived? Can any reality come up to the idea?
Nature will not allow words to be fully realized; but if I am to
try and realize the ideal of the State in a measure, I think that
an approach may be made to the perfection of which I dream
by one or two, I do not say slight, but possible changes in the
present constitution of States. I would reduce them to a single
one—the great wave, as I call it. Until, then, kings are philo-
sophers, or philosophers are kings, cities will never cease from
ill: no, nor the human race; nor will our ideal polity ever come
into being. I know that this is a hard saying, which few will be
able to receive. 'Socrates, all the world will take off his coat
and rush upon you with sticks and stones, and therefore I
would advise you to prepare an answer.' You got me into the
scrape, I said. 'And I was right,' he replied; 'however, I will
stand by you as a sort of do-nothing, well-meaning ally.' Having
the help of such a champion, I will do my best to maintain my
position. And first, I must explain of whom I speak and what
sort of natures these are who are to be philosophers and
rulers. As you are a man of pleasure, you will not have forgot-
ten how indiscriminate lovers are in their attachments; they
love all, and turn blemishes into beauties. The snub-nosed
youth is said to have a winning grace; the beak of another has
a royal look; the featureless are faultless; the dark are manly,
the fair angels; the sickly have a new term of endearment in-
vented expressly for them, which is 'honey-pale.' Lovers of
wine and lovers of ambition also desire the objects of their af-
fection in every form. Now here comes the point:—The philo-
sopher too is a lover of knowledge in every form; he has an in-
satiable curiosity. 'But will curiosity make a philosopher? Are
the lovers of sights and sounds, who let out their ears to every
chorus at the Dionysiac festivals, to be called philosophers?'
They are not true philosophers, but only an imitation. 'Then
how are we to describe the true?'
You would acknowledge the existence of abstract ideas, such
as justice, beauty, good, evil, which are severally one, yet in
their various combinations appear to be many. Those who re-
cognize these realities are philosophers; whereas the other
class hear sounds and see colours, and understand their use in

78
the arts, but cannot attain to the true or waking vision of abso-
lute justice or beauty or truth; they have not the light of know-
ledge, but of opinion, and what they see is a dream only. Per-
haps he of whom we say the last will be angry with us; can we
pacify him without revealing the disorder of his mind? Suppose
we say that, if he has knowledge we rejoice to hear it, but
knowledge must be of something which is, as ignorance is of
something which is not; and there is a third thing, which both
is and is not, and is matter of opinion only. Opinion and know-
ledge, then, having distinct objects, must also be distinct fac-
ulties. And by faculties I mean powers unseen and distinguish-
able only by the difference in their objects, as opinion and
knowledge differ, since the one is liable to err, but the other is
unerring and is the mightiest of all our faculties. If being is the
object of knowledge, and not-being of ignorance, and these are
the extremes, opinion must lie between them, and may be
called darker than the one and brighter than the other. This in-
termediate or contingent matter is and is not at the same time,
and partakes both of existence and of non-existence. Now I
would ask my good friend, who denies abstract beauty and
justice, and affirms a many beautiful and a many just, whether
everything he sees is not in some point of view different—the
beautiful ugly, the pious impious, the just unjust? Is not the
double also the half, and are not heavy and light relative terms
which pass into one another? Everything is and is not, as in the
old riddle—'A man and not a man shot and did not shoot a bird
and not a bird with a stone and not a stone.' The mind cannot
be fixed on either alternative; and these ambiguous, intermedi-
ate, erring, half-lighted objects, which have a disorderly move-
ment in the region between being and not-being, are the prop-
er matter of opinion, as the immutable objects are the proper
matter of knowledge. And he who grovels in the world of sense,
and has only this uncertain perception of things, is not a philo-
sopher, but a lover of opinion only…
The fifth book is the new beginning of the Republic, in which
the community of property and of family are first maintained,
and the transition is made to the kingdom of philosophers. For
both of these Plato, after his manner, has been preparing in
some chance words of Book IV, which fall unperceived on the
reader's mind, as they are supposed at first to have fallen on

79
the ear of Glaucon and Adeimantus. The 'paradoxes,' as Mor-
genstern terms them, of this book of the Republic will be re-
served for another place; a few remarks on the style, and some
explanations of difficulties, may be briefly added.
First, there is the image of the waves, which serves for a sort
of scheme or plan of the book. The first wave, the second wave,
the third and greatest wave come rolling in, and we hear the
roar of them. All that can be said of the extravagance of Plato's
proposals is anticipated by himself. Nothing is more admirable
than the hesitation with which he proposes the solemn text,
'Until kings are philosophers,' etc.; or the reaction from the
sublime to the ridiculous, when Glaucon describes the manner
in which the new truth will be received by mankind.
Some defects and difficulties may be noted in the execution
of the communistic plan. Nothing is told us of the application of
communism to the lower classes; nor is the table of prohibited
degrees capable of being made out. It is quite possible that a
child born at one hymeneal festival may marry one of its own
brothers or sisters, or even one of its parents, at another. Plato
is afraid of incestuous unions, but at the same time he does not
wish to bring before us the fact that the city would be divided
into families of those born seven and nine months after each
hymeneal festival. If it were worth while to argue seriously
about such fancies, we might remark that while all the old af-
finities are abolished, the newly prohibited affinity rests not on
any natural or rational principle, but only upon the accident of
children having been born in the same month and year. Nor
does he explain how the lots could be so manipulated by the le-
gislature as to bring together the fairest and best. The singular
expression which is employed to describe the age of five-and-
twenty may perhaps be taken from some poet.
In the delineation of the philosopher, the illustrations of the
nature of philosophy derived from love are more suited to the
apprehension of Glaucon, the Athenian man of pleasure, than
to modern tastes or 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.

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 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 philo-
sophy. 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 influ-
ence 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 an-
other 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 diffi-
culties 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 know-
ledge of true being, and have no clear patterns in their minds
of justice, beauty, truth, and that philosophers have such pat-
terns, 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 re-
quired 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 noth-
ing to them, nor is death fearful. Also they are of a social, gra-
cious 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

81
the god of Jealousy himself find any fault with such an as-
semblage of good qualities?
Here Adeimantus interposes:—'No man can answer you, So-
crates; but every man feels that this is owing to his own defi-
ciency 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 oppon-
ent. 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 rela-
tion of good men to their governments is so peculiar, that in or-
der 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 par-
able; which I will beg you to interpret for me to those gentle-
men 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 use-
less. Not that these are the worst enemies of philosophy, who
is far more dishonoured by her own professing sons when they

82
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 vir-
tues 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 de-
scribed, with the exception of a small and useless class, are ut-
ter 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 surround-
ing hills? Will not a young man's heart leap amid these discord-
ant sounds? and will any education save him from being car-
ried 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 inarticu-
late grunts. Good is what pleases him, evil what he dislikes;

83
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 be-
liever 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 ca-
pacity; the tall, proper youth begins to expand, and is dream-
ing of kingdoms and empires. If at this instant a friend whis-
pers to him, 'Now the gods lighten thee; thou art a great fool'
and must be educated—do you think that he will listen? Or sup-
pose 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 es-
tate, 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 bride-
groom and marries his master's daughter. What will be the is-
sue of such marriages? Will they not be vile and bastard,
devoid of truth and nature? 'They will.' Small, then, is the rem-
nant of genuine philosophers; there may be a few who are cit-
izens 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

84
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 be-
ing, 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 diffi-
culty, and now the question recurs and has not grown easi-
er:—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 re-
versed; 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 be
equally earnest in withstanding you—no more than
Thrasymachus.' Do not make a quarrel between Thrasymachus
and me, who were never enemies and are now good friends
enough. And I shall do my best to convince him and all man-
kind of the truth of my words, or at any rate to prepare for the
future when, in another life, we may again take part in similar
discussions. 'That will be a long time hence.' Not long in com-
parison with eternity. The many will probably remain incredu-
lous, for they have never seen the natural unity of ideas, but
only artificial juxtapositions; not free and generous thoughts,
but tricks of controversy and quips of law;—a perfect man

85
ruling in a perfect state, even a single one they have not
known. And we foresaw that there was no chance of perfection
either in states or individuals until a necessity was laid upon
philosophers—not the rogues, but those whom we called the
useless class—of holding office; or until the sons of kings were
inspired with a true love of philosophy. Whether in the infinity
of past time there has been, or is in some distant land, or ever
will be hereafter, an ideal such as we have described, we
stoutly maintain that there has been, is, and will be such a
state whenever the Muse of philosophy rules. Will you say that
the world is of another mind? O, my friend, do not revile the
world! They will soon change their opinion if they are gently
entreated, and are taught the true nature of the philosopher.
Who can hate a man who loves him? Or be jealous of one who
has no jealousy? Consider, again, that the many hate not the
true but the false philosophers—the pretenders who force their
way in without invitation, and are always speaking of persons
and not of principles, which is unlike the spirit of philosophy.
For the true philosopher despises earthly strife; his eye is fixed
on the eternal order in accordance with which he moulds him-
self into the Divine image (and not himself only, but other
men), and is the creator of the virtues private as well as public.
When mankind see that the happiness of states is only to be
found in that image, will they be angry with us for attempting
to delineate it? 'Certainly not. But what will be the process of
delineation?' The artist will do nothing until he has made a tab-
ula rasa; on this he will inscribe the constitution of a state,
glancing often at the divine truth of nature, and from that de-
riving the godlike among men, mingling the two elements, rub-
bing out and painting in, until there is a perfect harmony or fu-
sion of the divine and human. But perhaps the world will doubt
the existence of such an artist. What will they doubt? That the
philosopher is a lover of truth, having a nature akin to the
best?—and if they admit this will they still quarrel with us for
making philosophers our kings? 'They will be less disposed to
quarrel.' Let us assume then that they are pacified. Still, a per-
son may hesitate about the probability of the son of a king be-
ing a philosopher. And we do not deny that they are very liable
to be corrupted; but yet surely in the course of ages there
might be one exception—and one is enough. If one son of a

86
king were a philosopher, and had obedient citizens, he might
bring the ideal polity into being. Hence we conclude that our
laws are not only the best, but that they are also possible,
though not free from difficulty.
I gained nothing by evading the troublesome questions which
arose concerning women and children. I will be wiser now and
acknowledge that we must go to the bottom of another ques-
tion: What is to be the education of our guardians? It was
agreed that they were to be lovers of their country, and were
to be tested in the refiner's fire of pleasures and pains, and
those who came forth pure and remained fixed in their prin-
ciples were to have honours and rewards in life and after
death. But at this point, the argument put on her veil and
turned into another path. I hesitated to make the assertion
which I now hazard,—that our guardians must be philosophers.
You remember all the contradictory elements, which met in the
philosopher—how difficult to find them all in a single person!
Intelligence and spirit are not often combined with steadiness;
the stolid, fearless, nature is averse to intellectual toil. And yet
these opposite elements are all necessary, and therefore, as we
were saying before, the aspirant must be tested in pleasures
and dangers; and also, as we must now further add, in the
highest branches of knowledge. You will remember, that when
we spoke of the virtues mention was made of a longer road,
which you were satisfied to leave unexplored. 'Enough seemed
to have been said.' Enough, my friend; but what is enough
while anything remains wanting? Of all men the guardian must
not faint in the search after truth; he must be prepared to take
the longer road, or he will never reach that higher region
which is above the four virtues; and of the virtues too he must
not only get an outline, but a clear and distinct vision. (Strange
that we should be so precise about trifles, so careless about the
highest truths!) 'And what are the highest?' You to pretend un-
consciousness, when you have so often heard me speak of the
idea of good, about which we know so little, and without which
though a man gain the world he has no profit of it! Some
people imagine that the good is wisdom; but this involves a
circle,—the good, they say, is wisdom, wisdom has to do with
the good. According to others the good is pleasure; but then
comes the absurdity that good is bad, for there are bad

87
pleasures as well as good. Again, the good must have reality; a
man may desire the appearance of virtue, but he will not desire
the appearance of good. Ought our guardians then to be ignor-
ant of this supreme principle, of which every man has a presen-
timent, and without which no man has any real knowledge of
anything? 'But, Socrates, what is this supreme principle, know-
ledge or pleasure, or what? You may think me troublesome, but
I say that you have no business to be always repeating the doc-
trines of others instead of giving us your own.' Can I say what I
do not know? 'You may offer an opinion.' And will the blindness
and crookedness of opinion content you when you might have
the light and certainty of science? 'I will only ask you to give
such an explanation of the good as you have given already of
temperance and justice.' I wish that I could, but in my present
mood I cannot reach to the height of the knowledge of the
good. To the parent or principal I cannot introduce you, but to
the child begotten in his image, which I may compare with the
interest on the principal, I will. (Audit the account, and do not
let me give you a false statement of the debt.) You remember
our old distinction of the many beautiful and the one beautiful,
the particular and the universal, the objects of sight and the
objects of thought? Did you ever consider that the objects of
sight imply a faculty of sight which is the most complex and
costly of our senses, requiring not only objects of sense, but
also a medium, which is light; without which the sight will not
distinguish between colours and all will be a blank? For light is
the noble bond between the perceiving faculty and the thing
perceived, and the god who gives us light is the sun, who is the
eye of the day, but is not to be confounded with the eye of man.
This eye of the day or sun is what I call the child of the good,
standing in the same relation to the visible world as the good
to the intellectual. When the sun shines the eye sees, and in
the intellectual world where truth is, there is sight and light.
Now that which is the sun of intelligent natures, is the idea of
good, the cause of knowledge and truth, yet other and fairer
than they are, and standing in the same relation to them in
which the sun stands to light. O inconceivable height of beauty,
which is above knowledge and above truth! ('You cannot surely
mean pleasure,' he said. Peace, I replied.) And this idea of
good, like the sun, is also the cause of growth, and the author

88
not of knowledge only, but of being, yet greater far than either
in dignity and power. 'That is a reach of thought more than hu-
man; but, pray, go on with the image, for I suspect that there is
more behind.' There is, I said; and bearing in mind our two
suns or principles, imagine further their corresponding
worlds—one of the visible, the other of the intelligible; you may
assist your fancy by figuring the distinction under the image of
a line divided into two unequal parts, and may again subdivide
each part into two lesser segments representative of the stages
of knowledge in either sphere. The lower portion of the lower
or visible sphere will consist of shadows and reflections, and
its upper and smaller portion will contain real objects in the
world of nature or of art. The sphere of the intelligible will also
have two divisions,—one of mathematics, in which there is no
ascent but all is descent; no inquiring into premises, but only
drawing of inferences. In this division the mind works with fig-
ures and numbers, the images of which are taken not from the
shadows, but from the objects, although the truth of them is
seen only with the mind's eye; and they are used as hypotheses
without being analysed. Whereas in the other division reason
uses the hypotheses as stages or steps in the ascent to the idea
of good, to which she fastens them, and then again descends,
walking firmly in the region of ideas, and of ideas only, in her
ascent as well as descent, and finally resting in them. 'I partly
understand,' he replied; 'you mean that the ideas of science are
superior to the hypothetical, metaphorical conceptions of geo-
metry and the other arts or sciences, whichever is to be the
name of them; and the latter conceptions you refuse to make
subjects of pure intellect, because they have no first principle,
although when resting on a first principle, they pass into the
higher sphere.' You understand me very well, I said. And now
to those four divisions of knowledge you may assign four cor-
responding faculties—pure intelligence to the highest sphere;
active intelligence to the second; to the third, faith; to the
fourth, the perception of shadows—and the clearness of the
several faculties will be in the same ratio as the truth of the ob-
jects to which they are related…
Like Socrates, we may recapitulate the virtues of the philo-
sopher. In language which seems to reach beyond the horizon
of that age and country, he is described as 'the spectator of all

89
time and all existence.' He has the noblest gifts of nature, and
makes the highest use of them. All his desires are absorbed in
the love of wisdom, which is the love of truth. None of the
graces of a beautiful soul are wanting in him; neither can he
fear death, or think much of human life. The ideal of modern
times hardly retains the simplicity of the antique; there is not
the same originality either in truth or error which character-
ized the Greeks. The philosopher is no longer living in the un-
seen, nor is he sent by an oracle to convince mankind of ignor-
ance; nor does he regard knowledge as a system of ideas lead-
ing upwards by regular stages to the idea of good. The eager-
ness of the pursuit has abated; there is more division of labour
and less of comprehensive reflection upon nature and human
life as a whole; more of exact observation and less of anticipa-
tion and inspiration. Still, in the altered conditions of know-
ledge, the parallel is not wholly lost; and there may be a use in
translating the conception of Plato into the language of our
own age. The philosopher in modern times is one who fixes his
mind on the laws of nature in their sequence and connexion,
not on fragments or pictures of nature; on history, not on con-
troversy; on the truths which are acknowledged by the few, not
on the opinions of the many. He is aware of the importance of
'classifying according to nature,' and will try to 'separate the
limbs of science without breaking them' (Phaedr.). There is no
part of truth, whether great or small, which he will dishonour;
and in the least things he will discern the greatest (Parmen.).
Like the ancient philosopher he sees the world pervaded by
analogies, but he can also tell 'why in some cases a single in-
stance is sufficient for an induction' (Mill's Logic), while in oth-
er cases a thousand examples would prove nothing. He in-
quires into a portion of knowledge only, because the whole has
grown too vast to be embraced by a single mind or life. He has
a clearer conception of the divisions of science and of their re-
lation to the mind of man than was possible to the ancients.
Like Plato, he has a vision of the unity of knowledge, not as the
beginning of philosophy to be attained by a study of element-
ary mathematics, but as the far-off result of the working of
many minds in many ages. He is aware that mathematical stud-
ies are preliminary to almost every other; at the same time, he
will not reduce all varieties of knowledge to the type of

90
mathematics. He too must have a nobility of character, without
which genius loses the better half of greatness. Regarding the
world as a point in immensity, and each individual as a link in a
never-ending chain of existence, he will not think much of his
own life, or be greatly afraid of death.
Adeimantus objects first of all to the form of the Socratic
reasoning, thus showing that Plato is aware of the imperfection
of his own method. He brings the accusation against himself
which might be brought against him by a modern logi-
cian—that he extracts the answer because he knows how to put
the question. In a long argument words are apt to change their
meaning slightly, or premises may be assumed or conclusions
inferred with rather too much certainty or universality; the
variation at each step may be unobserved, and yet at last the
divergence becomes considerable. Hence the failure of at-
tempts to apply arithmetical or algebraic formulae to logic. The
imperfection, or rather the higher and more elastic nature of
language, does not allow words to have the precision of num-
bers or of symbols. And this quality in language impairs the
force of an argument which has many steps.
The objection, though fairly met by Socrates in this particu-
lar instance, may be regarded as implying a reflection upon the
Socratic mode of reasoning. And here, as elsewhere, Plato
seems to intimate that the time had come when the negative
and interrogative method of Socrates must be superseded by a
positive and constructive one, of which examples are given in
some of the later dialogues. Adeimantus further argues that
the ideal is wholly at variance with facts; for experience proves
philosophers to be either useless or rogues. Contrary to all ex-
pectation Socrates has no hesitation in admitting the truth of
this, and explains the anomaly in an allegory, first characterist-
ically depreciating his own inventive powers. In this allegory
the people are distinguished from the professional politicians,
and, as elsewhere, are spoken of in a tone of pity rather than of
censure under the image of 'the noble captain who is not very
quick in his perceptions.'
The uselessness of philosophers is explained by the circum-
stance that mankind will not use them. The world in all ages
has been divided between contempt and fear of those who em-
ploy the power of ideas and know no other weapons.

91
Concerning the false philosopher, Socrates argues that the
best is most liable to corruption; and that the finer nature is
more likely to suffer from alien conditions. We too observe that
there are some kinds of excellence which spring from a peculi-
ar delicacy of constitution; as is evidently true of the poetical
and imaginative temperament, which often seems to depend on
impressions, and hence can only breathe or live in a certain at-
mosphere. The man of genius has greater pains and greater
pleasures, greater powers and greater weaknesses, and often a
greater play of character than is to be found in ordinary men.
He can assume the disguise of virtue or disinterestedness
without having them, or veil personal enmity in the language of
patriotism and philosophy,—he can say the word which all men
are thinking, he has an insight which is terrible into the follies
and weaknesses of his fellow-men. An Alcibiades, a Mirabeau,
or a Napoleon the First, are born either to be the authors of
great evils in states, or 'of great good, when they are drawn in
that direction.'
Yet the thesis, 'corruptio optimi pessima,' cannot be main-
tained generally or without regard to the kind of excellence
which is corrupted. The alien conditions which are corrupting
to one nature, may be the elements of culture to another. In
general a man can only receive his highest development in a
congenial state or family, among friends or fellow-workers. But
also he may sometimes be stirred by adverse circumstances to
such a degree that he rises up against them and reforms them.
And while weaker or coarser characters will extract good out
of evil, say in a corrupt state of the church or of society, and
live on happily, allowing the evil to remain, the finer or
stronger natures may be crushed or spoiled by surrounding in-
fluences—may become misanthrope and philanthrope by turns;
or in a few instances, like the founders of the monastic orders,
or the Reformers, owing to some peculiarity in themselves or in
their age, may break away entirely from the world and from
the church, sometimes into great good, sometimes into great
evil, sometimes into both. And the same holds in the lesser
sphere of a convent, a school, a family.
Plato would have us consider how easily the best natures are
overpowered by public opinion, and what efforts the rest of
mankind will make to get possession of them. The world, the

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church, their own profession, any political or party organiza-
tion, are always carrying them off their legs and teaching them
to apply high and holy names to their own prejudices and in-
terests. The 'monster' corporation to which they belong judges
right and truth to be the pleasure of the community. The indi-
vidual becomes one with his order; or, if he resists, the world is
too much for him, and will sooner or later be revenged on him.
This is, perhaps, a one-sided but not wholly untrue picture of
the maxims and practice of mankind when they 'sit down to-
gether at an assembly,' either in ancient or modern times.
When the higher natures are corrupted by politics, the lower
take possession of the vacant place of philosophy. This is de-
scribed in one of those continuous images in which the argu-
ment, to use a Platonic expression, 'veils herself,' and which is
dropped and reappears at intervals. The question is
asked,—Why are the citizens of states so hostile to philosophy?
The answer is, that they do not know her. And yet there is also
a better mind of the many; they would believe if they were
taught. But hitherto they have only known a conventional imit-
ation of philosophy, words without thoughts, systems which
have no life in them; a (divine) person uttering the words of
beauty and freedom, the friend of man holding communion
with the Eternal, and seeking to frame the state in that image,
they have never known. The same double feeling respecting
the mass of mankind has always existed among men. The first
thought is that the people are the enemies of truth and right;
the second, that this only arises out of an accidental error and
confusion, and that they do not really hate those who love
them, if they could be educated to know them.
In the latter part of the sixth book, three questions have to
be considered: 1st, the nature of the longer and more circuit-
ous way, which is contrasted with the shorter and more imper-
fect method of Book IV; 2nd, the heavenly pattern or idea of
the state; 3rd, the relation of the divisions of knowledge to one
another and to the corresponding faculties of the soul:
1. Of the higher method of knowledge in Plato we have only a
glimpse. Neither here nor in the Phaedrus or Symposium, nor
yet in the Philebus or Sophist, does he give any clear explana-
tion of his meaning. He would probably have described his
method as proceeding by regular steps to a system of universal

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knowledge, which inferred the parts from the whole rather
than the whole from the parts. This ideal logic is not practised
by him in the search after justice, or in the analysis of the parts
of the soul; there, like Aristotle in the Nicomachean Ethics, he
argues from experience and the common use of language. But
at the end of the sixth book he conceives another and more
perfect method, in which all ideas are only steps or grades or
moments of thought, forming a connected whole which is self-
supporting, and in which consistency is the test of truth. He
does not explain to us in detail the nature of the process. Like
many other thinkers both in ancient and modern times his
mind seems to be filled with a vacant form which he is unable
to realize. He supposes the sciences to have a natural order
and connexion in an age when they can hardly be said to exist.
He is hastening on to the 'end of the intellectual world' without
even making a beginning of them.
In modern times we hardly need to be reminded that the pro-
cess of acquiring knowledge is here confused with the contem-
plation of absolute knowledge. In all science a priori and a pos-
teriori truths mingle in various proportions. The a priori part is
that which is derived from the most universal experience of
men, or is universally accepted by them; the a posteriori is that
which grows up around the more general principles and be-
comes imperceptibly one with them. But Plato erroneously ima-
gines that the synthesis is separable from the analysis, and
that the method of science can anticipate science. In entertain-
ing such a vision of a priori knowledge he is sufficiently justi-
fied, or at least his meaning may be sufficiently explained by
the similar attempts of Descartes, Kant, Hegel, and even of Ba-
con himself, in modern philosophy. Anticipations or divinations,
or prophetic glimpses of truths whether concerning man or
nature, seem to stand in the same relation to ancient philo-
sophy which hypotheses bear to modern inductive science.
These 'guesses at truth' were not made at random; they arose
from a superficial impression of uniformities and first prin-
ciples in nature which the genius of the Greek, contemplating
the expanse of heaven and earth, seemed to recognize in the
distance. Nor can we deny that in ancient times knowledge
must have stood still, and the human mind been deprived of

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the very instruments of thought, if philosophy had been strictly
confined to the results of experience.
2. Plato supposes that when the tablet has been made blank
the artist will fill in the lineaments of the ideal state. Is this a
pattern laid up in heaven, or mere vacancy on which he is sup-
posed to gaze with wondering eye? The answer is, that such
ideals are framed partly by the omission of particulars, partly
by imagination perfecting the form which experience supplies
(Phaedo). Plato represents these ideals in a figure as belonging
to another world; and in modern times the idea will sometimes
seem to precede, at other times to co-operate with the hand of
the artist. As in science, so also in creative art, there is a syn-
thetical as well as an analytical method. One man will have the
whole in his mind before he begins; to another the processes of
mind and hand will be simultaneous.
3. There is no difficulty in seeing that Plato's divisions of
knowledge are based, first, on the fundamental antithesis of
sensible and intellectual which pervades the whole pre-Socrat-
ic philosophy; in which is implied also the opposition of the
permanent and transient, of the universal and particular. But
the age of philosophy in which he lived seemed to require a
further distinction;—numbers and figures were beginning to
separate from ideas. The world could no longer regard justice
as a cube, and was learning to see, though imperfectly, that
the abstractions of sense were distinct from the abstractions of
mind. Between the Eleatic being or essence and the shadows of
phenomena, the Pythagorean principle of number found a
place, and was, as Aristotle remarks, a conducting medium
from one to the other. Hence Plato is led to introduce a third
term which had not hitherto entered into the scheme of his
philosophy. He had observed the use of mathematics in educa-
tion; they were the best preparation for higher studies. The
subjective relation between them further suggested an object-
ive one; although the passage from one to the other is really
imaginary (Metaph.). For metaphysical and moral philosophy
has no connexion with mathematics; number and figure are the
abstractions of time and space, not the expressions of purely
intellectual conceptions. When divested of metaphor, a straight
line or a square has no more to do with right and justice than a
crooked line with vice. The figurative association was mistaken

95
for a real one; and thus the three latter divisions of the Platon-
ic proportion were constructed.
There is more difficulty in comprehending how he arrived at
the first term of the series, which is nowhere else mentioned,
and has no reference to any other part of his system. Nor in-
deed does the relation of shadows to objects correspond to the
relation of numbers to ideas. Probably Plato has been led by
the love of analogy (Timaeus) to make four terms instead of
three, although the objects perceived in both divisions of the
lower sphere are equally objects of sense. He is also preparing
the way, as his manner is, for the shadows of images at the be-
ginning of the seventh book, and the imitation of an imitation
in the tenth. The line may be regarded as reaching from unity
to infinity, and is divided into two unequal parts, and sub-
divided into two more; each lower sphere is the multiplication
of the preceding. Of the four faculties, faith in the lower divi-
sion has an intermediate position (cp. for the use of the word
faith or belief, (Greek), Timaeus), contrasting equally with the
vagueness of the perception of shadows (Greek) and the higher
certainty of understanding (Greek) and reason (Greek).
The difference between understanding and mind or reason
(Greek) is analogous to the difference between acquiring know-
ledge in the parts and the contemplation of the whole. True
knowledge is a whole, and is at rest; consistency and universal-
ity are the tests of truth. To this self-evidencing knowledge of
the whole the faculty of mind is supposed to correspond. But
there is a knowledge of the understanding which is incomplete
and in motion always, because unable to rest in the subordin-
ate ideas. Those ideas are called both images and hypo-
theses—images because they are clothed in sense, hypotheses
because they are assumptions only, until they are brought into
connexion with the idea of good.
The general meaning of the passage, 'Noble, then, is the
bond which links together sight… And of this kind I spoke as
the intelligible… ' so far as the thought contained in it admits
of being translated into the terms of modern philosophy, may
be described or explained as follows:—There is a truth, one
and self-existent, to which by the help of a ladder let down
from above, the human intelligence may ascend. This unity is
like the sun in the heavens, the light by which all things are

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seen, the being by which they are created and sustained. It is
the IDEA of good. And the steps of the ladder leading up to this
highest or universal existence are the mathematical sciences,
which also contain in themselves an element of the universal.
These, too, we see in a new manner when we connect them
with the idea of good. They then cease to be hypotheses or pic-
tures, and become essential parts of a higher truth which is at
once their first principle and their final cause.
We cannot give any more precise meaning to this remarkable
passage, but we may trace in it several rudiments or vestiges
of thought which are common to us and to Plato: such as (1)
the unity and correlation of the sciences, or rather of science,
for in Plato's time they were not yet parted off or distin-
guished; (2) the existence of a Divine Power, or life or idea or
cause or reason, not yet conceived or no longer conceived as in
the Timaeus and elsewhere under the form of a person; (3) the
recognition of the hypothetical and conditional character of the
mathematical sciences, and in a measure of every science
when isolated from the rest; (4) the conviction of a truth which
is invisible, and of a law, though hardly a law of nature, which
permeates the intellectual rather than the visible world.
The method of Socrates is hesitating and tentative, awaiting
the fuller explanation of the idea of good, and of the nature of
dialectic in the seventh book. The imperfect intelligence of
Glaucon, and the reluctance of Socrates to make a beginning,
mark the difficulty of the subject. The allusion to Theages'
bridle, and to the internal oracle, or demonic sign, of Socrates,
which here, as always in Plato, is only prohibitory; the remark
that the salvation of any remnant of good in the present evil
state of the world is due to God only; the reference to a future
state of existence, which is unknown to Glaucon in the tenth
book, and in which the discussions of Socrates and his dis-
ciples would be resumed; the surprise in the answers; the
fanciful irony of Socrates, where he pretends that he can only
describe the strange position of the philosopher in a figure of
speech; the original observation that the Sophists, after all, are
only the representatives and not the leaders of public opinion;
the picture of the philosopher standing aside in the shower of
sleet under a wall; the figure of 'the great beast' followed by
the expression of good-will towards the common people who

97
would not have rejected the philosopher if they had known
him; the 'right noble thought' that the highest truths demand
the greatest exactness; the hesitation of Socrates in returning
once more to his well-worn theme of the idea of good; the
ludicrous earnestness of Glaucon; the comparison of philo-
sophy to a deserted maiden who marries beneath her—are
some of the most interesting characteristics of the sixth book.
Yet a few more words may be added, on the old theme, which
was so oft discussed in the Socratic circle, of which we, like
Glaucon and Adeimantus, would fain, if possible, have a clearer
notion. Like them, we are dissatisfied when we are told that
the idea of good can only be revealed to a student of the math-
ematical sciences, and we are inclined to think that neither we
nor they could have been led along that path to any satisfact-
ory goal. For we have learned that differences of quantity can-
not pass into differences of quality, and that the mathematical
sciences can never rise above themselves into the sphere of
our higher thoughts, although they may sometimes furnish
symbols and expressions of them, and may train the mind in
habits of abstraction and self-concentration. The illusion which
was natural to an ancient philosopher has ceased to be an illu-
sion to us. But if the process by which we are supposed to ar-
rive at the idea of good be really imaginary, may not the idea
itself be also a mere abstraction? We remark, first, that in all
ages, and especially in primitive philosophy, words such as be-
ing, essence, unity, good, have exerted an extraordinary influ-
ence over the minds of men. The meagreness or negativeness
of their content has been in an inverse ratio to their power.
They have become the forms under which all things were com-
prehended. There was a need or instinct in the human soul
which they satisfied; they were not ideas, but gods, and to this
new mythology the men of a later generation began to attach
the powers and associations of the elder deities.
The idea of good is one of those sacred words or forms of
thought, which were beginning to take the place of the old
mythology. It meant unity, in which all time and all existence
were gathered up. It was the truth of all things, and also the
light in which they shone forth, and became evident to intelli-
gences human and divine. It was the cause of all things, the
power by which they were brought into being. It was the

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universal reason divested of a human personality. It was the
life as well as the light of the world, all knowledge and all
power were comprehended in it. The way to it was through the
mathematical sciences, and these too were dependent on it. To
ask whether God was the maker of it, or made by it, would be
like asking whether God could be conceived apart from good-
ness, or goodness apart from God. The God of the Timaeus is
not really at variance with the idea of good; they are aspects of
the same, differing only as the personal from the impersonal,
or the masculine from the neuter, the one being the expression
or language of mythology, the other of philosophy.
This, or something like this, is the meaning of the idea of
good as conceived by Plato. Ideas of number, order, harmony,
development may also be said to enter into it. The paraphrase
which has just been given of it goes beyond the actual words of
Plato. We have perhaps arrived at the stage of philosophy
which enables us to understand what he is aiming at, better
than he did himself. We are beginning to realize what he saw
darkly and at a distance. But if he could have been told that
this, or some conception of the same kind, but higher than this,
was the truth at which he was aiming, and the need which he
sought to supply, he would gladly have recognized that more
was contained in his own thoughts than he himself knew. As
his words are few and his manner reticent and tentative, so
must the style of his interpreter be. We should not approach
his meaning more nearly by attempting to define it further. In
translating him into the language of modern thought, we might
insensibly lose the spirit of ancient philosophy. It is remarkable
that although Plato speaks of the idea of good as the first prin-
ciple of truth and being, it is nowhere mentioned in his writ-
ings except in this passage. Nor did it retain any hold upon the
minds of his disciples in a later generation; it was probably un-
intelligible to them. Nor does the mention of it in Aristotle ap-
pear to have any reference to this or any other passage in his
extant writings.
BOOK VII. And now I will describe in a figure the enlighten-
ment or unenlightenment of our nature:—Imagine human be-
ings 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

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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 im-
ages 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 be-
fore 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 habita-
tions;—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 en-
lighten 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

100
beatific vision is always going upwards; he is unwilling to des-
cend 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 accord-
ing 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 dis-
cerns 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 re-
main 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 re-
member 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

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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 govern-
ment 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 be-
coming to being. And what training will draw the soul up-
wards? 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 sci-
ence 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 in-
vented number, and had counted the ranks and set them in or-
der. For if Agamemnon could not count his feet (and without
number how could he?) he must have been a pretty sort of gen-
eral 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:—Th-
ings sensible are of two kinds; the one class invite or stimulate

102
the mind, while in the other the mind acquiesces. Now the
stimulating class are the things which suggest contrast and re-
lation. 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 can-
not 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. Num-
ber replies that they are two and not one, and are to be distin-
guished from one another. Again, the sight beholds great and
small, but only in a confused chaos, and not until they are dis-
tinguished does the question arise of their respective natures;
we are thus led on to the distinction between the visible and in-
telligible. 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 con-
tradiction 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 bet-
ter adapted; but it must be pursued in the spirit of a philosoph-
er, not of a shopkeeper. It is concerned, not with visible ob-
jects, but with abstract truth; for numbers are pure abstrac-
tions—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.

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 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 squar-
ing, 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, astro-
nomy? 'Very good,' replied Glaucon; 'the knowledge of the
heavens is necessary at once for husbandry, navigation, milit-
ary 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 use-
ful 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 philosoph-
er? 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 con-
ceited 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

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to see that the contemplation of the heavens draws the soul up-
wards.' 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 Origin-
al, and teaches nothing about the absolute harmonies or mo-
tions 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 re-
lations. How ridiculous then to look for these in the map of the
heavens, in which the imperfection of matter comes in every-
where 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 har-
mony which is unheard, and is only to be found in problems,
they have not even a conception. 'That last,' he said, 'must be a

105
marvellous thing.' A thing, I replied, which is only useful if pur-
sued with a view to the good.
All these sciences are the prelude of the strain, and are prof-
itable if they are regarded in their natural relations to one an-
other. '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 math-
ematician who could reason.' And yet, Glaucon, is not true
reasoning that hymn of dialectic which is the music of the intel-
lectual 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 dia-
lectical faculty withdrawing from sense arrives by the pure in-
tellect 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 ac-
quisition of a new faculty of sight by the help of the mathemat-
ical 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 can-
not follow me here. There can be no revelation of the absolute
truth to one who has not been disciplined in the previous sci-
ences. But that there is a science of absolute truth, which is at-
tained in some way very different from those now practised, I
am confident. For all other arts or sciences are relative to hu-
man 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,

106
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 ex-
plains the essence or being of each nature, which distinguishes
and abstracts the good, and is ready to do battle against all op-
ponents 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 be-
fore his is well waked up. And would you have the future rulers
of your ideal State intelligent beings, or stupid as posts? 'Cer-
tainly 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 fur-
ther:—As before, they must be constant and valiant, good-look-
ing, and of noble manners, but now they must also have natur-
al ability which education will improve; that is to say, they
must be quick at learning, capable of mental toil, retentive, sol-
id, diligent natures, who combine intellectual with moral vir-
tues; not lame and one-sided, diligent in bodily exercise and in-
dolent 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; dis-
ciples of another sort would only make philosophy more ridicu-
lous than she is at present. Forgive my enthusiasm; I am be-
coming 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

107
sort of play, in which the natural bent is detected. As in train-
ing them for war, the young dogs should at first only taste
blood; but when the necessary gymnastics are over which dur-
ing two or three years divide life between sleep and bodily ex-
ercise, then the education of the soul will become a more seri-
ous matter. At twenty years of age, a selection must be made of
the more promising disciples, with whom a new epoch of edu-
cation 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 after-
wards at thirty a further selection shall be made of those who
are able to withdraw from the world of sense into the abstrac-
tion of ideas. But at this point, judging from present experi-
ence, 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 in-
formed that he is a supposititious son. He has hitherto hon-
oured 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 him-
self 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

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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 be-
ing 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 di-
visions 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 dialect-
ical process begins with the contemplation of the real stars,
and not mere reflections of them, and ends with the

109
recognition of the sun, or idea of good, as the parent not only
of light but of warmth and growth. To the divisions of know-
ledge the stages of education partly answer:—first, there is the
early education of childhood and youth in the fancies of the po-
ets, 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 ser-
vant of the mind;—and thirdly, after an interval follows the
education of later life, which begins with mathematics and pro-
ceeds 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 en-
larged 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 re-
lation. 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 fol-
low 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 sci-
ence 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 philo-
sophy, such as the Pythagoreans and even Aristotle make use
of in Ethics and Politics, e.g. his distinction between

110
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 fig-
ures are to be dispensed with; thus in a distant and shadowy
way seeming to anticipate the possibility of working geometric-
al problems by a more general mode of analysis. He will re-
mark 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 includ-
ing 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 mo-
tion 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 sup-
posing that he can construct the heavens a priori by mathemat-
ical problems, and determine the principles of harmony irre-
spective of the adaptation of sounds to the human ear. The illu-
sion 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 astro-
nomical discoveries have been made.

111
 The metaphysical philosopher from his point of view recog-
nizes mathematics as an instrument of education,—which
strengthens the power of attention, developes the sense of or-
der 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 an-
cient Pythagorean notions. There is no reason to suppose that
he is speaking of the ideal numbers; but he is describing num-
bers 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, re-
pel all attempts at subdivision, and in which unity and every
other number are conceived of as absolute. The truth and cer-
tainty of numbers, when thus disengaged from phenomena,
gave them a kind of sacredness in the eyes of an ancient philo-
sopher. Nor is it easy to say how far ideas of order and fixed-
ness 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 differ-
ences in the modes of conception prevailing among ancient and
modern thinkers. To us, the perceptions of sense are insepar-
able 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 ima-
gined to appear confused and blurred to the half-awakened eye

112
of the infant. The first action of the mind is aroused by the at-
tempt to set in order this chaos, and the reason is required to
frame distinct conceptions under which the confused impres-
sions 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 harmon-
ics. 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 Da-
mon—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 Glauc-
on appears to confuse with them, and whom both he and So-
crates ludicrously describe as experimenting by mere ausculta-
tion on the intervals of sounds. Both of these fall short in differ-
ent degrees of the Platonic idea of harmony, which must be
studied in a purely abstract way, first by the method of prob-
lems, 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 mean-
ing. 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 sup-
posed 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 ac-
tual 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 as-
cended into the upper world. The difference between the politi-
cian turned into a philosopher and the philosopher turned into
a politician, is symbolized by the two kinds of disordered eye-
sight, the one which is experienced by the captive who is trans-
ferred from darkness to day, the other, of the heavenly messen-
ger who voluntarily for the good of his fellow-men descends

113
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 be-
come 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 be-
fore they were politicians, or who, having been students of his-
tory, 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 fu-
ture, 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 profes-
sion; who are limited to a set or sect of their own. Men of this
kind have no universal except their own interests or the in-
terests 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

114
a larger world, to undertake some higher calling, from being
tradesmen to turn generals or politicians, from being school-
masters to become philosophers:—or imagine them on a sud-
den 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 'aufklarung.' We too ob-
serve that when young men begin to criticise customary be-
liefs, or to analyse the constitution of human nature, they are
apt to lose hold of solid principle (Greek). 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 distinc-
tion 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 mor-
ality, some fancy about art, some novelty or eccentricity in reli-
gion, 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 know-
ledge 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

115
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 suppositi-
tious 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 dialec-
tician is also noticeable. Plato is very well aware that the fac-
ulty of the mathematician is quite distinct from the higher
philosophical sense which recognizes and combines first prin-
ciples. 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 char-
acteristic of the Platonic style and mode of thought. The quaint
notion that if Palamedes was the inventor of number Agamem-
non 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 ar-
rived 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 VIII. And so we have arrived at the conclusion, that in
the perfect State wives and children are to be in common; and
the education and pursuits of men and women, both in war and
peace, are to be common, and kings are to be philosophers and
warriors, and the soldiers of the State are to live together, hav-
ing all things in common; and they are to be warrior athletes,
receiving no pay but only their food, from the other citizens.
Now let us return to the point at which we digressed. 'That is
easily done,' he replied: 'You were speaking of the State which
you had constructed, and of the individual who answered to
this, both of whom you affirmed to be good; and you said that
of inferior States there were four forms and four individuals

116
corresponding to them, which although deficient in various de-
grees, were all of them worth inspecting with a view to determ-
ining the relative happiness or misery of the best or worst man.
Then Polemarchus and Adeimantus interrupted you, and this
led to another argument,—and so here we are.' Suppose that
we put ourselves again in the same position, and do you repeat
your question. 'I should like to know of what constitutions you
were speaking?' Besides the perfect State there are only four
of any note in Hellas:—first, the famous Lacedaemonian or
Cretan commonwealth; secondly, oligarchy, a State full of
evils; thirdly, democracy, which follows next in order; fourthly,
tyranny, which is the disease or death of all government. Now,
States are not made of 'oak and rock,' but of flesh and blood;
and therefore as there are five States there must be five hu-
man natures in individuals, which correspond to them. And
first, there is the ambitious nature, which answers to the La-
cedaemonian State; secondly, the oligarchical nature; thirdly,
the democratical; and fourthly, the tyrannical. This last will
have to be compared with the perfectly just, which is the fifth,
that we may know which is the happier, and then we shall be
able to determine whether the argument of Thrasymachus or
our own is the more convincing. And as before we began with
the State and went on to the individual, so now, beginning with
timocracy, let us go on to the timocratical man, and then pro-
ceed to the other forms of government, and the individuals who
answer to them.
But how did timocracy arise out of the perfect State? Plainly,
like all changes of government, from division in the rulers. But
whence came division? 'Sing, heavenly Muses,' as Homer
says;—let them condescend to answer us, as if we were chil-
dren, to whom they put on a solemn face in jest. 'And what will
they say?' They will say that human things are fated to decay,
and even the perfect State will not escape from this law of des-
tiny, when 'the wheel comes full circle' in a period short or
long. Plants or animals have times of fertility and sterility,
which the intelligence of rulers because alloyed by sense will
not enable them to ascertain, and children will be born out of
season. For whereas divine creations are in a perfect cycle or
number, the human creation is in a number which declines
from perfection, and has four terms and three intervals of

117
numbers, increasing, waning, assimilating, dissimilating, and
yet perfectly commensurate with each other. The base of the
number with a fourth added (or which is 3:4), multiplied by five
and cubed, gives two harmonies:—the first a square number,
which is a hundred times the base (or a hundred times a hun-
dred); the second, an oblong, being a hundred squares of the
rational diameter of a figure the side of which is five, subtract-
ing one from each square or two perfect squares from all, and
adding a hundred cubes of three. This entire number is geo-
metrical and contains the rule or law of generation. When this
law is neglected marriages will be unpropitious; the inferior
offspring who are then born will in time become the rulers; the
State will decline, and education fall into decay; gymnastic will
be preferred to music, and the gold and silver and brass and
iron will form a chaotic mass—thus division will arise. Such is
the Muses' answer to our question. 'And a true answer, of
course:—but what more have they to say?' They say that the
two races, the iron and brass, and the silver and gold, will
draw the State different ways;—the one will take to trade and
moneymaking, and the others, having the true riches and not
caring for money, will resist them: the contest will end in a
compromise; they will agree to have private property, and will
enslave their fellow-citizens who were once their friends and
nurturers. But they will retain their warlike character, and will
be chiefly occupied in fighting and exercising rule. Thus arises
timocracy, which is intermediate between aristocracy and
oligarchy.
The new form of government resembles the ideal in obedi-
ence to rulers and contempt for trade, and having common
meals, and in devotion to warlike and gymnastic exercises. But
corruption has crept into philosophy, and simplicity of charac-
ter, which was once her note, is now looked for only in the mil-
itary class. Arts of war begin to prevail over arts of peace; the
ruler is no longer a philosopher; as in oligarchies, there
springs up among them an extravagant love of gain—get anoth-
er man's and save your own, is their principle; and they have
dark places in which they hoard their gold and silver, for the
use of their women and others; they take their pleasures by
stealth, like boys who are running away from their father—the
law; and their education is not inspired by the Muse, but

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imposed by the strong arm of power. The leading characteristic
of this State is party spirit and ambition.
And what manner of man answers to such a State? 'In love of
contention,' replied Adeimantus, 'he will be like our friend
Glaucon.' In that respect, perhaps, but not in others. He is self-
asserting and ill-educated, yet fond of literature, although not
himself a speaker,—fierce with slaves, but obedient to rulers, a
lover of power and honour, which he hopes to gain by deeds of
arms,—fond, too, of gymnastics and of hunting. As he advances
in years he grows avaricious, for he has lost philosophy, which
is the only saviour and guardian of men. His origin is as fol-
lows:—His father is a good man dwelling in an ill-ordered
State, who has retired from politics in order that he may lead a
quiet life. His mother is angry at her loss of precedence among
other women; she is disgusted at her husband's selfishness,
and she expatiates to her son on the unmanliness and indol-
ence of his father. The old family servant takes up the tale, and
says to the youth:—'When you grow up you must be more of a
man than your father.' All the world are agreed that he who
minds his own business is an idiot, while a busybody is highly
honoured and esteemed. The young man compares this spirit
with his father's words and ways, and as he is naturally well
disposed, although he has suffered from evil influences, he
rests at a middle point and becomes ambitious and a lover of
honour.
And now let us set another city over against another man.
The next form of government is oligarchy, in which the rule is
of the rich only; nor is it difficult to see how such a State
arises. The decline begins with the possession of gold and sil-
ver; illegal modes of expenditure are invented; one draws an-
other on, and the multitude are infected; riches outweigh vir-
tue; lovers of money take the place of lovers of honour; misers
of politicians; and, in time, political privileges are confined by
law to the rich, who do not shrink from violence in order to ef-
fect their purposes.
Thus much of the origin,—let us next consider the evils of ol-
igarchy. Would a man who wanted to be safe on a voyage take
a bad pilot because he was rich, or refuse a good one because
he was poor? And does not the analogy apply still more to the
State? And there are yet greater evils: two nations are

119
struggling together in one—the rich and the poor; and the rich
dare not put arms into the hands of the poor, and are unwilling
to pay for defenders out of their own money. And have we not
already condemned that State in which the same persons are
warriors as well as shopkeepers? The greatest evil of all is that
a man may sell his property and have no place in the State;
while there is one class which has enormous wealth, the other
is entirely destitute. But observe that these destitutes had not
really any more of the governing nature in them when they
were rich than now that they are poor; they were miserable
spendthrifts always. They are the drones of the hive; only
whereas the actual drone is unprovided by nature with a sting,
the two-legged things whom we call drones are some of them
without stings and some of them have dreadful stings; in other
words, there are paupers and there are rogues. These are nev-
er far apart; and in oligarchical cities, where nearly everybody
is a pauper who is not a ruler, you will find abundance of both.
And this evil state of society originates in bad education and
bad government.
Like State, like man,—the change in the latter begins with
the representative of timocracy; he walks at first in the ways of
his father, who may have been a statesman, or general, per-
haps; and presently he sees him 'fallen from his high estate,'
the victim of informers, dying in prison or exile, or by the hand
of the executioner. The lesson which he thus receives, makes
him cautious; he leaves politics, represses his pride, and saves
pence. Avarice is enthroned as his bosom's lord, and assumes
the style of the Great King; the rational and spirited elements
sit humbly on the ground at either side, the one immersed in
calculation, the other absorbed in the admiration of wealth.
The love of honour turns to love of money; the conversion is in-
stantaneous. The man is mean, saving, toiling, the slave of one
passion which is the master of the rest: Is he not the very im-
age of the State? He has had no education, or he would never
have allowed the blind god of riches to lead the dance within
him. And being uneducated he will have many slavish desires,
some beggarly, some knavish, breeding in his soul. If he is the
trustee of an orphan, and has the power to defraud, he will
soon prove that he is not without the will, and that his passions
are only restrained by fear and not by reason. Hence he leads a

120
divided existence; in which the better desires mostly prevail.
But when he is contending for prizes and other distinctions, he
is afraid to incur a loss which is to be repaid only by barren
honour; in time of war he fights with a small part of his re-
sources, and usually keeps his money and loses the victory.
Next comes democracy and the democratic man, out of olig-
archy and the oligarchical man. Insatiable avarice is the ruling
passion of an oligarchy; and they encourage expensive habits
in order that they may gain by the ruin of extravagant youth.
Thus men of family often lose their property or rights of cit-
izenship; but they remain in the city, full of hatred against the
new owners of their estates and ripe for revolution. The usurer
with stooping walk pretends not to see them; he passes by, and
leaves his sting—that is, his money—in some other victim; and
many a man has to pay the parent or principal sum multiplied
into a family of children, and is reduced into a state of dronage
by him. The only way of diminishing the evil is either to limit a
man in his use of his property, or to insist that he shall lend at
his own risk. But the ruling class do not want remedies; they
care only for money, and are as careless of virtue as the
poorest of the citizens. Now there are occasions on which the
governors and the governed meet together,—at festivals, on a
journey, voyaging or fighting. The sturdy pauper finds that in
the hour of danger he is not despised; he sees the rich man
puffing and panting, and draws the conclusion which he
privately imparts to his companions,—'that our people are not
good for much;' and as a sickly frame is made ill by a mere
touch from without, or sometimes without external impulse is
ready to fall to pieces of itself, so from the least cause, or with
none at all, the city falls ill and fights a battle for life or death.
And democracy comes into power when the poor are the vic-
tors, killing some and exiling some, and giving equal shares in
the government to all the rest.
The manner of life in such a State is that of democrats; there
is freedom and plainness of speech, and every man does what
is right in his own eyes, and has his own way of life. Hence
arise the most various developments of character; the State is
like a piece of embroidery of which the colours and figures are
the manners of men, and there are many who, like women and
children, prefer this variety to real beauty and excellence. The

121
State is not one but many, like a bazaar at which you can buy
anything. The great charm is, that you may do as you like; you
may govern if you like, let it alone if you like; go to war and
make peace if you feel disposed, and all quite irrespective of
anybody else. When you condemn men to death they remain
alive all the same; a gentleman is desired to go into exile, and
he stalks about the streets like a hero; and nobody sees him or
cares for him. Observe, too, how grandly Democracy sets her
foot upon all our fine theories of education,—how little she
cares for the training of her statesmen! The only qualification
which she demands is the profession of patriotism. Such is
democracy;—a pleasing, lawless, various sort of government,
distributing equality to equals and unequals alike.
Let us now inspect the individual democrat; and first, as in
the case of the State, we will trace his antecedents. He is the
son of a miserly oligarch, and has been taught by him to re-
strain the love of unnecessary pleasures. Perhaps I ought to ex-
plain this latter term:—Necessary pleasures are those which
are good, and which we cannot do without; unnecessary pleas-
ures are those which do no good, and of which the desire might
be eradicated by early training. For example, the pleasures of
eating and drinking are necessary and healthy, up to a certain
point; beyond that point they are alike hurtful to body and
mind, and the excess may be avoided. When in excess, they
may be rightly called expensive pleasures, in opposition to the
useful ones. And the drone, as we called him, is the slave of
these unnecessary pleasures and desires, whereas the miserly
oligarch is subject only to the necessary.
The oligarch changes into the democrat in the following man-
ner:—The youth who has had a miserly bringing up, gets a
taste of the drone's honey; he meets with wild companions,
who introduce him to every new pleasure. As in the State, so in
the individual, there are allies on both sides, temptations from
without and passions from within; there is reason also and ex-
ternal influences of parents and friends in alliance with the ol-
igarchical principle; and the two factions are in violent conflict
with one another. Sometimes the party of order prevails, but
then again new desires and new disorders arise, and the whole
mob of passions gets possession of the Acropolis, that is to say,
the soul, which they find void and unguarded by true words

122
and works. Falsehoods and illusions ascend to take their place;
the prodigal goes back into the country of the Lotophagi or
drones, and openly dwells there. And if any offer of alliance or
parley of individual elders comes from home, the false spirits
shut the gates of the castle and permit no one to enter,—there
is a battle, and they gain the victory; and straightway making
alliance with the desires, they banish modesty, which they call
folly, and send temperance over the border. When the house
has been swept and garnished, they dress up the exiled vices,
and, crowning them with garlands, bring them back under new
names. Insolence they call good breeding, anarchy freedom,
waste magnificence, impudence courage. Such is the process
by which the youth passes from the necessary pleasures to the
unnecessary. After a while he divides his time impartially
between them; and perhaps, when he gets older and the viol-
ence of passion has abated, he restores some of the exiles and
lives in a sort of equilibrium, indulging first one pleasure and
then another; and if reason comes and tells him that some
pleasures are good and honourable, and others bad and vile, he
shakes his head and says that he can make no distinction
between them. Thus he lives in the fancy of the hour; some-
times he takes to drink, and then he turns abstainer; he prac-
tises in the gymnasium or he does nothing at all; then again he
would be a philosopher or a politician; or again, he would be a
warrior or a man of business; he is

'Every thing by starts and nothing long.'

There remains still the finest and fairest of all men and all
States—tyranny and the tyrant. Tyranny springs from demo-
cracy much as democracy springs from oligarchy. Both arise
from excess; the one from excess of wealth, the other from ex-
cess of freedom. 'The great natural good of life,' says the demo-
crat, 'is freedom.' And this exclusive love of freedom and re-
gardlessness of everything else, is the cause of the change
from democracy to tyranny. The State demands the strong
wine of freedom, and unless her rulers give her a plentiful
draught, punishes and insults them; equality and fraternity of
governors and governed is the approved principle. Anarchy is
the law, not of the State only, but of private houses, and

123
extends even to the animals. Father and son, citizen and for-
eigner, teacher and pupil, old and young, are all on a level;
fathers and teachers fear their sons and pupils, and the wis-
dom of the young man is a match for the elder, and the old im-
itate the jaunty manners of the young because they are afraid
of being thought morose. Slaves are on a level with their mas-
ters and mistresses, and there is no difference between men
and women. Nay, the very animals in a democratic State have a
freedom which is unknown in other places. The she-dogs are as
good as their she-mistresses, and horses and asses march
along with dignity and run their noses against anybody who
comes in their way. 'That has often been my experience.' At
last the citizens become so sensitive that they cannot endure
the yoke of laws, written or unwritten; they would have no man
call himself their master. Such is the glorious beginning of
things out of which tyranny springs. 'Glorious, indeed; but
what is to follow?' The ruin of oligarchy is the ruin of demo-
cracy; for there is a law of contraries; the excess of freedom
passes into the excess of slavery, and the greater the freedom
the greater the slavery. You will remember that in the olig-
archy were found two classes—rogues and paupers, whom we
compared to drones with and without stings. These two classes
are to the State what phlegm and bile are to the human body;
and the State-physician, or legislator, must get rid of them, just
as the bee-master keeps the drones out of the hive. Now in a
democracy, too, there are drones, but they are more numerous
and more dangerous than in the oligarchy; there they are inert
and unpractised, here they are full of life and animation; and
the keener sort speak and act, while the others buzz about the
bema and prevent their opponents from being heard. And there
is another class in democratic States, of respectable, thriving
individuals, who can be squeezed when the drones have need
of their possessions; there is moreover a third class, who are
the labourers and the artisans, and they make up the mass of
the people. When the people meet, they are omnipotent, but
they cannot be brought together unless they are attracted by a
little honey; and the rich are made to supply the honey, of
which the demagogues keep the greater part themselves, giv-
ing a taste only to the mob. Their victims attempt to resist;
they are driven mad by the stings of the drones, and so become

124
downright oligarchs in self-defence. Then follow informations
and convictions for treason. The people have some protector
whom they nurse into greatness, and from this root the tree of
tyranny springs. The nature of the change is indicated in the
old fable of the temple of Zeus Lycaeus, which tells how he
who tastes human flesh mixed up with the flesh of other vic-
tims will turn into a wolf. Even so the protector, who tastes hu-
man blood, and slays some and exiles others with or without
law, who hints at abolition of debts and division of lands, must
either perish or become a wolf—that is, a tyrant. Perhaps he is
driven out, but he soon comes back from exile; and then if his
enemies cannot get rid of him by lawful means, they plot his
assassination. Thereupon the friend of the people makes his
well-known request to them for a body-guard, which they read-
ily grant, thinking only of his danger and not of their own. Now
let the rich man make to himself wings, for he will never run
away again if he does not do so then. And the Great Protector,
having crushed all his rivals, stands proudly erect in the chari-
ot of State, a full-blown tyrant: Let us enquire into the nature
of his happiness.
In the early days of his tyranny he smiles and beams upon
everybody; he is not a 'dominus,' no, not he: he has only come
to put an end to debt and the monopoly of land. Having got rid
of foreign enemies, he makes himself necessary to the State by
always going to war. He is thus enabled to depress the poor by
heavy taxes, and so keep them at work; and he can get rid of
bolder spirits by handing them over to the enemy. Then comes
unpopularity; some of his old associates have the courage to
oppose him. The consequence is, that he has to make a purga-
tion of the State; but, unlike the physician who purges away
the bad, he must get rid of the high-spirited, the wise and the
wealthy; for he has no choice between death and a life of
shame and dishonour. And the more hated he is, the more he
will require trusty guards; but how will he obtain them? 'They
will come flocking like birds—for pay.' Will he not rather obtain
them on the spot? He will take the slaves from their owners
and make them his body-guard; these are his trusted friends,
who admire and look up to him. Are not the tragic poets wise
who magnify and exalt the tyrant, and say that he is wise by as-
sociation with the wise? And are not their praises of tyranny

125
alone a sufficient reason why we should exclude them from our
State? They may go to other cities, and gather the mob about
them with fine words, and change commonwealths into tyran-
nies and democracies, receiving honours and rewards for their
services; but the higher they and their friends ascend constitu-
tion hill, the more their honour will fail and become 'too asth-
matic to mount.' To return to the tyrant—How will he support
that rare army of his? First, by robbing the temples of their
treasures, which will enable him to lighten the taxes; then he
will take all his father's property, and spend it on his compan-
ions, male or female. Now his father is the demus, and if the
demus gets angry, and says that a great hulking son ought not
to be a burden on his parents, and bids him and his riotous
crew begone, then will the parent know what a monster he has
been nurturing, and that the son whom he would fain expel is
too strong for him. 'You do not mean to say that he will beat his
father?' Yes, he will, after having taken away his arms. 'Then
he is a parricide and a cruel, unnatural son.' And the people
have jumped from the fear of slavery into slavery, out of the
smoke into the fire. Thus liberty, when out of all order and
reason, passes into the worst form of servitude…
In the previous books Plato has described the ideal State;
now he returns to the perverted or declining forms, on which
he had lightly touched at the end of Book IV. These he de-
scribes in a succession of parallels between the individuals and
the States, tracing the origin of either in the State or individual
which has preceded them. He begins by asking the point at
which he digressed; and is thus led shortly to recapitulate the
substance of the three former books, which also contain a par-
allel of the philosopher and the State.
Of the first decline he gives no intelligible account; he would
not have liked to admit the most probable causes of the fall of
his ideal State, which to us would appear to be the impractic-
ability of communism or the natural antagonism of the ruling
and subject classes. He throws a veil of mystery over the origin
of the decline, which he attributes to ignorance of the law of
population. Of this law the famous geometrical figure or num-
ber is the expression. Like the ancients in general, he had no
idea of the gradual perfectibility of man or of the education of
the human race. His ideal was not to be attained in the course

126
of ages, but was to spring in full armour from the head of the
legislator. When good laws had been given, he thought only of
the manner in which they were likely to be corrupted, or of
how they might be filled up in detail or restored in accordance
with their original spirit. He appears not to have reflected upon
the full meaning of his own words, 'In the brief space of human
life, nothing great can be accomplished'; or again, as he after-
wards says in the Laws, 'Infinite time is the maker of cities.'
The order of constitutions which is adopted by him represents
an order of thought rather than a succession of time, and may
be considered as the first attempt to frame a philosophy of
history.
The first of these declining States is timocracy, or the gov-
ernment of soldiers and lovers of honour, which answers to the
Spartan State; this is a government of force, in which educa-
tion is not inspired by the Muses, but imposed by the law, and
in which all the finer elements of organization have disap-
peared. The philosopher himself has lost the love of truth, and
the soldier, who is of a simpler and honester nature, rules in
his stead. The individual who answers to timocracy has some
noticeable qualities. He is described as ill educated, but, like
the Spartan, a lover of literature; and although he is a harsh
master to his servants he has no natural superiority over them.
His character is based upon a reaction against the circum-
stances of his father, who in a troubled city has retired from
politics; and his mother, who is dissatisfied at her own position,
is always urging him towards the life of political ambition.
Such a character may have had this origin, and indeed Livy at-
tributes the Licinian laws to a feminine jealousy of a similar
kind. But there is obviously no connection between the manner
in which the timocratic State springs out of the ideal, and the
mere accident by which the timocratic man is the son of a re-
tired statesman.
The two next stages in the decline of constitutions have even
less historical foundation. For there is no trace in Greek history
of a polity like the Spartan or Cretan passing into an oligarchy
of wealth, or of the oligarchy of wealth passing into a demo-
cracy. The order of history appears to be different; first, in the
Homeric times there is the royal or patriarchal form of govern-
ment, which a century or two later was succeeded by an

127
oligarchy of birth rather than of wealth, and in which wealth
was only the accident of the hereditary possession of land and
power. Sometimes this oligarchical government gave way to a
government based upon a qualification of property, which, ac-
cording to Aristotle's mode of using words, would have been
called a timocracy; and this in some cities, as at Athens, be-
came the conducting medium to democracy. But such was not
the necessary order of succession in States; nor, indeed, can
any order be discerned in the endless fluctuation of Greek his-
tory (like the tides in the Euripus), except, perhaps, in the al-
most uniform tendency from monarchy to aristocracy in the
earliest times. At first sight there appears to be a similar inver-
sion in the last step of the Platonic succession; for tyranny, in-
stead of being the natural end of democracy, in early Greek
history appears rather as a stage leading to democracy; the
reign of Peisistratus and his sons is an episode which comes
between the legislation of Solon and the constitution of Cleis-
thenes; and some secret cause common to them all seems to
have led the greater part of Hellas at her first appearance in
the dawn of history, e.g. Athens, Argos, Corinth, Sicyon, and
nearly every State with the exception of Sparta, through a sim-
ilar stage of tyranny which ended either in oligarchy or demo-
cracy. But then we must remember that Plato is describing
rather the contemporary governments of the Sicilian States,
which alternated between democracy and tyranny, than the an-
cient history of Athens or Corinth.
The portrait of the tyrant himself is just such as the later
Greek delighted to draw of Phalaris and Dionysius, in which, as
in the lives of mediaeval saints or mythic heroes, the conduct
and actions of one were attributed to another in order to fill up
the outline. There was no enormity which the Greek was not
today to believe of them; the tyrant was the negation of gov-
ernment and law; his assassination was glorious; there was no
crime, however unnatural, which might not with probability be
attributed to him. In this, Plato was only following the common
thought of his countrymen, which he embellished and exagger-
ated with all the power of his genius. There is no need to sup-
pose that he drew from life; or that his knowledge of tyrants is
derived from a personal acquaintance with Dionysius. The
manner in which he speaks of them would rather tend to

128
render doubtful his ever having 'consorted' with them, or en-
tertained the schemes, which are attributed to him in the
Epistles, of regenerating Sicily by their help.
Plato in a hyperbolical and serio-comic vein exaggerates the
follies of democracy which he also sees reflected in social life.
To him democracy is a state of individualism or dissolution; in
which every one is doing what is right in his own eyes. Of a
people animated by a common spirit of liberty, rising as one
man to repel the Persian host, which is the leading idea of
democracy in Herodotus and Thucydides, he never seems to
think. But if he is not a believer in liberty, still less is he a lover
of tyranny. His deeper and more serious condemnation is re-
served for the tyrant, who is the ideal of wickedness and also
of weakness, and who in his utter helplessness and suspicious-
ness is leading an almost impossible existence, without that
remnant of good which, in Plato's opinion, was required to give
power to evil (Book I). This ideal of wickedness living in help-
less misery, is the reverse of that other portrait of perfect in-
justice ruling in happiness and splendour, which first of all
Thrasymachus, and afterwards the sons of Ariston had drawn,
and is also the reverse of the king whose rule of life is the good
of his subjects.
Each of these governments and individuals has a correspond-
ing ethical gradation: the ideal State is under the rule of reas-
on, not extinguishing but harmonizing the passions, and train-
ing them in virtue; in the timocracy and the timocratic man the
constitution, whether of the State or of the individual, is based,
first, upon courage, and secondly, upon the love of honour; this
latter virtue, which is hardly to be esteemed a virtue, has su-
perseded all the rest. In the second stage of decline the virtues
have altogether disappeared, and the love of gain has suc-
ceeded to them; in the third stage, or democracy, the various
passions are allowed to have free play, and the virtues and
vices are impartially cultivated. But this freedom, which leads
to many curious extravagances of character, is in reality only a
state of weakness and dissipation. At last, one monster passion
takes possession of the whole nature of man—this is tyranny.
In all of them excess—the excess first of wealth and then of
freedom, is the element of decay.

129
 The eighth book of the Republic abounds in pictures of life
and fanciful allusions; the use of metaphorical language is car-
ried to a greater extent than anywhere else in Plato. We may
remark,
(1), the description of the two nations in one, which become
more and more divided in the Greek Republics, as in feudal
times, and perhaps also in our own;
(2), the notion of democracy expressed in a sort of
Pythagorean formula as equality among unequals;
(3), the free and easy ways of men and animals, which are
characteristic of liberty, as foreign mercenaries and universal
mistrust are of the tyrant;
(4), the proposal that mere debts should not be recoverable
by law is a speculation which has often been entertained by re-
formers of the law in modern times, and is in harmony with the
tendencies of modern legislation. Debt and land were the two
great difficulties of the ancient lawgiver: in modern times we
may be said to have almost, if not quite, solved the first of
these difficulties, but hardly the second.
Still more remarkable are the corresponding portraits of indi-
viduals: there is the family picture of the father and mother
and the old servant of the timocratical man, and the outward
respectability and inherent meanness of the oligarchical; the
uncontrolled licence and freedom of the democrat, in which the
young Alcibiades seems to be depicted, doing right or wrong as
he pleases, and who at last, like the prodigal, goes into a far
country (note here the play of language by which the demo-
cratic man is himself represented under the image of a State
having a citadel and receiving embassies); and there is the
wild-beast nature, which breaks loose in his successor. The hit
about the tyrant being a parricide; the representation of the
tyrant's life as an obscene dream; the rhetorical surprise of a
more miserable than the most miserable of men in Book IX; the
hint to the poets that if they are the friends of tyrants there is
no place for them in a constitutional State, and that they are
too clever not to see the propriety of their own expulsion; the
continuous image of the drones who are of two kinds, swelling
at last into the monster drone having wings (Book IX),—are
among Plato's happiest touches.

130
 There remains to be considered the great difficulty of this
book of the Republic, the so-called number of the State. This is
a puzzle almost as great as the Number of the Beast in the
Book of Revelation, and though apparently known to Aristotle,
is referred to by Cicero as a proverb of obscurity (Ep. ad Att.).
And some have imagined that there is no answer to the puzzle,
and that Plato has been practising upon his readers. But such a
deception as this is inconsistent with the manner in which Aris-
totle speaks of the number (Pol.), and would have been ridicu-
lous to any reader of the Republic who was acquainted with
Greek mathematics. As little reason is there for supposing that
Plato intentionally used obscure expressions; the obscurity
arises from our want of familiarity with the subject. On the oth-
er hand, Plato himself indicates that he is not altogether seri-
ous, and in describing his number as a solemn jest of the
Muses, he appears to imply some degree of satire on the sym-
bolical use of number. (Compare Cratylus; Protag.)
Our hope of understanding the passage depends principally
on an accurate study of the words themselves; on which a faint
light is thrown by the parallel passage in the ninth book.
Another help is the allusion in Aristotle, who makes the import-
ant remark that the latter part of the passage (Greek) de-
scribes a solid figure. (Pol.—'He only says that nothing is abid-
ing, but that all things change in a certain cycle; and that the
origin of the change is a base of numbers which are in the ratio
of 4:3; and this when combined with a figure of five gives two
harmonies; he means when the number of this figure becomes
solid.') Some further clue may be gathered from the appear-
ance of the Pythagorean triangle, which is denoted by the num-
bers 3, 4, 5, and in which, as in every right-angled triangle, the
squares of the two lesser sides equal the square of the hypo-
tenuse (9 + 16 = 25).
Plato begins by speaking of a perfect or cyclical number
(Tim.), i.e. a number in which the sum of the divisors equals
the whole; this is the divine or perfect number in which all less-
er cycles or revolutions are complete. He also speaks of a hu-
man or imperfect number, having four terms and three inter-
vals of numbers which are related to one another in certain
proportions; these he converts into figures, and finds in them
when they have been raised to the third power certain

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elements of number, which give two 'harmonies,' the one
square, the other oblong; but he does not say that the square
number answers to the divine, or the oblong number to the hu-
man cycle; nor is any intimation given that the first or divine
number represents the period of the world, the second the
period of the state, or of the human race as Zeller supposes;
nor is the divine number afterwards mentioned (Arist.). The
second is the number of generations or births, and presides
over them in the same mysterious manner in which the stars
preside over them, or in which, according to the Pythagoreans,
opportunity, justice, marriage, are represented by some num-
ber or figure. This is probably the number 216.
The explanation given in the text supposes the two harmon-
ies to make up the number 8000. This explanation derives a
certain plausibility from the circumstance that 8000 is the an-
cient number of the Spartan citizens (Herod.), and would be
what Plato might have called 'a number which nearly concerns
the population of a city'; the mysterious disappearance of the
Spartan population may possibly have suggested to him the
first cause of his decline of States. The lesser or square 'har-
mony,' of 400, might be a symbol of the guardians,—the larger
or oblong 'harmony,' of the people, and the numbers 3, 4, 5
might refer respectively to the three orders in the State or
parts of the soul, the four virtues, the five forms of govern-
ment. The harmony of the musical scale, which is elsewhere
used as a symbol of the harmony of the state, is also indicated.
For the numbers 3, 4, 5, which represent the sides of the
Pythagorean triangle, also denote the intervals of the scale.
The terms used in the statement of the problem may be ex-
plained as follows. A perfect number (Greek), as already
stated, is one which is equal to the sum of its divisors. Thus 6,
which is the first perfect or cyclical number, = 1 + 2 + 3. The
words (Greek), 'terms' or 'notes,' and (Greek), 'intervals,' are
applicable to music as well as to number and figure. (Greek) is
the 'base' on which the whole calculation depends, or the 'low-
est term' from which it can be worked out. The words (Greek)
have been variously translated—'squared and cubed' (Donald-
son), 'equalling and equalled in power' (Weber), 'by involution
and evolution,' i.e. by raising the power and extracting the root
(as in the translation). Numbers are called 'like and unlike'

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(Greek) when the factors or the sides of the planes and cubes
which they represent are or are not in the same ratio: e.g. 8
and 27 = 2 cubed and 3 cubed; and conversely. 'Waxing'
(Greek) numbers, called also 'increasing' (Greek), are those
which are exceeded by the sum of their divisors: e.g. 12 and 18
are less than 16 and 21. 'Waning' (Greek) numbers, called also
'decreasing' (Greek) are those which succeed the sum of their
divisors: e.g. 8 and 27 exceed 7 and 13. The words translated
'commensurable and agreeable to one another' (Greek) seem to
be different ways of describing the same relation, with more or
less precision. They are equivalent to 'expressible in terms hav-
ing the same relation to one another,' like the series 8, 12, 18,
27, each of which numbers is in the relation of (1 and 1/2) to
the preceding. The 'base,' or 'fundamental number, which has
1/3 added to it' (1 and 1/3) = 4/3 or a musical fourth. (Greek) is
a 'proportion' of numbers as of musical notes, applied either to
the parts or factors of a single number or to the relation of one
number to another. The first harmony is a 'square' number
(Greek); the second harmony is an 'oblong' number (Greek),
i.e. a number representing a figure of which the opposite sides
only are equal. (Greek) = 'numbers squared from' or 'upon dia-
meters'; (Greek) = 'rational,' i.e. omitting fractions, (Greek), 'ir-
rational,' i.e. including fractions; e.g. 49 is a square of the ra-
tional diameter of a figure the side of which = 5: 50, of an irra-
tional diameter of the same. For several of the explanations
here given and for a good deal besides I am indebted to an ex-
cellent article on the Platonic Number by Dr. Donaldson (Proc.
of the Philol. Society).
The conclusions which he draws from these data are summed
up by him as follows. Having assumed that the number of the
perfect or divine cycle is the number of the world, and the
number of the imperfect cycle the number of the state, he pro-
ceeds: 'The period of the world is defined by the perfect num-
ber 6, that of the state by the cube of that number or 216,
which is the product of the last pair of terms in the Platonic
Tetractys (a series of seven terms, 1, 2, 3, 4, 9, 8, 27); and if
we take this as the basis of our computation, we shall have two
cube numbers (Greek), viz. 8 and 27; and the mean proportion-
als between these, viz. 12 and 18, will furnish three intervals
and four terms, and these terms and intervals stand related to

133
one another in the sesqui-altera ratio, i.e. each term is to the
preceding as 3/2. Now if we remember that the number 216 =
8 x 27 = 3 cubed + 4 cubed + 5 cubed, and 3 squared + 4
squared = 5 squared, we must admit that this number implies
the numbers 3, 4, 5, to which musicians attach so much import-
ance. And if we combine the ratio 4/3 with the number 5, or
multiply the ratios of the sides by the hypotenuse, we shall by
first squaring and then cubing obtain two expressions, which
denote the ratio of the two last pairs of terms in the Platonic
Tetractys, the former multiplied by the square, the latter by
the cube of the number 10, the sum of the first four digits
which constitute the Platonic Tetractys.' The two (Greek) he
elsewhere explains as follows: 'The first (Greek) is (Greek), in
other words (4/3 x 5) all squared = 100 x 2 squared over 3
squared. The second (Greek), a cube of the same root, is de-
scribed as 100 multiplied (alpha) by the rational diameter of 5
diminished by unity, i.e., as shown above, 48: (beta) by two in-
commensurable diameters, i.e. the two first irrationals, or 2
and 3: and (gamma) by the cube of 3, or 27. Thus we have (48
+ 5 + 27) 100 = 1000 x 2 cubed. This second harmony is to be
the cube of the number of which the former harmony is the
square, and therefore must be divided by the cube of 3. In oth-
er words, the whole expression will be: (1), for the first har-
mony, 400/9: (2), for the second harmony, 8000/27.'
The reasons which have inclined me to agree with Dr. Don-
aldson and also with Schleiermacher in supposing that 216 is
the Platonic number of births are: (1) that it coincides with the
description of the number given in the first part of the passage
(Greek… ): (2) that the number 216 with its permutations
would have been familiar to a Greek mathematician, though
unfamiliar to us: (3) that 216 is the cube of 6, and also the sum
of 3 cubed, 4 cubed, 5 cubed, the numbers 3, 4, 5 representing
the Pythagorean triangle, of which the sides when squared
equal the square of the hypotenuse (9 + 16 = 25): (4) that it is
also the period of the Pythagorean Metempsychosis: (5) the
three ultimate terms or bases (3, 4, 5) of which 216 is com-
posed answer to the third, fourth, fifth in the musical scale: (6)
that the number 216 is the product of the cubes of 2 and 3,
which are the two last terms in the Platonic Tetractys: (7) that
the Pythagorean triangle is said by Plutarch (de Is. et Osir.),

134
Proclus (super prima Eucl.), and Quintilian (de Musica) to be
contained in this passage, so that the tradition of the school
seems to point in the same direction: (8) that the Pythagorean
triangle is called also the figure of marriage (Greek).
But though agreeing with Dr. Donaldson thus far, I see no
reason for supposing, as he does, that the first or perfect num-
ber is the world, the human or imperfect number the state; nor
has he given any proof that the second harmony is a cube. Nor
do I think that (Greek) can mean 'two incommensurables,'
which he arbitrarily assumes to be 2 and 3, but rather, as the
preceding clause implies, (Greek), i.e. two square numbers
based upon irrational diameters of a figure the side of which is
5 = 50 x 2.
The greatest objection to the translation is the sense given to
the words (Greek), 'a base of three with a third added to it,
multiplied by 5.' In this somewhat forced manner Plato intro-
duces once more the numbers of the Pythagorean triangle. But
the coincidences in the numbers which follow are in favour of
the explanation. The first harmony of 400, as has been already
remarked, probably represents the rulers; the second and ob-
long harmony of 7600, the people.
And here we take leave of the difficulty. The discovery of the
riddle would be useless, and would throw no light on ancient
mathematics. The point of interest is that Plato should have
used such a symbol, and that so much of the Pythagorean spirit
should have prevailed in him. His general meaning is that di-
vine creation is perfect, and is represented or presided over by
a perfect or cyclical number; human generation is imperfect,
and represented or presided over by an imperfect number or
series of numbers. The number 5040, which is the number of
the citizens in the Laws, is expressly based by him on utilitari-
an grounds, namely, the convenience of the number for divi-
sion; it is also made up of the first seven digits multiplied by
one another. The contrast of the perfect and imperfect number
may have been easily suggested by the corrections of the cycle,
which were made first by Meton and secondly by Callippus;
(the latter is said to have been a pupil of Plato). Of the degree
of importance or of exactness to be attributed to the problem,
the number of the tyrant in Book IX (729 = 365 x 2), and the
slight correction of the error in the number 5040/12 (Laws),

135
may furnish a criterion. There is nothing surprising in the cir-
cumstance that those who were seeking for order in nature
and had found order in number, should have imagined one to
give law to the other. Plato believes in a power of number far
beyond what he could see realized in the world around him,
and he knows the great influence which 'the little matter of 1,
2, 3' exercises upon education. He may even be thought to
have a prophetic anticipation of the discoveries of Quetelet and
others, that numbers depend upon numbers; e.g.—in popula-
tion, the numbers of births and the respective numbers of chil-
dren born of either sex, on the respective ages of parents, i.e.
on other numbers.
BOOK IX. Last of all comes the tyrannical man, about whom
we have to enquire, Whence is he, and how does he live—in
happiness or in misery? There is, however, a previous question
of the nature and number of the appetites, which I should like
to consider first. Some of them are unlawful, and yet admit of
being chastened and weakened in various degrees by the
power of reason and law. 'What appetites do you mean?' I
mean those which are awake when the reasoning powers are
asleep, which get up and walk about naked without any self-re-
spect or shame; and there is no conceivable folly or crime,
however cruel or unnatural, of which, in imagination, they may
not be guilty. 'True,' he said; 'very true.' But when a man's
pulse beats temperately; and he has supped on a feast of reas-
on and come to a knowledge of himself before going to rest,
and has satisfied his desires just enough to prevent their per-
turbing his reason, which remains clear and luminous, and
when he is free from quarrel and heat,—the visions which he
has on his bed are least irregular and abnormal. Even in good
men there is such an irregular wild-beast nature, which peers
out in sleep.
To return:—You remember what was said of the democrat;
that he was the son of a miserly father, who encouraged the
saving desires and repressed the ornamental and expensive
ones; presently the youth got into fine company, and began to
entertain a dislike to his father's narrow ways; and being a bet-
ter man than the corrupters of his youth, he came to a mean,
and led a life, not of lawless or slavish passion, but of regular
and successive indulgence. Now imagine that the youth has

136
become a father, and has a son who is exposed to the same
temptations, and has companions who lead him into every sort
of iniquity, and parents and friends who try to keep him right.
The counsellors of evil find that their only chance of retaining
him is to implant in his soul a monster drone, or love; while
other desires buzz around him and mystify him with sweet
sounds and scents, this monster love takes possession of him,
and puts an end to every true or modest thought or wish. Love,
like drunkenness and madness, is a tyranny; and the tyrannical
man, whether made by nature or habit, is just a drinking, lust-
ing, furious sort of animal.
And how does such an one live? 'Nay, that you must tell me.'
Well then, I fancy that he will live amid revelries and harlo-
tries, and love will be the lord and master of the house. Many
desires require much money, and so he spends all that he has
and borrows more; and when he has nothing the young ravens
are still in the nest in which they were hatched, crying for
food. Love urges them on; and they must be gratified by force
or fraud, or if not, they become painful and troublesome; and
as the new pleasures succeed the old ones, so will the son take
possession of the goods of his parents; if they show signs of re-
fusing, he will defraud and deceive them; and if they openly
resist, what then? 'I can only say, that I should not much like to
be in their place.' But, O heavens, Adeimantus, to think that for
some new-fangled and unnecessary love he will give up his old
father and mother, best and dearest of friends, or enslave them
to the fancies of the hour! Truly a tyrannical son is a blessing
to his father and mother! When there is no more to be got out
of them, he turns burglar or pickpocket, or robs a temple. Love
overmasters the thoughts of his youth, and he becomes in
sober reality the monster that he was sometimes in sleep. He
waxes strong in all violence and lawlessness; and is ready for
any deed of daring that will supply the wants of his rabble-rout.
In a well-ordered State there are only a few such, and these in
time of war go out and become the mercenaries of a tyrant. But
in time of peace they stay at home and do mischief; they are
the thieves, footpads, cut-purses, man-stealers of the com-
munity; or if they are able to speak, they turn false-witnesses
and informers. 'No small catalogue of crimes truly, even if the
perpetrators are few.' Yes, I said; but small and great are

137
relative terms, and no crimes which are committed by them ap-
proach those of the tyrant, whom this class, growing strong
and numerous, create out of themselves. If the people yield,
well and good, but, if they resist, then, as before he beat his
father and mother, so now he beats his fatherland and mother-
land, and places his mercenaries over them. Such men in their
early days live with flatterers, and they themselves flatter oth-
ers, in order to gain their ends; but they soon discard their fol-
lowers when they have no longer any need of them; they are al-
ways either masters or servants,—the joys of friendship are un-
known to them. And they are utterly treacherous and unjust, if
the nature of justice be at all understood by us. They realize
our dream; and he who is the most of a tyrant by nature, and
leads the life of a tyrant for the longest time, will be the worst
of them, and being the worst of them, will also be the most
miserable.
Like man, like State,—the tyrannical man will answer to
tyranny, which is the extreme opposite of the royal State; for
one is the best and the other the worst. But which is the happi-
er? Great and terrible as the tyrant may appear enthroned
amid his satellites, let us not be afraid to go in and ask; and the
answer is, that the monarchical is the happiest, and the tyran-
nical the most miserable of States. And may we not ask the
same question about the men themselves, requesting some one
to look into them who is able to penetrate the inner nature of
man, and will not be panic-struck by the vain pomp of tyranny?
I will suppose that he is one who has lived with him, and has
seen him in family life, or perhaps in the hour of trouble and
danger.
Assuming that we ourselves are the impartial judge for whom
we seek, let us begin by comparing the individual and State,
and ask first of all, whether the State is likely to be free or en-
slaved—Will there not be a little freedom and a great deal of
slavery? And the freedom is of the bad, and the slavery of the
good; and this applies to the man as well as to the State; for his
soul is full of meanness and slavery, and the better part is en-
slaved to the worse. He cannot do what he would, and his mind
is full of confusion; he is the very reverse of a freeman. The
State will be poor and full of misery and sorrow; and the man's
soul will also be poor and full of sorrows, and he will be the

138
most miserable of men. No, not the most miserable, for there is
yet a more miserable. 'Who is that?' The tyrannical man who
has the misfortune also to become a public tyrant. 'There I sus-
pect that you are right.' Say rather, 'I am sure;' conjecture is
out of place in an enquiry of this nature. He is like a wealthy
owner of slaves, only he has more of them than any private in-
dividual. You will say, 'The owners of slaves are not generally
in any fear of them.' But why? Because the whole city is in a
league which protects the individual. Suppose however that
one of these owners and his household is carried off by a god
into a wilderness, where there are no freemen to help
him—will he not be in an agony of terror?—will he not be com-
pelled to flatter his slaves and to promise them many things
sore against his will? And suppose the same god who carried
him off were to surround him with neighbours who declare that
no man ought to have slaves, and that the owners of them
should be punished with death. 'Still worse and worse! He will
be in the midst of his enemies.' And is not our tyrant such a
captive soul, who is tormented by a swarm of passions which
he cannot indulge; living indoors always like a woman, and
jealous of those who can go out and see the world?
Having so many evils, will not the most miserable of men be
still more miserable in a public station? Master of others when
he is not master of himself; like a sick man who is compelled to
be an athlete; the meanest of slaves and the most abject of flat-
terers; wanting all things, and never able to satisfy his desires;
always in fear and distraction, like the State of which he is the
representative. His jealous, hateful, faithless temper grows
worse with command; he is more and more faithless, envious,
unrighteous,—the most wretched of men, a misery to himself
and to others. And so let us have a final trial and proclamation;
need we hire a herald, or shall I proclaim the result? 'Made the
proclamation yourself.' The son of Ariston (the best) is of opin-
ion that the best and justest of men is also the happiest, and
that this is he who is the most royal master of himself; and that
the unjust man is he who is the greatest tyrant of himself and
of his State. And I add further—'seen or unseen by gods or
men.'
This is our first proof. The second is derived from the three
kinds of pleasure, which answer to the three elements of the

139
soul—reason, passion, desire; under which last is comprehen-
ded avarice as well as sensual appetite, while passion includes
ambition, party-feeling, love of reputation. Reason, again, is
solely directed to the attainment of truth, and careless of
money and reputation. In accordance with the difference of
men's natures, one of these three principles is in the ascend-
ant, and they have their several pleasures corresponding to
them. Interrogate now the three natures, and each one will be
found praising his own pleasures and depreciating those of oth-
ers. The money-maker will contrast the vanity of knowledge
with the solid advantages of wealth. The ambitious man will
despise knowledge which brings no honour; whereas the philo-
sopher will regard only the fruition of truth, and will call other
pleasures necessary rather than good. Now, how shall we de-
cide between them? Is there any better criterion than experi-
ence and knowledge? And which of the three has the truest
knowledge and the widest experience? The experience of youth
makes the philosopher acquainted with the two kinds of desire,
but the avaricious and the ambitious man never taste the
pleasures of truth and wisdom. Honour he has equally with
them; they are 'judged of him,' but he is 'not judged of them,'
for they never attain to the knowledge of true being. And his
instrument is reason, whereas their standard is only wealth
and honour; and if by reason we are to judge, his good will be
the truest. And so we arrive at the result that the pleasure of
the rational part of the soul, and a life passed in such pleasure
is the pleasantest. He who has a right to judge judges thus.
Next comes the life of ambition, and, in the third place, that of
money-making.
Twice has the just man overthrown the unjust—once more,
as in an Olympian contest, first offering up a prayer to the sa-
viour Zeus, let him try a fall. A wise man whispers to me that
the pleasures of the wise are true and pure; all others are a
shadow only. Let us examine this: Is not pleasure opposed to
pain, and is there not a mean state which is neither? When a
man is sick, nothing is more pleasant to him than health. But
this he never found out while he was well. In pain he desires
only to cease from pain; on the other hand, when he is in an ec-
stasy of pleasure, rest is painful to him. Thus rest or cessation
is both pleasure and pain. But can that which is neither

140
become both? Again, pleasure and pain are motions, and the
absence of them is rest; but if so, how can the absence of
either of them be the other? Thus we are led to infer that the
contradiction is an appearance only, and witchery of the
senses. And these are not the only pleasures, for there are oth-
ers which have no preceding pains. Pure pleasure then is not
the absence of pain, nor pure pain the absence of pleasure; al-
though most of the pleasures which reach the mind through
the body are reliefs of pain, and have not only their reactions
when they depart, but their anticipations before they come.
They can be best described in a simile. There is in nature an
upper, lower, and middle region, and he who passes from the
lower to the middle imagines that he is going up and is already
in the upper world; and if he were taken back again would
think, and truly think, that he was descending. All this arises
out of his ignorance of the true upper, middle, and lower re-
gions. And a like confusion happens with pleasure and pain,
and with many other things. The man who compares grey with
black, calls grey white; and the man who compares absence of
pain with pain, calls the absence of pain pleasure. Again, hun-
ger and thirst are inanitions of the body, ignorance and folly of
the soul; and food is the satisfaction of the one, knowledge of
the other. Now which is the purer satisfaction—that of eating
and drinking, or that of knowledge? Consider the matter thus:
The satisfaction of that which has more existence is truer than
of that which has less. The invariable and immortal has a more
real existence than the variable and mortal, and has a corres-
ponding measure of knowledge and truth. The soul, again, has
more existence and truth and knowledge than the body, and is
therefore more really satisfied and has a more natural pleas-
ure. Those who feast only on earthly food, are always going at
random up to the middle and down again; but they never pass
into the true upper world, or have a taste of true pleasure.
They are like fatted beasts, full of gluttony and sensuality, and
ready to kill one another by reason of their insatiable lust; for
they are not filled with true being, and their vessel is leaky
(Gorgias). Their pleasures are mere shadows of pleasure,
mixed with pain, coloured and intensified by contrast, and
therefore intensely desired; and men go fighting about them,

141
as Stesichorus says that the Greeks fought about the shadow of
Helen at Troy, because they know not the truth.
The same may be said of the passionate element:—the de-
sires of the ambitious soul, as well as of the covetous, have an
inferior satisfaction. Only when under the guidance of reason
do either of the other principles do their own business or attain
the pleasure which is natural to them. When not attaining, they
compel the other parts of the soul to pursue a shadow of pleas-
ure which is not theirs. And the more distant they are from
philosophy and reason, the more distant they will be from law
and order, and the more illusive will be their pleasures. The de-
sires of love and tyranny are the farthest from law, and those
of the king are nearest to it. There is one genuine pleasure,
and two spurious ones: the tyrant goes beyond even the latter;
he has run away altogether from law and reason. Nor can the
measure of his inferiority be told, except in a figure. The tyrant
is the third removed from the oligarch, and has therefore, not a
shadow of his pleasure, but the shadow of a shadow only. The
oligarch, again, is thrice removed from the king, and thus we
get the formula 3 x 3, which is the number of a surface, repres-
enting the shadow which is the tyrant's pleasure, and if you
like to cube this 'number of the beast,' you will find that the
measure of the difference amounts to 729; the king is 729
times more happy than the tyrant. And this extraordinary num-
ber is NEARLY equal to the number of days and nights in a
year (365 x 2 = 730); and is therefore concerned with human
life. This is the interval between a good and bad man in happi-
ness only: what must be the difference between them in come-
liness of life and virtue!
Perhaps you may remember some one saying at the begin-
ning of our discussion that the unjust man was profited if he
had the reputation of justice. Now that we know the nature of
justice and injustice, let us make an image of the soul, which
will personify his words. First of all, fashion a multitudinous
beast, having a ring of heads of all manner of animals, tame
and wild, and able to produce and change them at pleasure.
Suppose now another form of a lion, and another of a man; the
second smaller than the first, the third than the second; join
them together and cover them with a human skin, in which
they are completely concealed. When this has been done, let us

142
tell the supporter of injustice that he is feeding up the beasts
and starving the man. The maintainer of justice, on the other
hand, is trying to strengthen the man; he is nourishing the
gentle principle within him, and making an alliance with the li-
on heart, in order that he may be able to keep down the many-
headed hydra, and bring all into unity with each other and with
themselves. Thus in every point of view, whether in relation to
pleasure, honour, or advantage, the just man is right, and the
unjust wrong.
But now, let us reason with the unjust, who is not intention-
ally in error. Is not the noble that which subjects the beast to
the man, or rather to the God in man; the ignoble, that which
subjects the man to the beast? And if so, who would receive
gold on condition that he was to degrade the noblest part of
himself under the worst?—who would sell his son or daughter
into the hands of brutal and evil men, for any amount of
money? And will he sell his own fairer and diviner part without
any compunction to the most godless and foul? Would he not
be worse than Eriphyle, who sold her husband's life for a neck-
lace? And intemperance is the letting loose of the multiform
monster, and pride and sullenness are the growth and increase
of the lion and serpent element, while luxury and effeminacy
are caused by a too great relaxation of spirit. Flattery and
meanness again arise when the spirited element is subjected to
avarice, and the lion is habituated to become a monkey. The
real disgrace of handicraft arts is, that those who are engaged
in them have to flatter, instead of mastering their desires;
therefore we say that they should be placed under the control
of the better principle in another because they have none in
themselves; not, as Thrasymachus imagined, to the injury of
the subjects, but for their good. And our intention in educating
the young, is to give them self-control; the law desires to nurse
up in them a higher principle, and when they have acquired
this, they may go their ways.
'What, then, shall a man profit, if he gain the whole world'
and become more and more wicked? Or what shall he profit by
escaping discovery, if the concealment of evil prevents the
cure? If he had been punished, the brute within him would
have been silenced, and the gentler element liberated; and he
would have united temperance, justice, and wisdom in his

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soul—a union better far than any combination of bodily gifts.
The man of understanding will honour knowledge above all; in
the next place he will keep under his body, not only for the
sake of health and strength, but in order to attain the most per-
fect harmony of body and soul. In the acquisition of riches, too,
he will aim at order and harmony; he will not desire to heap up
wealth without measure, but he will fear that the increase of
wealth will disturb the constitution of his own soul. For the
same reason he will only accept such honours as will make him
a better man; any others he will decline. 'In that case,' said he,
'he will never be a politician.' Yes, but he will, in his own city;
though probably not in his native country, unless by some di-
vine accident. 'You mean that he will be a citizen of the ideal
city, which has no place upon earth.' But in heaven, I replied,
there is a pattern of such a city, and he who wishes may order
his life after that image. Whether such a state is or ever will be
matters not; he will act according to that pattern and no
other…
The most noticeable points in the 9th Book of the Republic
are:—(1) the account of pleasure; (2) the number of the inter-
val which divides the king from the tyrant; (3) the pattern
which is in heaven.
1. Plato's account of pleasure is remarkable for moderation,
and in this respect contrasts with the later Platonists and the
views which are attributed to them by Aristotle. He is not, like
the Cynics, opposed to all pleasure, but rather desires that the
several parts of the soul shall have their natural satisfaction;
he even agrees with the Epicureans in describing pleasure as
something more than the absence of pain. This is proved by the
circumstance that there are pleasures which have no ante-
cedent pains (as he also remarks in the Philebus), such as the
pleasures of smell, and also the pleasures of hope and anticipa-
tion. In the previous book he had made the distinction between
necessary and unnecessary pleasure, which is repeated by
Aristotle, and he now observes that there are a further class of
'wild beast' pleasures, corresponding to Aristotle's (Greek). He
dwells upon the relative and unreal character of sensual pleas-
ures and the illusion which arises out of the contrast of pleas-
ure and pain, pointing out the superiority of the pleasures of
reason, which are at rest, over the fleeting pleasures of sense

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and emotion. The pre-eminence of royal pleasure is shown by
the fact that reason is able to form a judgment of the lower
pleasures, while the two lower parts of the soul are incapable
of judging the pleasures of reason. Thus, in his treatment of
pleasure, as in many other subjects, the philosophy of Plato is
'sawn up into quantities' by Aristotle; the analysis which was
originally made by him became in the next generation the
foundation of further technical distinctions. Both in Plato and
Aristotle we note the illusion under which the ancients fell of
regarding the transience of pleasure as a proof of its unreality,
and of confounding the permanence of the intellectual pleas-
ures with the unchangeableness of the knowledge from which
they are derived. Neither do we like to admit that the pleas-
ures of knowledge, though more elevating, are not more last-
ing than other pleasures, and are almost equally dependent on
the accidents of our bodily state (Introduction to Philebus).
2. The number of the interval which separates the king from
the tyrant, and royal from tyrannical pleasures, is 729, the
cube of 9. Which Plato characteristically designates as a num-
ber concerned with human life, because NEARLY equivalent to
the number of days and nights in the year. He is desirous of
proclaiming that the interval between them is immeasurable,
and invents a formula to give expression to his idea. Those who
spoke of justice as a cube, of virtue as an art of measuring
(Prot.), saw no inappropriateness in conceiving the soul under
the figure of a line, or the pleasure of the tyrant as separated
from the pleasure of the king by the numerical interval of 729.
And in modern times we sometimes use metaphorically what
Plato employed as a philosophical formula. 'It is not easy to es-
timate the loss of the tyrant, except perhaps in this way,' says
Plato. So we might say, that although the life of a good man is
not to be compared to that of a bad man, yet you may measure
the difference between them by valuing one minute of the one
at an hour of the other ('One day in thy courts is better than a
thousand'), or you might say that 'there is an infinite differ-
ence.' But this is not so much as saying, in homely phrase,
'They are a thousand miles asunder.' And accordingly Plato
finds the natural vehicle of his thoughts in a progression of
numbers; this arithmetical formula he draws out with the ut-
most seriousness, and both here and in the number of

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generation seems to find an additional proof of the truth of his
speculation in forming the number into a geometrical figure;
just as persons in our own day are apt to fancy that a state-
ment is verified when it has been only thrown into an abstract
form. In speaking of the number 729 as proper to human life,
he probably intended to intimate that one year of the tyrannic-
al = 12 hours of the royal life.
The simple observation that the comparison of two similar
solids is effected by the comparison of the cubes of their sides,
is the mathematical groundwork of this fanciful expression.
There is some difficulty in explaining the steps by which the
number 729 is obtained; the oligarch is removed in the third
degree from the royal and aristocratical, and the tyrant in the
third degree from the oligarchical; but we have to arrange the
terms as the sides of a square and to count the oligarch twice
over, thus reckoning them not as = 5 but as = 9. The square of
9 is passed lightly over as only a step towards the cube.
3. Towards the close of the Republic, Plato seems to be more
and more convinced of the ideal character of his own specula-
tions. At the end of the 9th Book the pattern which is in heaven
takes the place of the city of philosophers on earth. The vision
which has received form and substance at his hands, is now
discovered to be at a distance. And yet this distant kingdom is
also the rule of man's life. ('Say not lo! here, or lo! there, for
the kingdom of God is within you.') Thus a note is struck which
prepares for the revelation of a future life in the following
Book. But the future life is present still; the ideal of politics is
to be realized in the individual.
BOOK X. Many things pleased me in the order of our State,
but there was nothing which I liked better than the regulation
about poetry. The division of the soul throws a new light on our
exclusion of imitation. I do not mind telling you in confidence
that all poetry is an outrage on the understanding, unless the
hearers have that balm of knowledge which heals error. I have
loved Homer ever since I was a boy, and even now he appears
to me to be the great master of tragic poetry. But much as I
love the man, I love truth more, and therefore I must speak
out: and first of all, will you explain what is imitation, for really
I do not understand? 'How likely then that I should under-
stand!' That might very well be, for the duller often sees better

146
than the keener eye. 'True, but in your presence I can hardly
venture to say what I think.' Then suppose that we begin in our
old fashion, with the doctrine of universals. Let us assume the
existence of beds and tables. There is one idea of a bed, or of a
table, which the maker of each had in his mind when making
them; he did not make the ideas of beds and tables, but he
made beds and tables according to the ideas. And is there not a
maker of the works of all workmen, who makes not only vessels
but plants and animals, himself, the earth and heaven, and
things in heaven and under the earth? He makes the Gods also.
'He must be a wizard indeed!' But do you not see that there is
a sense in which you could do the same? You have only to take
a mirror, and catch the reflection of the sun, and the earth, or
anything else—there now you have made them. 'Yes, but only
in appearance.' Exactly so; and the painter is such a creator as
you are with the mirror, and he is even more unreal than the
carpenter; although neither the carpenter nor any other artist
can be supposed to make the absolute bed. 'Not if philosophers
may be believed.' Nor need we wonder that his bed has but an
imperfect relation to the truth. Reflect:—Here are three beds;
one in nature, which is made by God; another, which is made
by the carpenter; and the third, by the painter. God only made
one, nor could he have made more than one; for if there had
been two, there would always have been a third—more abso-
lute and abstract than either, under which they would have
been included. We may therefore conceive God to be the natur-
al maker of the bed, and in a lower sense the carpenter is also
the maker; but the painter is rather the imitator of what the
other two make; he has to do with a creation which is thrice re-
moved from reality. And the tragic poet is an imitator, and, like
every other imitator, is thrice removed from the king and from
the truth. The painter imitates not the original bed, but the bed
made by the carpenter. And this, without being really different,
appears to be different, and has many points of view, of which
only one is caught by the painter, who represents everything
because he represents a piece of everything, and that piece an
image. And he can paint any other artist, although he knows
nothing of their arts; and this with sufficient skill to deceive
children or simple people. Suppose now that somebody came
to us and told us, how he had met a man who knew all that

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everybody knows, and better than anybody:—should we not in-
fer him to be a simpleton who, having no discernment of truth
and falsehood, had met with a wizard or enchanter, whom he
fancied to be all-wise? And when we hear persons saying that
Homer and the tragedians know all the arts and all the virtues,
must we not infer that they are under a similar delusion? they
do not see that the poets are imitators, and that their creations
are only imitations. 'Very true.' But if a person could create as
well as imitate, he would rather leave some permanent work
and not an imitation only; he would rather be the receiver than
the giver of praise? 'Yes, for then he would have more honour
and advantage.'
Let us now interrogate Homer and the poets. Friend Homer,
say I to him, I am not going to ask you about medicine, or any
art to which your poems incidentally refer, but about their
main subjects—war, military tactics, politics. If you are only
twice and not thrice removed from the truth—not an imitator
or an image-maker, please to inform us what good you have
ever done to mankind? Is there any city which professes to
have received laws from you, as Sicily and Italy have from
Charondas, Sparta from Lycurgus, Athens from Solon? Or was
any war ever carried on by your counsels? or is any invention
attributed to you, as there is to Thales and Anacharsis? Or is
there any Homeric way of life, such as the Pythagorean was, in
which you instructed men, and which is called after you? 'No,
indeed; and Creophylus (Flesh-child) was even more unfortu-
nate in his breeding than he was in his name, if, as tradition
says, Homer in his lifetime was allowed by him and his other
friends to starve.' Yes, but could this ever have happened if
Homer had really been the educator of Hellas? Would he not
have had many devoted followers? If Protagoras and Prodicus
can persuade their contemporaries that no one can manage
house or State without them, is it likely that Homer and Hesiod
would have been allowed to go about as beggars—I mean if
they had really been able to do the world any good?—would not
men have compelled them to stay where they were, or have fol-
lowed them about in order to get education? But they did not;
and therefore we may infer that Homer and all the poets are
only imitators, who do but imitate the appearances of things.
For as a painter by a knowledge of figure and colour can paint

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a cobbler without any practice in cobbling, so the poet can de-
lineate any art in the colours of language, and give harmony
and rhythm to the cobbler and also to the general; and you
know how mere narration, when deprived of the ornaments of
metre, is like a face which has lost the beauty of youth and nev-
er had any other. Once more, the imitator has no knowledge of
reality, but only of appearance. The painter paints, and the ar-
tificer makes a bridle and reins, but neither understands the
use of them—the knowledge of this is confined to the horse-
man; and so of other things. Thus we have three arts: one of
use, another of invention, a third of imitation; and the user fur-
nishes the rule to the two others. The flute-player will know the
good and bad flute, and the maker will put faith in him; but the
imitator will neither know nor have faith—neither science nor
true opinion can be ascribed to him. Imitation, then, is devoid
of knowledge, being only a kind of play or sport, and the tragic
and epic poets are imitators in the highest degree.
And now let us enquire, what is the faculty in man which an-
swers to imitation. Allow me to explain my meaning: Objects
are differently seen when in the water and when out of the wa-
ter, when near and when at a distance; and the painter or jug-
gler makes use of this variation to impose upon us. And the art
of measuring and weighing and calculating comes in to save
our bewildered minds from the power of appearance; for, as
we were saying, two contrary opinions of the same about the
same and at the same time, cannot both of them be true. But
which of them is true is determined by the art of calculation;
and this is allied to the better faculty in the soul, as the arts of
imitation are to the worse. And the same holds of the ear as
well as of the eye, of poetry as well as painting. The imitation is
of actions voluntary or involuntary, in which there is an expect-
ation of a good or bad result, and present experience of pleas-
ure and pain. But is a man in harmony with himself when he is
the subject of these conflicting influences? Is there not rather a
contradiction in him? Let me further ask, whether he is more
likely to control sorrow when he is alone or when he is in com-
pany. 'In the latter case.' Feeling would lead him to indulge his
sorrow, but reason and law control him and enjoin patience;
since he cannot know whether his affliction is good or evil, and
no human thing is of any great consequence, while sorrow is

149
certainly a hindrance to good counsel. For when we stumble,
we should not, like children, make an uproar; we should take
the measures which reason prescribes, not raising a lament,
but finding a cure. And the better part of us is ready to follow
reason, while the irrational principle is full of sorrow and dis-
traction at the recollection of our troubles. Unfortunately,
however, this latter furnishes the chief materials of the imitat-
ive arts. Whereas reason is ever in repose and cannot easily be
displayed, especially to a mixed multitude who have no experi-
ence of her. Thus the poet is like the painter in two ways: first
he paints an inferior degree of truth, and secondly, he is con-
cerned with an inferior part of the soul. He indulges the feel-
ings, while he enfeebles the reason; and we refuse to allow him
to have authority over the mind of man; for he has no measure
of greater and less, and is a maker of images and very far gone
from truth.
But we have not yet mentioned the heaviest count in the in-
dictment—the power which poetry has of injuriously exciting
the feelings. When we hear some passage in which a hero la-
ments his sufferings at tedious length, you know that we sym-
pathize with him and praise the poet; and yet in our own sor-
rows such an exhibition of feeling is regarded as effeminate
and unmanly (Ion). Now, ought a man to feel pleasure in seeing
another do what he hates and abominates in himself? Is he not
giving way to a sentiment which in his own case he would con-
trol?—he is off his guard because the sorrow is another's; and
he thinks that he may indulge his feelings without disgrace,
and will be the gainer by the pleasure. But the inevitable con-
sequence is that he who begins by weeping at the sorrows of
others, will end by weeping at his own. The same is true of
comedy,—you may often laugh at buffoonery which you would
be ashamed to utter, and the love of coarse merriment on the
stage will at last turn you into a buffoon at home. Poetry feeds
and waters the passions and desires; she lets them rule instead
of ruling them. And therefore, when we hear the encomiasts of
Homer affirming that he is the educator of Hellas, and that all
life should be regulated by his precepts, we may allow the ex-
cellence of their intentions, and agree with them in thinking
Homer a great poet and tragedian. But we shall continue to
prohibit all poetry which goes beyond hymns to the Gods and

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praises of famous men. Not pleasure and pain, but law and
reason shall rule in our State.
These are our grounds for expelling poetry; but lest she
should charge us with discourtesy, let us also make an apology
to her. We will remind her that there is an ancient quarrel
between poetry and philosophy, of which there are many
traces in the writings of the poets, such as the saying of 'the
she-dog, yelping at her mistress,' and 'the philosophers who
are ready to circumvent Zeus,' and 'the philosophers who are
paupers.' Nevertheless we bear her no ill-will, and will gladly
allow her to return upon condition that she makes a defence of
herself in verse; and her supporters who are not poets may
speak in prose. We confess her charms; but if she cannot show
that she is useful as well as delightful, like rational lovers, we
must renounce our love, though endeared to us by early associ-
ations. Having come to years of discretion, we know that po-
etry is not truth, and that a man should be careful how he in-
troduces her to that state or constitution which he himself is;
for there is a mighty issue at stake—no less than the good or
evil of a human soul. And it is not worth while to forsake justice
and virtue for the attractions of poetry, any more than for the
sake of honour or wealth. 'I agree with you.'
And yet the rewards of virtue are greater far than I have de-
scribed. 'And can we conceive things greater still?' Not, per-
haps, in this brief span of life: but should an immortal being
care about anything short of eternity? 'I do not understand
what you mean?' Do you not know that the soul is immortal?
'Surely you are not prepared to prove that?' Indeed I am. 'Then
let me hear this argument, of which you make so light.'
You would admit that everything has an element of good and
of evil. In all things there is an inherent corruption; and if this
cannot destroy them, nothing else will. The soul too has her
own corrupting principles, which are injustice, intemperance,
cowardice, and the like. But none of these destroy the soul in
the same sense that disease destroys the body. The soul may
be full of all iniquities, but is not, by reason of them, brought
any nearer to death. Nothing which was not destroyed from
within ever perished by external affection of evil. The body,
which is one thing, cannot be destroyed by food, which is an-
other, unless the badness of the food is communicated to the

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body. Neither can the soul, which is one thing, be corrupted by
the body, which is another, unless she herself is infected. And
as no bodily evil can infect the soul, neither can any bodily evil,
whether disease or violence, or any other destroy the soul, un-
less it can be shown to render her unholy and unjust. But no
one will ever prove that the souls of men become more unjust
when they die. If a person has the audacity to say the contrary,
the answer is—Then why do criminals require the hand of the
executioner, and not die of themselves? 'Truly,' he said, 'in-
justice would not be very terrible if it brought a cessation of
evil; but I rather believe that the injustice which murders oth-
ers may tend to quicken and stimulate the life of the unjust.'
You are quite right. If sin which is her own natural and inher-
ent evil cannot destroy the soul, hardly will anything else des-
troy her. But the soul which cannot be destroyed either by in-
ternal or external evil must be immortal and everlasting. And if
this be true, souls will always exist in the same number. They
cannot diminish, because they cannot be destroyed; nor yet in-
crease, for the increase of the immortal must come from
something mortal, and so all would end in immortality. Neither
is the soul variable and diverse; for that which is immortal
must be of the fairest and simplest composition. If we would
conceive her truly, and so behold justice and injustice in their
own nature, she must be viewed by the light of reason pure as
at birth, or as she is reflected in philosophy when holding con-
verse with the divine and immortal and eternal. In her present
condition we see her only like the sea-god Glaucus, bruised
and maimed in the sea which is the world, and covered with
shells and stones which are incrusted upon her from the enter-
tainments of earth.
Thus far, as the argument required, we have said nothing of
the rewards and honours which the poets attribute to justice;
we have contented ourselves with showing that justice in her-
self is best for the soul in herself, even if a man should put on a
Gyges' ring and have the helmet of Hades too. And now you
shall repay me what you borrowed; and I will enumerate the
rewards of justice in life and after death. I granted, for the
sake of argument, as you will remember, that evil might per-
haps escape the knowledge of Gods and men, although this
was really impossible. And since I have shown that justice has

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reality, you must grant me also that she has the palm of ap-
pearance. In the first place, the just man is known to the Gods,
and he is therefore the friend of the Gods, and he will receive
at their hands every good, always excepting such evil as is the
necessary consequence of former sins. All things end in good
to him, either in life or after death, even what appears to be
evil; for the Gods have a care of him who desires to be in their
likeness. And what shall we say of men? Is not honesty the best
policy? The clever rogue makes a great start at first, but
breaks down before he reaches the goal, and slinks away in
dishonour; whereas the true runner perseveres to the end, and
receives the prize. And you must allow me to repeat all the
blessings which you attributed to the fortunate unjust—they
bear rule in the city, they marry and give in marriage to whom
they will; and the evils which you attributed to the unfortunate
just, do really fall in the end on the unjust, although, as you im-
plied, their sufferings are better veiled in silence.
But all the blessings of this present life are as nothing when
compared with those which await good men after death. 'I
should like to hear about them.' Come, then, and I will tell you
the story of Er, the son of Armenius, a valiant man. He was
supposed to have died in battle, but ten days afterwards his
body was found untouched by corruption and sent home for
burial. On the twelfth day he was placed on the funeral pyre
and there he came to life again, and told what he had seen in
the world below. He said that his soul went with a great com-
pany to a place, in which there were two chasms near together
in the earth beneath, and two corresponding chasms in the
heaven above. And there were judges sitting in the intermedi-
ate space, bidding the just ascend by the heavenly way on the
right hand, having the seal of their judgment set upon them be-
fore, while the unjust, having the seal behind, were bidden to
descend by the way on the left hand. Him they told to look and
listen, as he was to be their messenger to men from the world
below. And he beheld and saw the souls departing after judg-
ment at either chasm; some who came from earth, were worn
and travel-stained; others, who came from heaven, were clean
and bright. They seemed glad to meet and rest awhile in the
meadow; here they discoursed with one another of what they
had seen in the other world. Those who came from earth wept

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at the remembrance of their sorrows, but the spirits from
above spoke of glorious sights and heavenly bliss. He said that
for every evil deed they were punished tenfold—now the jour-
ney was of a thousand years' duration, because the life of man
was reckoned as a hundred years—and the rewards of virtue
were in the same proportion. He added something hardly
worth repeating about infants dying almost as soon as they
were born. Of parricides and other murderers he had tortures
still more terrible to narrate. He was present when one of the
spirits asked—Where is Ardiaeus the Great? (This Ardiaeus was
a cruel tyrant, who had murdered his father, and his elder
brother, a thousand years before.) Another spirit answered,
'He comes not hither, and will never come. And I myself,' he
added, 'actually saw this terrible sight. At the entrance of the
chasm, as we were about to reascend, Ardiaeus appeared, and
some other sinners—most of whom had been tyrants, but not
all—and just as they fancied that they were returning to life,
the chasm gave a roar, and then wild, fiery-looking men who
knew the meaning of the sound, seized him and several others,
and bound them hand and foot and threw them down, and
dragged them along at the side of the road, lacerating them
and carding them like wool, and explaining to the passers-by,
that they were going to be cast into hell.' The greatest terror of
the pilgrims ascending was lest they should hear the voice, and
when there was silence one by one they passed up with joy. To
these sufferings there were corresponding delights.
On the eighth day the souls of the pilgrims resumed their
journey, and in four days came to a spot whence they looked
down upon a line of light, in colour like a rainbow, only bright-
er and clearer. One day more brought them to the place, and
they saw that this was the column of light which binds together
the whole universe. The ends of the column were fastened to
heaven, and from them hung the distaff of Necessity, on which
all the heavenly bodies turned—the hook and spindle were of
adamant, and the whorl of a mixed substance. The whorl was
in form like a number of boxes fitting into one another with
their edges turned upwards, making together a single whorl
which was pierced by the spindle. The outermost had the rim
broadest, and the inner whorls were smaller and smaller, and
had their rims narrower. The largest (the fixed stars) was

154
spangled—the seventh (the sun) was brightest—the eighth (the
moon) shone by the light of the seventh—the second and fifth
(Saturn and Mercury) were most like one another and yellower
than the eighth—the third (Jupiter) had the whitest light—the
fourth (Mars) was red—the sixth (Venus) was in whiteness
second. The whole had one motion, but while this was re-
volving in one direction the seven inner circles were moving in
the opposite, with various degrees of swiftness and slowness.
The spindle turned on the knees of Necessity, and a Siren
stood hymning upon each circle, while Lachesis, Clotho, and
Atropos, the daughters of Necessity, sat on thrones at equal in-
tervals, singing of past, present, and future, responsive to the
music of the Sirens; Clotho from time to time guiding the outer
circle with a touch of her right hand; Atropos with her left
hand touching and guiding the inner circles; Lachesis in turn
putting forth her hand from time to time to guide both of them.
On their arrival the pilgrims went to Lachesis, and there was
an interpreter who arranged them, and taking from her knees
lots, and samples of lives, got up into a pulpit and said: 'Mortal
souls, hear the words of Lachesis, the daughter of Necessity. A
new period of mortal life has begun, and you may choose what
divinity you please; the responsibility of choosing is with
you—God is blameless.' After speaking thus, he cast the lots
among them and each one took up the lot which fell near him.
He then placed on the ground before them the samples of lives,
many more than the souls present; and there were all sorts of
lives, of men and of animals. There were tyrannies ending in
misery and exile, and lives of men and women famous for their
different qualities; and also mixed lives, made up of wealth and
poverty, sickness and health. Here, Glaucon, is the great risk
of human life, and therefore the whole of education should be
directed to the acquisition of such a knowledge as will teach a
man to refuse the evil and choose the good. He should know all
the combinations which occur in life—of beauty with poverty or
with wealth,—of knowledge with external goods,—and at last
choose with reference to the nature of the soul, regarding that
only as the better life which makes men better, and leaving the
rest. And a man must take with him an iron sense of truth and
right into the world below, that there too he may remain un-
dazzled by wealth or the allurements of evil, and be

155
determined to avoid the extremes and choose the mean. For
this, as the messenger reported the interpreter to have said, is
the true happiness of man; and any one, as he proclaimed,
may, if he choose with understanding, have a good lot, even
though he come last. 'Let not the first be careless in his choice,
nor the last despair.' He spoke; and when he had spoken, he
who had drawn the first lot chose a tyranny: he did not see that
he was fated to devour his own children—and when he dis-
covered his mistake, he wept and beat his breast, blaming
chance and the Gods and anybody rather than himself. He was
one of those who had come from heaven, and in his previous
life had been a citizen of a well-ordered State, but he had only
habit and no philosophy. Like many another, he made a bad
choice, because he had no experience of life; whereas those
who came from earth and had seen trouble were not in such a
hurry to choose. But if a man had followed philosophy while
upon earth, and had been moderately fortunate in his lot, he
might not only be happy here, but his pilgrimage both from and
to this world would be smooth and heavenly. Nothing was more
curious than the spectacle of the choice, at once sad and laugh-
able and wonderful; most of the souls only seeking to avoid
their own condition in a previous life. He saw the soul of Orph-
eus changing into a swan because he would not be born of a
woman; there was Thamyras becoming a nightingale; musical
birds, like the swan, choosing to be men; the twentieth soul,
which was that of Ajax, preferring the life of a lion to that of a
man, in remembrance of the injustice which was done to him in
the judgment of the arms; and Agamemnon, from a like enmity
to human nature, passing into an eagle. About the middle was
the soul of Atalanta choosing the honours of an athlete, and
next to her Epeus taking the nature of a workwoman; among
the last was Thersites, who was changing himself into a mon-
key. Thither, the last of all, came Odysseus, and sought the lot
of a private man, which lay neglected and despised, and when
he found it he went away rejoicing, and said that if he had been
first instead of last, his choice would have been the same. Men,
too, were seen passing into animals, and wild and tame anim-
als changing into one another.
When all the souls had chosen they went to Lachesis, who
sent with each of them their genius or attendant to fulfil their

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lot. He first of all brought them under the hand of Clotho, and
drew them within the revolution of the spindle impelled by her
hand; from her they were carried to Atropos, who made the
threads irreversible; whence, without turning round, they
passed beneath the throne of Necessity; and when they had all
passed, they moved on in scorching heat to the plain of Forget-
fulness and rested at evening by the river Unmindful, whose
water could not be retained in any vessel; of this they had all to
drink a certain quantity—some of them drank more than was
required, and he who drank forgot all things. Er himself was
prevented from drinking. When they had gone to rest, about
the middle of the night there were thunderstorms and earth-
quakes, and suddenly they were all driven divers ways, shoot-
ing like stars to their birth. Concerning his return to the body,
he only knew that awaking suddenly in the morning he found
himself lying on the pyre.
Thus, Glaucon, the tale has been saved, and will be our salva-
tion, if we believe that the soul is immortal, and hold fast to the
heavenly way of Justice and Knowledge. So shall we pass un-
defiled over the river of Forgetfulness, and be dear to
ourselves and to the Gods, and have a crown of reward and
happiness both in this world and also in the millennial pilgrim-
age of the other.
The Tenth Book of the Republic of Plato falls into two divi-
sions: first, resuming an old thread which has been interrup-
ted, Socrates assails the poets, who, now that the nature of the
soul has been analyzed, are seen to be very far gone from the
truth; and secondly, having shown the reality of the happiness
of the just, he demands that appearance shall be restored to
him, and then proceeds to prove the immortality of the soul.
The argument, as in the Phaedo and Gorgias, is supplemented
by the vision of a future life.
Why Plato, who was himself a poet, and whose dialogues are
poems and dramas, should have been hostile to the poets as a
class, and especially to the dramatic poets; why he should not
have seen that truth may be embodied in verse as well as in
prose, and that there are some indefinable lights and shadows
of human life which can only be expressed in poetry—some ele-
ments of imagination which always entwine with reason; why
he should have supposed epic verse to be inseparably

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associated with the impurities of the old Hellenic mythology;
why he should try Homer and Hesiod by the unfair and prosaic
test of utility,—are questions which have always been debated
amongst students of Plato. Though unable to give a complete
answer to them, we may show—first, that his views arose nat-
urally out of the circumstances of his age; and secondly, we
may elicit the truth as well as the error which is contained in
them.
He is the enemy of the poets because poetry was declining in
his own lifetime, and a theatrocracy, as he says in the Laws,
had taken the place of an intellectual aristocracy. Euripides ex-
hibited the last phase of the tragic drama, and in him Plato saw
the friend and apologist of tyrants, and the Sophist of tragedy.
The old comedy was almost extinct; the new had not yet arisen.
Dramatic and lyric poetry, like every other branch of Greek lit-
erature, was falling under the power of rhetoric. There was no
'second or third' to Aeschylus and Sophocles in the generation
which followed them. Aristophanes, in one of his later comed-
ies (Frogs), speaks of 'thousands of tragedy-making prattlers,'
whose attempts at poetry he compares to the chirping of swal-
lows; 'their garrulity went far beyond Euripides,'—'they ap-
peared once upon the stage, and there was an end of them.' To
a man of genius who had a real appreciation of the godlike Aes-
chylus and the noble and gentle Sophocles, though disagreeing
with some parts of their 'theology' (Rep.), these 'minor poets'
must have been contemptible and intolerable. There is no feel-
ing stronger in the dialogues of Plato than a sense of the de-
cline and decay both in literature and in politics which marked
his own age. Nor can he have been expected to look with fa-
vour on the licence of Aristophanes, now at the end of his ca-
reer, who had begun by satirizing Socrates in the Clouds, and
in a similar spirit forty years afterwards had satirized the
founders of ideal commonwealths in his Eccleziazusae, or Fe-
male Parliament (Laws).
There were other reasons for the antagonism of Plato to po-
etry. The profession of an actor was regarded by him as a de-
gradation of human nature, for 'one man in his life' cannot
'play many parts;' the characters which the actor performs
seem to destroy his own character, and to leave nothing which
can be truly called himself. Neither can any man live his life

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and act it. The actor is the slave of his art, not the master of it.
Taking this view Plato is more decided in his expulsion of the
dramatic than of the epic poets, though he must have known
that the Greek tragedians afforded noble lessons and examples
of virtue and patriotism, to which nothing in Homer can be
compared. But great dramatic or even great rhetorical power
is hardly consistent with firmness or strength of mind, and dra-
matic talent is often incidentally associated with a weak or dis-
solute character.
In the Tenth Book Plato introduces a new series of objec-
tions. First, he says that the poet or painter is an imitator, and
in the third degree removed from the truth. His creations are
not tested by rule and measure; they are only appearances. In
modern times we should say that art is not merely imitation,
but rather the expression of the ideal in forms of sense. Even
adopting the humble image of Plato, from which his argument
derives a colour, we should maintain that the artist may en-
noble the bed which he paints by the folds of the drapery, or by
the feeling of home which he introduces; and there have been
modern painters who have imparted such an ideal interest to a
blacksmith's or a carpenter's shop. The eye or mind which feels
as well as sees can give dignity and pathos to a ruined mill, or
a straw-built shed (Rembrandt), to the hull of a vessel 'going to
its last home' (Turner). Still more would this apply to the
greatest works of art, which seem to be the visible embodiment
of the divine. Had Plato been asked whether the Zeus or
Athene of Pheidias was the imitation of an imitation only,
would he not have been compelled to admit that something
more was to be found in them than in the form of any mortal;
and that the rule of proportion to which they conformed was
'higher far than any geometry or arithmetic could express?'
(Statesman.)
Again, Plato objects to the imitative arts that they express
the emotional rather than the rational part of human nature.
He does not admit Aristotle's theory, that tragedy or other seri-
ous imitations are a purgation of the passions by pity and fear;
to him they appear only to afford the opportunity of indulging
them. Yet we must acknowledge that we may sometimes cure
disordered emotions by giving expression to them; and that
they often gain strength when pent up within our own breast.

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It is not every indulgence of the feelings which is to be con-
demned. For there may be a gratification of the higher as well
as of the lower—thoughts which are too deep or too sad to be
expressed by ourselves, may find an utterance in the words of
poets. Every one would acknowledge that there have been
times when they were consoled and elevated by beautiful mu-
sic or by the sublimity of architecture or by the peacefulness of
nature. Plato has himself admitted, in the earlier part of the
Republic, that the arts might have the effect of harmonizing as
well as of enervating the mind; but in the Tenth Book he re-
gards them through a Stoic or Puritan medium. He asks only
'What good have they done?' and is not satisfied with the reply,
that 'They have given innocent pleasure to mankind.'
He tells us that he rejoices in the banishment of the poets,
since he has found by the analysis of the soul that they are con-
cerned with the inferior faculties. He means to say that the
higher faculties have to do with universals, the lower with par-
ticulars of sense. The poets are on a level with their own age,
but not on a level with Socrates and Plato; and he was well
aware that Homer and Hesiod could not be made a rule of life
by any process of legitimate interpretation; his ironical use of
them is in fact a denial of their authority; he saw, too, that the
poets were not critics—as he says in the Apology, 'Any one was
a better interpreter of their writings than they were them-
selves. He himself ceased to be a poet when he became a dis-
ciple of Socrates; though, as he tells us of Solon, 'he might
have been one of the greatest of them, if he had not been de-
terred by other pursuits' (Tim.) Thus from many points of view
there is an antagonism between Plato and the poets, which was
foreshadowed to him in the old quarrel between philosophy
and poetry. The poets, as he says in the Protagoras, were the
Sophists of their day; and his dislike of the one class is reflec-
ted on the other. He regards them both as the enemies of reas-
oning and abstraction, though in the case of Euripides more
with reference to his immoral sentiments about tyrants and the
like. For Plato is the prophet who 'came into the world to con-
vince men'—first of the fallibility of sense and opinion, and
secondly of the reality of abstract ideas. Whatever strangeness
there may be in modern times in opposing philosophy to po-
etry, which to us seem to have so many elements in common,

160
the strangeness will disappear if we conceive of poetry as al-
lied to sense, and of philosophy as equivalent to thought and
abstraction. Unfortunately the very word 'idea,' which to Plato
is expressive of the most real of all things, is associated in our
minds with an element of subjectiveness and unreality. We may
note also how he differs from Aristotle who declares poetry to
be truer than history, for the opposite reason, because it is
concerned with universals, not like history, with particulars
(Poet).
The things which are seen are opposed in Scripture to the
things which are unseen—they are equally opposed in Plato to
universals and ideas. To him all particulars appear to be float-
ing about in a world of sense; they have a taint of error or even
of evil. There is no difficulty in seeing that this is an illusion;
for there is no more error or variation in an individual man,
horse, bed, etc., than in the class man, horse, bed, etc.; nor is
the truth which is displayed in individual instances less certain
than that which is conveyed through the medium of ideas. But
Plato, who is deeply impressed with the real importance of uni-
versals as instruments of thought, attributes to them an essen-
tial truth which is imaginary and unreal; for universals may be
often false and particulars true. Had he attained to any clear
conception of the individual, which is the synthesis of the uni-
versal and the particular; or had he been able to distinguish
between opinion and sensation, which the ambiguity of the
words (Greek) and the like, tended to confuse, he would not
have denied truth to the particulars of sense.
But the poets are also the representatives of falsehood and
feigning in all departments of life and knowledge, like the
sophists and rhetoricians of the Gorgias and Phaedrus; they
are the false priests, false prophets, lying spirits, enchanters of
the world. There is another count put into the indictment
against them by Plato, that they are the friends of the tyrant,
and bask in the sunshine of his patronage. Despotism in all
ages has had an apparatus of false ideas and false teachers at
its service—in the history of Modern Europe as well as of
Greece and Rome. For no government of men depends solely
upon force; without some corruption of literature and mor-
als—some appeal to the imagination of the masses—some pre-
tence to the favour of heaven—some element of good giving

161
power to evil, tyranny, even for a short time, cannot be main-
tained. The Greek tyrants were not insensible to the import-
ance of awakening in their cause a Pseudo-Hellenic feeling;
they were proud of successes at the Olympic games; they were
not devoid of the love of literature and art. Plato is thinking in
the first instance of Greek poets who had graced the courts of
Dionysius or Archelaus: and the old spirit of freedom is roused
within him at their prostitution of the Tragic Muse in the
praises of tyranny. But his prophetic eye extends beyond them
to the false teachers of other ages who are the creatures of the
government under which they live. He compares the corruption
of his contemporaries with the idea of a perfect society, and
gathers up into one mass of evil the evils and errors of man-
kind; to him they are personified in the rhetoricians, sophists,
poets, rulers who deceive and govern the world.
A further objection which Plato makes to poetry and the imit-
ative arts is that they excite the emotions. Here the modern
reader will be disposed to introduce a distinction which ap-
pears to have escaped him. For the emotions are neither bad
nor good in themselves, and are not most likely to be con-
trolled by the attempt to eradicate them, but by the moderate
indulgence of them. And the vocation of art is to present
thought in the form of feeling, to enlist the feelings on the side
of reason, to inspire even for a moment courage or resignation;
perhaps to suggest a sense of infinity and eternity in a way
which mere language is incapable of attaining. True, the same
power which in the purer age of art embodies gods and heroes
only, may be made to express the voluptuous image of a Cor-
inthian courtezan. But this only shows that art, like other out-
ward things, may be turned to good and also to evil, and is not
more closely connected with the higher than with the lower
part of the soul. All imitative art is subject to certain limita-
tions, and therefore necessarily partakes of the nature of a
compromise. Something of ideal truth is sacrificed for the sake
of the representation, and something in the exactness of the
representation is sacrificed to the ideal. Still, works of art have
a permanent element; they idealize and detain the passing
thought, and are the intermediates between sense and ideas.
In the present stage of the human mind, poetry and other
forms of fiction may certainly be regarded as a good. But we

162
can also imagine the existence of an age in which a severer
conception of truth has either banished or transformed them.
At any rate we must admit that they hold a different place at
different periods of the world's history. In the infancy of man-
kind, poetry, with the exception of proverbs, is the whole of lit-
erature, and the only instrument of intellectual culture; in mod-
ern times she is the shadow or echo of her former self, and ap-
pears to have a precarious existence. Milton in his day doubted
whether an epic poem was any longer possible. At the same
time we must remember, that what Plato would have called the
charms of poetry have been partly transferred to prose; he
himself (Statesman) admits rhetoric to be the handmaiden of
Politics, and proposes to find in the strain of law (Laws) a sub-
stitute for the old poets. Among ourselves the creative power
seems often to be growing weaker, and scientific fact to be
more engrossing and overpowering to the mind than formerly.
The illusion of the feelings commonly called love, has hitherto
been the inspiring influence of modern poetry and romance,
and has exercised a humanizing if not a strengthening influ-
ence on the world. But may not the stimulus which love has
given to fancy be some day exhausted? The modern English
novel which is the most popular of all forms of reading is not
more than a century or two old: will the tale of love a hundred
years hence, after so many thousand variations of the same
theme, be still received with unabated interest?
Art cannot claim to be on a level with philosophy or religion,
and may often corrupt them. It is possible to conceive a mental
state in which all artistic representations are regarded as a
false and imperfect expression, either of the religious ideal or
of the philosophical ideal. The fairest forms may be revolting in
certain moods of mind, as is proved by the fact that the Maho-
metans, and many sects of Christians, have renounced the use
of pictures and images. The beginning of a great religion,
whether Christian or Gentile, has not been 'wood or stone,' but
a spirit moving in the hearts of men. The disciples have met in
a large upper room or in 'holes and caves of the earth'; in the
second or third generation, they have had mosques, temples,
churches, monasteries. And the revival or reform of religions,
like the first revelation of them, has come from within and has

163
generally disregarded external ceremonies and
accompaniments.
But poetry and art may also be the expression of the highest
truth and the purest sentiment. Plato himself seems to waver
between two opposite views—when, as in the third Book, he in-
sists that youth should be brought up amid wholesome im-
agery; and again in Book X, when he banishes the poets from
his Republic. Admitting that the arts, which some of us almost
deify, have fallen short of their higher aim, we must admit on
the other hand that to banish imagination wholly would be sui-
cidal as well as impossible. For nature too is a form of art; and
a breath of the fresh air or a single glance at the varying land-
scape would in an instant revive and reillumine the extin-
guished spark of poetry in the human breast. In the lower
stages of civilization imagination more than reason distin-
guishes man from the animals; and to banish art would be to
banish thought, to banish language, to banish the expression of
all truth. No religion is wholly devoid of external forms; even
the Mahometan who renounces the use of pictures and images
has a temple in which he worships the Most High, as solemn
and beautiful as any Greek or Christian building. Feeling too
and thought are not really opposed; for he who thinks must
feel before he can execute. And the highest thoughts, when
they become familiarized to us, are always tending to pass into
the form of feeling.
Plato does not seriously intend to expel poets from life and
society. But he feels strongly the unreality of their writings; he
is protesting against the degeneracy of poetry in his own day
as we might protest against the want of serious purpose in
modern fiction, against the unseemliness or extravagance of
some of our poets or novelists, against the time-serving of
preachers or public writers, against the regardlessness of truth
which to the eye of the philosopher seems to characterize the
greater part of the world. For we too have reason to complain
that our poets and novelists 'paint inferior truth' and 'are con-
cerned with the inferior part of the soul'; that the readers of
them become what they read and are injuriously affected by
them. And we look in vain for that healthy atmosphere of which
Plato speaks,—'the beauty which meets the sense like a breeze

164
and imperceptibly draws the soul, even in childhood, into har-
mony with the beauty of reason.'
For there might be a poetry which would be the hymn of di-
vine perfection, the harmony of goodness and truth among
men: a strain which should renew the youth of the world, and
bring back the ages in which the poet was man's only teacher
and best friend,—which would find materials in the living
present as well as in the romance of the past, and might sub-
due to the fairest forms of speech and verse the intractable
materials of modern civilisation,—which might elicit the simple
principles, or, as Plato would have called them, the essential
forms, of truth and justice out of the variety of opinion and the
complexity of modern society,—which would preserve all the
good of each generation and leave the bad unsung,—which
should be based not on vain longings or faint imaginings, but
on a clear insight into the nature of man. Then the tale of love
might begin again in poetry or prose, two in one, united in the
pursuit of knowledge, or the service of God and man; and feel-
ings of love might still be the incentive to great thoughts and
heroic deeds as in the days of Dante or Petrarch; and many
types of manly and womanly beauty might appear among us,
rising above the ordinary level of humanity, and many lives
which were like poems (Laws), be not only written, but lived by
us. A few such strains have been heard among men in the tra-
gedies of Aeschylus and Sophocles, whom Plato quotes, not, as
Homer is quoted by him, in irony, but with deep and serious
approval,—in the poetry of Milton and Wordsworth, and in pas-
sages of other English poets,—first and above all in the
Hebrew prophets and psalmists. Shakespeare has taught us
how great men should speak and act; he has drawn characters
of a wonderful purity and depth; he has ennobled the human
mind, but, like Homer (Rep.), he 'has left no way of life.' The
next greatest poet of modern times, Goethe, is concerned with
'a lower degree of truth'; he paints the world as a stage on
which 'all the men and women are merely players'; he cultiv-
ates life as an art, but he furnishes no ideals of truth and ac-
tion. The poet may rebel against any attempt to set limits to his
fancy; and he may argue truly that moralizing in verse is not
poetry. Possibly, like Mephistopheles in Faust, he may retaliate
on his adversaries. But the philosopher will still be justified in

165
asking, 'How may the heavenly gift of poesy be devoted to the
good of mankind?'
Returning to Plato, we may observe that a similar mixture of
truth and error appears in other parts of the argument. He is
aware of the absurdity of mankind framing their whole lives ac-
cording to Homer; just as in the Phaedrus he intimates the ab-
surdity of interpreting mythology upon rational principles; both
these were the modern tendencies of his own age, which he de-
servedly ridicules. On the other hand, his argument that
Homer, if he had been able to teach mankind anything worth
knowing, would not have been allowed by them to go about
begging as a rhapsodist, is both false and contrary to the spirit
of Plato (Rep.). It may be compared with those other paradoxes
of the Gorgias, that 'No statesman was ever unjustly put to
death by the city of which he was the head'; and that 'No Soph-
ist was ever defrauded by his pupils' (Gorg.)…
The argument for immortality seems to rest on the absolute
dualism of soul and body. Admitting the existence of the soul,
we know of no force which is able to put an end to her. Vice is
her own proper evil; and if she cannot be destroyed by that,
she cannot be destroyed by any other. Yet Plato has acknow-
ledged that the soul may be so overgrown by the incrustations
of earth as to lose her original form; and in the Timaeus he re-
cognizes more strongly than in the Republic the influence
which the body has over the mind, denying even the voluntari-
ness of human actions, on the ground that they proceed from
physical states (Tim.). In the Republic, as elsewhere, he wavers
between the original soul which has to be restored, and the
character which is developed by training and education…
The vision of another world is ascribed to Er, the son of Ar-
menius, who is said by Clement of Alexandria to have been
Zoroaster. The tale has certainly an oriental character, and
may be compared with the pilgrimages of the soul in the Zend
Avesta (Haug, Avesta). But no trace of acquaintance with
Zoroaster is found elsewhere in Plato's writings, and there is
no reason for giving him the name of Er the Pamphylian. The
philosophy of Heracleitus cannot be shown to be borrowed
from Zoroaster, and still less the myths of Plato.
The local arrangement of the vision is less distinct than that
of the Phaedrus and Phaedo. Astronomy is mingled with

166
symbolism and mythology; the great sphere of heaven is rep-
resented under the symbol of a cylinder or box, containing the
seven orbits of the planets and the fixed stars; this is suspen-
ded from an axis or spindle which turns on the knees of Neces-
sity; the revolutions of the seven orbits contained in the cylin-
der are guided by the fates, and their harmonious motion pro-
duces the music of the spheres. Through the innermost or
eighth of these, which is the moon, is passed the spindle; but it
is doubtful whether this is the continuation of the column of
light, from which the pilgrims contemplate the heavens; the
words of Plato imply that they are connected, but not the same.
The column itself is clearly not of adamant. The spindle (which
is of adamant) is fastened to the ends of the chains which ex-
tend to the middle of the column of light—this column is said to
hold together the heaven; but whether it hangs from the
spindle, or is at right angles to it, is not explained. The cylinder
containing the orbits of the stars is almost as much a symbol as
the figure of Necessity turning the spindle;—for the outermost
rim is the sphere of the fixed stars, and nothing is said about
the intervals of space which divide the paths of the stars in the
heavens. The description is both a picture and an orrery, and
therefore is necessarily inconsistent with itself. The column of
light is not the Milky Way—which is neither straight, nor like a
rainbow—but the imaginary axis of the earth. This is compared
to the rainbow in respect not of form but of colour, and not to
the undergirders of a trireme, but to the straight rope running
from prow to stern in which the undergirders meet.
The orrery or picture of the heavens given in the Republic
differs in its mode of representation from the circles of the
same and of the other in the Timaeus. In both the fixed stars
are distinguished from the planets, and they move in orbits
without them, although in an opposite direction: in the Repub-
lic as in the Timaeus they are all moving round the axis of the
world. But we are not certain that in the former they are mov-
ing round the earth. No distinct mention is made in the Repub-
lic of the circles of the same and other; although both in the
Timaeus and in the Republic the motion of the fixed stars is
supposed to coincide with the motion of the whole. The relative
thickness of the rims is perhaps designed to express the relat-
ive distances of the planets. Plato probably intended to

167
represent the earth, from which Er and his companions are
viewing the heavens, as stationary in place; but whether or not
herself revolving, unless this is implied in the revolution of the
axis, is uncertain (Timaeus). The spectator may be supposed to
look at the heavenly bodies, either from above or below. The
earth is a sort of earth and heaven in one, like the heaven of
the Phaedrus, on the back of which the spectator goes out to
take a peep at the stars and is borne round in the revolution.
There is no distinction between the equator and the ecliptic.
But Plato is no doubt led to imagine that the planets have an
opposite motion to that of the fixed stars, in order to account
for their appearances in the heavens. In the description of the
meadow, and the retribution of the good and evil after death,
there are traces of Homer.
The description of the axis as a spindle, and of the heavenly
bodies as forming a whole, partly arises out of the attempt to
connect the motions of the heavenly bodies with the mytholo-
gical image of the web, or weaving of the Fates. The giving of
the lots, the weaving of them, and the making of them irrevers-
ible, which are ascribed to the three Fates—Lachesis, Clotho,
Atropos, are obviously derived from their names. The element
of chance in human life is indicated by the order of the lots.
But chance, however adverse, may be overcome by the wisdom
of man, if he knows how to choose aright; there is a worse en-
emy to man than chance; this enemy is himself. He who was
moderately fortunate in the number of the lot—even the very
last comer—might have a good life if he chose with wisdom.
And as Plato does not like to make an assertion which is un-
proven, he more than confirms this statement a few sentences
afterwards by the example of Odysseus, who chose last. But
the virtue which is founded on habit is not sufficient to enable
a man to choose; he must add to virtue knowledge, if he is to
act rightly when placed in new circumstances. The routine of
good actions and good habits is an inferior sort of goodness;
and, as Coleridge says, 'Common sense is intolerable which is
not based on metaphysics,' so Plato would have said, 'Habit is
worthless which is not based upon philosophy.'
The freedom of the will to refuse the evil and to choose the
good is distinctly asserted. 'Virtue is free, and as a man hon-
ours or dishonours her he will have more or less of her.' The

168
life of man is 'rounded' by necessity; there are circumstances
prior to birth which affect him (Pol.). But within the walls of
necessity there is an open space in which he is his own master,
and can study for himself the effects which the variously com-
pounded gifts of nature or fortune have upon the soul, and act
accordingly. All men cannot have the first choice in everything.
But the lot of all men is good enough, if they choose wisely and
will live diligently.
The verisimilitude which is given to the pilgrimage of a thou-
sand years, by the intimation that Ardiaeus had lived a thou-
sand years before; the coincidence of Er coming to life on the
twelfth day after he was supposed to have been dead with the
seven days which the pilgrims passed in the meadow, and the
four days during which they journeyed to the column of light;
the precision with which the soul is mentioned who chose the
twentieth lot; the passing remarks that there was no definite
character among the souls, and that the souls which had
chosen ill blamed any one rather than themselves; or that some
of the souls drank more than was necessary of the waters of
Forgetfulness, while Er himself was hindered from drinking;
the desire of Odysseus to rest at last, unlike the conception of
him in Dante and Tennyson; the feigned ignorance of how Er
returned to the body, when the other souls went shooting like
stars to their birth,—add greatly to the probability of the nar-
rative. They are such touches of nature as the art of Defoe
might have introduced when he wished to win credibility for
marvels and apparitions.
There still remain to be considered some points which have
been intentionally reserved to the end: (1) the Janus-like char-
acter of the Republic, which presents two faces—one an Hel-
lenic state, the other a kingdom of philosophers. Connected
with the latter of the two aspects are (2) the paradoxes of the
Republic, as they have been termed by Morgenstern: (a) the
community of property; (b) of families; (c) the rule of philo-
sophers; (d) the analogy of the individual and the State, which,
like some other analogies in the Republic, is carried too far.
We may then proceed to consider (3) the subject of education
as conceived by Plato, bringing together in a general view the
education of youth and the education of after-life; (4) we may
note further some essential differences between ancient and

169
modern politics which are suggested by the Republic; (5) we
may compare the Politicus and the Laws; (6) we may observe
the influence exercised by Plato on his imitators; and (7) take
occasion to consider the nature and value of political, and (8)
of religious ideals.
1. Plato expressly says that he is intending to found an Hel-
lenic State (Book V). Many of his regulations are characteristic-
ally Spartan; such as the prohibition of gold and silver, the
common meals of the men, the military training of the youth,
the gymnastic exercises of the women. The life of Sparta was
the life of a camp (Laws), enforced even more rigidly in time of
peace than in war; the citizens of Sparta, like Plato's, were for-
bidden to trade—they were to be soldiers and not shopkeepers.
Nowhere else in Greece was the individual so completely sub-
jected to the State; the time when he was to marry, the educa-
tion of his children, the clothes which he was to wear, the food
which he was to eat, were all prescribed by law. Some of the
best enactments in the Republic, such as the reverence to be
paid to parents and elders, and some of the worst, such as the
exposure of deformed children, are borrowed from the practice
of Sparta. The encouragement of friendships between men and
youths, or of men with one another, as affording incentives to
bravery, is also Spartan; in Sparta too a nearer approach was
made than in any other Greek State to equality of the sexes,
and to community of property; and while there was probably
less of licentiousness in the sense of immorality, the tie of mar-
riage was regarded more lightly than in the rest of Greece. The
'suprema lex' was the preservation of the family, and the in-
terest of the State. The coarse strength of a military govern-
ment was not favourable to purity and refinement; and the ex-
cessive strictness of some regulations seems to have produced
a reaction. Of all Hellenes the Spartans were most accessible
to bribery; several of the greatest of them might be described
in the words of Plato as having a 'fierce secret longing after
gold and silver.' Though not in the strict sense communists, the
principle of communism was maintained among them in their
division of lands, in their common meals, in their slaves, and in
the free use of one another's goods. Marriage was a public in-
stitution: and the women were educated by the State, and sang
and danced in public with the men.

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 Many traditions were preserved at Sparta of the severity
with which the magistrates had maintained the primitive rule
of music and poetry; as in the Republic of Plato, the new-
fangled poet was to be expelled. Hymns to the Gods, which are
the only kind of music admitted into the ideal State, were the
only kind which was permitted at Sparta. The Spartans, though
an unpoetical race, were nevertheless lovers of poetry; they
had been stirred by the Elegiac strains of Tyrtaeus, they had
crowded around Hippias to hear his recitals of Homer; but in
this they resembled the citizens of the timocratic rather than of
the ideal State. The council of elder men also corresponds to
the Spartan gerousia; and the freedom with which they are
permitted to judge about matters of detail agrees with what we
are told of that institution. Once more, the military rule of not
spoiling the dead or offering arms at the temples; the modera-
tion in the pursuit of enemies; the importance attached to the
physical well-being of the citizens; the use of warfare for the
sake of defence rather than of aggression—are features prob-
ably suggested by the spirit and practice of Sparta.
To the Spartan type the ideal State reverts in the first de-
cline; and the character of the individual timocrat is borrowed
from the Spartan citizen. The love of Lacedaemon not only af-
fected Plato and Xenophon, but was shared by many undistin-
guished Athenians; there they seemed to find a principle which
was wanting in their own democracy. The (Greek) of the
Spartans attracted them, that is to say, not the goodness of
their laws, but the spirit of order and loyalty which prevailed.
Fascinated by the idea, citizens of Athens would imitate the La-
cedaemonians in their dress and manners; they were known to
the contemporaries of Plato as 'the persons who had their ears
bruised,' like the Roundheads of the Commonwealth. The love
of another church or country when seen at a distance only, the
longing for an imaginary simplicity in civilized times, the fond
desire of a past which never has been, or of a future which nev-
er will be,—these are aspirations of the human mind which are
often felt among ourselves. Such feelings meet with a response
in the Republic of Plato.
But there are other features of the Platonic Republic, as, for
example, the literary and philosophical education, and the
grace and beauty of life, which are the reverse of Spartan.

171
Plato wishes to give his citizens a taste of Athenian freedom as
well as of Lacedaemonian discipline. His individual genius is
purely Athenian, although in theory he is a lover of Sparta; and
he is something more than either—he has also a true Hellenic
feeling. He is desirous of humanizing the wars of Hellenes
against one another; he acknowledges that the Delphian God is
the grand hereditary interpreter of all Hellas. The spirit of har-
mony and the Dorian mode are to prevail, and the whole State
is to have an external beauty which is the reflex of the har-
mony within. But he has not yet found out the truth which he
afterwards enunciated in the Laws—that he was a better legis-
lator who made men to be of one mind, than he who trained
them for war. The citizens, as in other Hellenic States, demo-
cratic as well as aristocratic, are really an upper class; for, al-
though no mention is made of slaves, the lower classes are al-
lowed to fade away into the distance, and are represented in
the individual by the passions. Plato has no idea either of a so-
cial State in which all classes are harmonized, or of a federa-
tion of Hellas or the world in which different nations or States
have a place. His city is equipped for war rather than for
peace, and this would seem to be justified by the ordinary con-
dition of Hellenic States. The myth of the earth-born men is an
embodiment of the orthodox tradition of Hellas, and the allu-
sion to the four ages of the world is also sanctioned by the au-
thority of Hesiod and the poets. Thus we see that the Republic
is partly founded on the ideal of the old Greek polis, partly on
the actual circumstances of Hellas in that age. Plato, like the
old painters, retains the traditional form, and like them he has
also a vision of a city in the clouds.
There is yet another thread which is interwoven in the tex-
ture of the work; for the Republic is not only a Dorian State,
but a Pythagorean league. The 'way of life' which was connec-
ted with the name of Pythagoras, like the Catholic monastic or-
ders, showed the power which the mind of an individual might
exercise over his contemporaries, and may have naturally sug-
gested to Plato the possibility of reviving such 'mediaeval insti-
tutions.' The Pythagoreans, like Plato, enforced a rule of life
and a moral and intellectual training. The influence ascribed to
music, which to us seems exaggerated, is also a Pythagorean
feature; it is not to be regarded as representing the real

172
influence of music in the Greek world. More nearly than any
other government of Hellas, the Pythagorean league of three
hundred was an aristocracy of virtue. For once in the history of
mankind the philosophy of order or (Greek), expressing and
consequently enlisting on its side the combined endeavours of
the better part of the people, obtained the management of pub-
lic affairs and held possession of it for a considerable time (un-
til about B.C. 500). Probably only in States prepared by Dorian
institutions would such a league have been possible. The
rulers, like Plato's (Greek), were required to submit to a severe
training in order to prepare the way for the education of the
other members of the community. Long after the dissolution of
the Order, eminent Pythagoreans, such as Archytas of Tar-
entum, retained their political influence over the cities of
Magna Graecia. There was much here that was suggestive to
the kindred spirit of Plato, who had doubtless meditated deeply
on the 'way of life of Pythagoras' (Rep.) and his followers.
Slight traces of Pythagoreanism are to be found in the mystical
number of the State, in the number which expresses the inter-
val between the king and the tyrant, in the doctrine of transmi-
gration, in the music of the spheres, as well as in the great
though secondary importance ascribed to mathematics in
education.
But as in his philosophy, so also in the form of his State, he
goes far beyond the old Pythagoreans. He attempts a task
really impossible, which is to unite the past of Greek history
with the future of philosophy, analogous to that other impossib-
ility, which has often been the dream of Christendom, the at-
tempt to unite the past history of Europe with the kingdom of
Christ. Nothing actually existing in the world at all resembles
Plato's ideal State; nor does he himself imagine that such a
State is possible. This he repeats again and again; e.g. in the
Republic, or in the Laws where, casting a glance back on the
Republic, he admits that the perfect state of communism and
philosophy was impossible in his own age, though still to be re-
tained as a pattern. The same doubt is implied in the earnest-
ness with which he argues in the Republic that ideals are none
the worse because they cannot be realized in fact, and in the
chorus of laughter, which like a breaking wave will, as he anti-
cipates, greet the mention of his proposals; though like other

173
writers of fiction, he uses all his art to give reality to his inven-
tions. When asked how the ideal polity can come into being, he
answers ironically, 'When one son of a king becomes a philo-
sopher'; he designates the fiction of the earth-born men as 'a
noble lie'; and when the structure is finally complete, he fairly
tells you that his Republic is a vision only, which in some sense
may have reality, but not in the vulgar one of a reign of philo-
sophers upon earth. It has been said that Plato flies as well as
walks, but this falls short of the truth; for he flies and walks at
the same time, and is in the air and on firm ground in success-
ive instants.
Niebuhr has asked a trifling question, which may be briefly
noticed in this place—Was Plato a good citizen? If by this is
meant, Was he loyal to Athenian institutions?—he can hardly
be said to be the friend of democracy: but neither is he the
friend of any other existing form of government; all of them he
regarded as 'states of faction' (Laws); none attained to his ideal
of a voluntary rule over voluntary subjects, which seems in-
deed more nearly to describe democracy than any other; and
the worst of them is tyranny. The truth is, that the question has
hardly any meaning when applied to a great philosopher whose
writings are not meant for a particular age and country, but for
all time and all mankind. The decline of Athenian politics was
probably the motive which led Plato to frame an ideal State,
and the Republic may be regarded as reflecting the departing
glory of Hellas. As well might we complain of St. Augustine,
whose great work 'The City of God' originated in a similar
motive, for not being loyal to the Roman Empire. Even a nearer
parallel might be afforded by the first Christians, who cannot
fairly be charged with being bad citizens because, though 'sub-
ject to the higher powers,' they were looking forward to a city
which is in heaven.
2. The idea of the perfect State is full of paradox when
judged of according to the ordinary notions of mankind. The
paradoxes of one age have been said to become the common-
places of the next; but the paradoxes of Plato are at least as
paradoxical to us as they were to his contemporaries. The mod-
ern world has either sneered at them as absurd, or denounced
them as unnatural and immoral; men have been pleased to find
in Aristotle's criticisms of them the anticipation of their own

174
good sense. The wealthy and cultivated classes have disliked
and also dreaded them; they have pointed with satisfaction to
the failure of efforts to realize them in practice. Yet since they
are the thoughts of one of the greatest of human intelligences,
and of one who had done most to elevate morality and religion,
they seem to deserve a better treatment at our hands. We may
have to address the public, as Plato does poetry, and assure
them that we mean no harm to existing institutions. There are
serious errors which have a side of truth and which therefore
may fairly demand a careful consideration: there are truths
mixed with error of which we may indeed say, 'The half is bet-
ter than the whole.' Yet 'the half' may be an important contri-
bution to the study of human nature.
(a) The first paradox is the community of goods, which is
mentioned slightly at the end of the third Book, and seemingly,
as Aristotle observes, is confined to the guardians; at least no
mention is made of the other classes. But the omission is not of
any real significance, and probably arises out of the plan of the
work, which prevents the writer from entering into details.
Aristotle censures the community of property much in the
spirit of modern political economy, as tending to repress in-
dustry, and as doing away with the spirit of benevolence.
Modern writers almost refuse to consider the subject, which is
supposed to have been long ago settled by the common opinion
of mankind. But it must be remembered that the sacredness of
property is a notion far more fixed in modern than in ancient
times. The world has grown older, and is therefore more con-
servative. Primitive society offered many examples of land held
in common, either by a tribe or by a township, and such may
probably have been the original form of landed tenure. Ancient
legislators had invented various modes of dividing and pre-
serving the divisions of land among the citizens; according to
Aristotle there were nations who held the land in common and
divided the produce, and there were others who divided the
land and stored the produce in common. The evils of debt and
the inequality of property were far greater in ancient than in
modern times, and the accidents to which property was subject
from war, or revolution, or taxation, or other legislative inter-
ference, were also greater. All these circumstances gave prop-
erty a less fixed and sacred character. The early Christians are

175
believed to have held their property in common, and the prin-
ciple is sanctioned by the words of Christ himself, and has
been maintained as a counsel of perfection in almost all ages of
the Church. Nor have there been wanting instances of modern
enthusiasts who have made a religion of communism; in every
age of religious excitement notions like Wycliffe's 'inheritance
of grace' have tended to prevail. A like spirit, but fiercer and
more violent, has appeared in politics. 'The preparation of the
Gospel of peace' soon becomes the red flag of Republicanism.
We can hardly judge what effect Plato's views would have
upon his own contemporaries; they would perhaps have
seemed to them only an exaggeration of the Spartan common-
wealth. Even modern writers would acknowledge that the right
of private property is based on expediency, and may be in-
terfered with in a variety of ways for the public good. Any oth-
er mode of vesting property which was found to be more ad-
vantageous, would in time acquire the same basis of right; 'the
most useful,' in Plato's words, 'would be the most sacred.' The
lawyers and ecclesiastics of former ages would have spoken of
property as a sacred institution. But they only meant by such
language to oppose the greatest amount of resistance to any
invasion of the rights of individuals and of the Church.
When we consider the question, without any fear of immedi-
ate application to practice, in the spirit of Plato's Republic, are
we quite sure that the received notions of property are the
best? Is the distribution of wealth which is customary in civil-
ized countries the most favourable that can be conceived for
the education and development of the mass of mankind? Can
'the spectator of all time and all existence' be quite convinced
that one or two thousand years hence, great changes will not
have taken place in the rights of property, or even that the
very notion of property, beyond what is necessary for personal
maintenance, may not have disappeared? This was a distinc-
tion familiar to Aristotle, though likely to be laughed at among
ourselves. Such a change would not be greater than some oth-
er changes through which the world has passed in the trans-
ition from ancient to modern society, for example, the emancip-
ation of the serfs in Russia, or the abolition of slavery in Amer-
ica and the West Indies; and not so great as the difference
which separates the Eastern village community from the

176
Western world. To accomplish such a revolution in the course
of a few centuries, would imply a rate of progress not more
rapid than has actually taken place during the last fifty or sixty
years. The kingdom of Japan underwent more change in five or
six years than Europe in five or six hundred. Many opinions
and beliefs which have been cherished among ourselves quite
as strongly as the sacredness of property have passed away;
and the most untenable propositions respecting the right of be-
quests or entail have been maintained with as much fervour as
the most moderate. Some one will be heard to ask whether a
state of society can be final in which the interests of thousands
are perilled on the life or character of a single person. And
many will indulge the hope that our present condition may,
after all, be only transitional, and may conduct to a higher, in
which property, besides ministering to the enjoyment of the
few, may also furnish the means of the highest culture to all,
and will be a greater benefit to the public generally, and also
more under the control of public authority. There may come a
time when the saying, 'Have I not a right to do what I will with
my own?' will appear to be a barbarous relic of individual-
ism;—when the possession of a part may be a greater blessing
to each and all than the possession of the whole is now to any
one.
Such reflections appear visionary to the eye of the practical
statesman, but they are within the range of possibility to the
philosopher. He can imagine that in some distant age or clime,
and through the influence of some individual, the notion of
common property may or might have sunk as deep into the
heart of a race, and have become as fixed to them, as private
property is to ourselves. He knows that this latter institution is
not more than four or five thousand years old: may not the end
revert to the beginning? In our own age even Utopias affect the
spirit of legislation, and an abstract idea may exercise a great
influence on practical politics.
The objections that would be generally urged against Plato's
community of property, are the old ones of Aristotle, that
motives for exertion would be taken away, and that disputes
would arise when each was dependent upon all. Every man
would produce as little and consume as much as he liked. The
experience of civilized nations has hitherto been adverse to

177
Socialism. The effort is too great for human nature; men try to
live in common, but the personal feeling is always breaking in.
On the other hand it may be doubted whether our present no-
tions of property are not conventional, for they differ in differ-
ent countries and in different states of society. We boast of an
individualism which is not freedom, but rather an artificial res-
ult of the industrial state of modern Europe. The individual is
nominally free, but he is also powerless in a world bound hand
and foot in the chains of economic necessity. Even if we cannot
expect the mass of mankind to become disinterested, at any
rate we observe in them a power of organization which fifty
years ago would never have been suspected. The same forces
which have revolutionized the political system of Europe, may
effect a similar change in the social and industrial relations of
mankind. And if we suppose the influence of some good as well
as neutral motives working in the community, there will be no
absurdity in expecting that the mass of mankind having power,
and becoming enlightened about the higher possibilities of hu-
man life, when they learn how much more is attainable for all
than is at present the possession of a favoured few, may pursue
the common interest with an intelligence and persistency
which mankind have hitherto never seen.
Now that the world has once been set in motion, and is no
longer held fast under the tyranny of custom and ignorance;
now that criticism has pierced the veil of tradition and the past
no longer overpowers the present,—the progress of civilization
may be expected to be far greater and swifter than heretofore.
Even at our present rate of speed the point at which we may
arrive in two or three generations is beyond the power of ima-
gination to foresee. There are forces in the world which work,
not in an arithmetical, but in a geometrical ratio of increase.
Education, to use the expression of Plato, moves like a wheel
with an ever-multiplying rapidity. Nor can we say how great
may be its influence, when it becomes universal,—when it has
been inherited by many generations,—when it is freed from the
trammels of superstition and rightly adapted to the wants and
capacities of different classes of men and women. Neither do
we know how much more the co-operation of minds or of hands
may be capable of accomplishing, whether in labour or in
study. The resources of the natural sciences are not half-

178
developed as yet; the soil of the earth, instead of growing more
barren, may become many times more fertile than hitherto; the
uses of machinery far greater, and also more minute than at
present. New secrets of physiology may be revealed, deeply af-
fecting human nature in its innermost recesses. The standard
of health may be raised and the lives of men prolonged by san-
itary and medical knowledge. There may be peace, there may
be leisure, there may be innocent refreshments of many kinds.
The ever-increasing power of locomotion may join the extremes
of earth. There may be mysterious workings of the human
mind, such as occur only at great crises of history. The East
and the West may meet together, and all nations may contrib-
ute their thoughts and their experience to the common stock of
humanity. Many other elements enter into a speculation of this
kind. But it is better to make an end of them. For such reflec-
tions appear to the majority far-fetched, and to men of science,
commonplace.
(b) Neither to the mind of Plato nor of Aristotle did the doc-
trine of community of property present at all the same diffi-
culty, or appear to be the same violation of the common Hel-
lenic sentiment, as the community of wives and children. This
paradox he prefaces by another proposal, that the occupations
of men and women shall be the same, and that to this end they
shall have a common training and education. Male and female
animals have the same pursuits—why not also the two sexes of
man?
But have we not here fallen into a contradiction? for we were
saying that different natures should have different pursuits.
How then can men and women have the same? And is not the
proposal inconsistent with our notion of the division of la-
bour?—These objections are no sooner raised than answered;
for, according to Plato, there is no organic difference between
men and women, but only the accidental one that men beget
and women bear children. Following the analogy of the other
animals, he contends that all natural gifts are scattered about
indifferently among both sexes, though there may be a superi-
ority of degree on the part of the men. The objection on the
score of decency to their taking part in the same gymnastic ex-
ercises, is met by Plato's assertion that the existing feeling is a
matter of habit.

179
 That Plato should have emancipated himself from the ideas
of his own country and from the example of the East, shows a
wonderful independence of mind. He is conscious that women
are half the human race, in some respects the more important
half (Laws); and for the sake both of men and women he de-
sires to raise the woman to a higher level of existence. He
brings, not sentiment, but philosophy to bear upon a question
which both in ancient and modern times has been chiefly re-
garded in the light of custom or feeling. The Greeks had noble
conceptions of womanhood in the goddesses Athene and
Artemis, and in the heroines Antigone and Andromache. But
these ideals had no counterpart in actual life. The Athenian wo-
man was in no way the equal of her husband; she was not the
entertainer of his guests or the mistress of his house, but only
his housekeeper and the mother of his children. She took no
part in military or political matters; nor is there any instance in
the later ages of Greece of a woman becoming famous in liter-
ature. 'Hers is the greatest glory who has the least renown
among men,' is the historian's conception of feminine excel-
lence. A very different ideal of womanhood is held up by Plato
to the world; she is to be the companion of the man, and to
share with him in the toils of war and in the cares of govern-
ment. She is to be similarly trained both in bodily and mental
exercises. She is to lose as far as possible the incidents of ma-
ternity and the characteristics of the female sex.
The modern antagonist of the equality of the sexes would ar-
gue that the differences between men and women are not con-
fined to the single point urged by Plato; that sensibility, gentle-
ness, grace, are the qualities of women, while energy,
strength, higher intelligence, are to be looked for in men. And
the criticism is just: the differences affect the whole nature,
and are not, as Plato supposes, confined to a single point. But
neither can we say how far these differences are due to educa-
tion and the opinions of mankind, or physically inherited from
the habits and opinions of former generations. Women have
been always taught, not exactly that they are slaves, but that
they are in an inferior position, which is also supposed to have
compensating advantages; and to this position they have con-
formed. It is also true that the physical form may easily change
in the course of generations through the mode of life; and the

180
weakness or delicacy, which was once a matter of opinion, may
become a physical fact. The characteristics of sex vary greatly
in different countries and ranks of society, and at different
ages in the same individuals. Plato may have been right in
denying that there was any ultimate difference in the sexes of
man other than that which exists in animals, because all other
differences may be conceived to disappear in other states of
society, or under different circumstances of life and training.
The first wave having been passed, we proceed to the
second—community of wives and children. 'Is it possible? Is it
desirable?' For as Glaucon intimates, and as we far more
strongly insist, 'Great doubts may be entertained about both
these points.' Any free discussion of the question is impossible,
and mankind are perhaps right in not allowing the ultimate
bases of social life to be examined. Few of us can safely en-
quire into the things which nature hides, any more than we can
dissect our own bodies. Still, the manner in which Plato arrived
at his conclusions should be considered. For here, as Mr. Grote
has remarked, is a wonderful thing, that one of the wisest and
best of men should have entertained ideas of morality which
are wholly at variance with our own. And if we would do Plato
justice, we must examine carefully the character of his propos-
als. First, we may observe that the relations of the sexes sup-
posed by him are the reverse of licentious: he seems rather to
aim at an impossible strictness. Secondly, he conceives the
family to be the natural enemy of the state; and he entertains
the serious hope that an universal brotherhood may take the
place of private interests—an aspiration which, although not
justified by experience, has possessed many noble minds. On
the other hand, there is no sentiment or imagination in the con-
nections which men and women are supposed by him to form;
human beings return to the level of the animals, neither exalt-
ing to heaven, nor yet abusing the natural instincts. All that
world of poetry and fancy which the passion of love has called
forth in modern literature and romance would have been ban-
ished by Plato. The arrangements of marriage in the Republic
are directed to one object—the improvement of the race. In
successive generations a great development both of bodily and
mental qualities might be possible. The analogy of animals
tends to show that mankind can within certain limits receive a

181
change of nature. And as in animals we should commonly
choose the best for breeding, and destroy the others, so there
must be a selection made of the human beings whose lives are
worthy to be preserved.
We start back horrified from this Platonic ideal, in the belief,
first, that the higher feelings of humanity are far too strong to
be crushed out; secondly, that if the plan could be carried into
execution we should be poorly recompensed by improvements
in the breed for the loss of the best things in life. The greatest
regard for the weakest and meanest of human beings—the in-
fant, the criminal, the insane, the idiot, truly seems to us one of
the noblest results of Christianity. We have learned, though as
yet imperfectly, that the individual man has an endless value in
the sight of God, and that we honour Him when we honour the
darkened and disfigured image of Him (Laws). This is the les-
son which Christ taught in a parable when He said, 'Their an-
gels do always behold the face of My Father which is in heav-
en.' Such lessons are only partially realized in any age; they
were foreign to the age of Plato, as they have very different de-
grees of strength in different countries or ages of the Christian
world. To the Greek the family was a religious and customary
institution binding the members together by a tie inferior in
strength to that of friendship, and having a less solemn and
sacred sound than that of country. The relationship which exis-
ted on the lower level of custom, Plato imagined that he was
raising to the higher level of nature and reason; while from the
modern and Christian point of view we regard him as sanction-
ing murder and destroying the first principles of morality.
The great error in these and similar speculations is that the
difference between man and the animals is forgotten in them.
The human being is regarded with the eye of a dog- or bird-fan-
cier, or at best of a slave-owner; the higher or human qualities
are left out. The breeder of animals aims chiefly at size or
speed or strength; in a few cases at courage or temper; most
often the fitness of the animal for food is the great desiderat-
um. But mankind are not bred to be eaten, nor yet for their su-
periority in fighting or in running or in drawing carts. Neither
does the improvement of the human race consist merely in the
increase of the bones and flesh, but in the growth and enlight-
enment of the mind. Hence there must be 'a marriage of true

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minds' as well as of bodies, of imagination and reason as well
as of lusts and instincts. Men and women without feeling or
imagination are justly called brutes; yet Plato takes away these
qualities and puts nothing in their place, not even the desire of
a noble offspring, since parents are not to know their own chil-
dren. The most important transaction of social life, he who is
the idealist philosopher converts into the most brutal. For the
pair are to have no relation to one another, except at the hy-
meneal festival; their children are not theirs, but the state's;
nor is any tie of affection to unite them. Yet here the analogy of
the animals might have saved Plato from a gigantic error, if he
had 'not lost sight of his own illustration.' For the 'nobler sort
of birds and beasts' nourish and protect their offspring and are
faithful to one another.
An eminent physiologist thinks it worth while 'to try and
place life on a physical basis.' But should not life rest on the
moral rather than upon the physical? The higher comes first,
then the lower, first the human and rational, afterwards the an-
imal. Yet they are not absolutely divided; and in times of sick-
ness or moments of self-indulgence they seem to be only differ-
ent aspects of a common human nature which includes them
both. Neither is the moral the limit of the physical, but the ex-
pansion and enlargement of it,—the highest form which the
physical is capable of receiving. As Plato would say, the body
does not take care of the body, and still less of the mind, but
the mind takes care of both. In all human action not that which
is common to man and the animals is the characteristic ele-
ment, but that which distinguishes him from them. Even if we
admit the physical basis, and resolve all virtue into health of
body 'la facon que notre sang circule,' still on merely physical
grounds we must come back to ideas. Mind and reason and
duty and conscience, under these or other names, are always
reappearing. There cannot be health of body without health of
mind; nor health of mind without the sense of duty and the love
of truth (Charm).
That the greatest of ancient philosophers should in his regu-
lations about marriage have fallen into the error of separating
body and mind, does indeed appear surprising. Yet the wonder
is not so much that Plato should have entertained ideas of mor-
ality which to our own age are revolting, but that he should

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have contradicted himself to an extent which is hardly cred-
ible, falling in an instant from the heaven of idealism into the
crudest animalism. Rejoicing in the newly found gift of reflec-
tion, he appears to have thought out a subject about which he
had better have followed the enlightened feeling of his own
age. The general sentiment of Hellas was opposed to his mon-
strous fancy. The old poets, and in later time the tragedians,
showed no want of respect for the family, on which much of
their religion was based. But the example of Sparta, and per-
haps in some degree the tendency to defy public opinion,
seems to have misled him. He will make one family out of all
the families of the state. He will select the finest specimens of
men and women and breed from these only.
Yet because the illusion is always returning (for the animal
part of human nature will from time to time assert itself in the
disguise of philosophy as well as of poetry), and also because
any departure from established morality, even where this is not
intended, is apt to be unsettling, it may be worth while to draw
out a little more at length the objections to the Platonic mar-
riage. In the first place, history shows that wherever polygamy
has been largely allowed the race has deteriorated. One man to
one woman is the law of God and nature. Nearly all the civil-
ized peoples of the world at some period before the age of writ-
ten records, have become monogamists; and the step when
once taken has never been retraced. The exceptions occurring
among Brahmins or Mahometans or the ancient Persians, are
of that sort which may be said to prove the rule. The connex-
ions formed between superior and inferior races hardly ever
produce a noble offspring, because they are licentious; and be-
cause the children in such cases usually despise the mother
and are neglected by the father who is ashamed of them. Bar-
barous nations when they are introduced by Europeans to vice
die out; polygamist peoples either import and adopt children
from other countries, or dwindle in numbers, or both. Dyn-
asties and aristocracies which have disregarded the laws of
nature have decreased in numbers and degenerated in stature;
'mariages de convenance' leave their enfeebling stamp on the
offspring of them (King Lear). The marriage of near relations,
or the marrying in and in of the same family tends constantly
to weakness or idiocy in the children, sometimes assuming the

184
form as they grow older of passionate licentiousness. The com-
mon prostitute rarely has any offspring. By such unmistakable
evidence is the authority of morality asserted in the relations of
the sexes: and so many more elements enter into this 'mystery'
than are dreamed of by Plato and some other philosophers.
Recent enquirers have indeed arrived at the conclusion that
among primitive tribes there existed a community of wives as
of property, and that the captive taken by the spear was the
only wife or slave whom any man was permitted to call his
own. The partial existence of such customs among some of the
lower races of man, and the survival of peculiar ceremonies in
the marriages of some civilized nations, are thought to furnish
a proof of similar institutions having been once universal.
There can be no question that the study of anthropology has
considerably changed our views respecting the first appear-
ance of man upon the earth. We know more about the abori-
gines of the world than formerly, but our increasing knowledge
shows above all things how little we know. With all the helps
which written monuments afford, we do but faintly realize the
condition of man two thousand or three thousand years ago. Of
what his condition was when removed to a distance 200,000 or
300,000 years, when the majority of mankind were lower and
nearer the animals than any tribe now existing upon the earth,
we cannot even entertain conjecture. Plato (Laws) and Aris-
totle (Metaph.) may have been more right than we imagine in
supposing that some forms of civilisation were discovered and
lost several times over. If we cannot argue that all barbarism is
a degraded civilization, neither can we set any limits to the
depth of degradation to which the human race may sink
through war, disease, or isolation. And if we are to draw infer-
ences about the origin of marriage from the practice of barbar-
ous nations, we should also consider the remoter analogy of
the animals. Many birds and animals, especially the carnivor-
ous, have only one mate, and the love and care of offspring
which seems to be natural is inconsistent with the primitive
theory of marriage. If we go back to an imaginary state in
which men were almost animals and the companions of them,
we have as much right to argue from what is animal to what is
human as from the barbarous to the civilized man. The record
of animal life on the globe is fragmentary,—the connecting

185
links are wanting and cannot be supplied; the record of social
life is still more fragmentary and precarious. Even if we admit
that our first ancestors had no such institution as marriage,
still the stages by which men passed from outer barbarism to
the comparative civilization of China, Assyria, and Greece, or
even of the ancient Germans, are wholly unknown to us.
Such speculations are apt to be unsettling, because they
seem to show that an institution which was thought to be a rev-
elation from heaven, is only the growth of history and experi-
ence. We ask what is the origin of marriage, and we are told
that like the right of property, after many wars and contests, it
has gradually arisen out of the selfishness of barbarians. We
stand face to face with human nature in its primitive naked-
ness. We are compelled to accept, not the highest, but the low-
est account of the origin of human society. But on the other
hand we may truly say that every step in human progress has
been in the same direction, and that in the course of ages the
idea of marriage and of the family has been more and more
defined and consecrated. The civilized East is immeasurably in
advance of any savage tribes; the Greeks and Romans have im-
proved upon the East; the Christian nations have been stricter
in their views of the marriage relation than any of the ancients.
In this as in so many other things, instead of looking back with
regret to the past, we should look forward with hope to the fu-
ture. We must consecrate that which we believe to be the most
holy, and that 'which is the most holy will be the most useful.'
There is more reason for maintaining the sacredness of the
marriage tie, when we see the benefit of it, than when we only
felt a vague religious horror about the violation of it. But in all
times of transition, when established beliefs are being under-
mined, there is a danger that in the passage from the old to the
new we may insensibly let go the moral principle, finding an
excuse for listening to the voice of passion in the uncertainty of
knowledge, or the fluctuations of opinion. And there are many
persons in our own day who, enlightened by the study of an-
thropology, and fascinated by what is new and strange, some
using the language of fear, others of hope, are inclined to be-
lieve that a time will come when through the self-assertion of
women, or the rebellious spirit of children, by the analysis of
human relations, or by the force of outward circumstances, the

186
ties of family life may be broken or greatly relaxed. They point
to societies in America and elsewhere which tend to show that
the destruction of the family need not necessarily involve the
overthrow of all morality. Wherever we may think of such spec-
ulations, we can hardly deny that they have been more rife in
this generation than in any other; and whither they are tend-
ing, who can predict?
To the doubts and queries raised by these 'social reformers'
respecting the relation of the sexes and the moral nature of
man, there is a sufficient answer, if any is needed. The differ-
ence about them and us is really one of fact. They are speaking
of man as they wish or fancy him to be, but we are speaking of
him as he is. They isolate the animal part of his nature; we re-
gard him as a creature having many sides, or aspects, moving
between good and evil, striving to rise above himself and to be-
come 'a little lower than the angels.' We also, to use a Platonic
formula, are not ignorant of the dissatisfactions and incompat-
ibilities of family life, of the meannesses of trade, of the flatter-
ies of one class of society by another, of the impediments
which the family throws in the way of lofty aims and aspira-
tions. But we are conscious that there are evils and dangers in
the background greater still, which are not appreciated, be-
cause they are either concealed or suppressed. What a condi-
tion of man would that be, in which human passions were con-
trolled by no authority, divine or human, in which there was no
shame or decency, no higher affection overcoming or sanctify-
ing the natural instincts, but simply a rule of health! Is it for
this that we are asked to throw away the civilization which is
the growth of ages?
For strength and health are not the only qualities to be de-
sired; there are the more important considerations of mind and
character and soul. We know how human nature may be de-
graded; we do not know how by artificial means any improve-
ment in the breed can be effected. The problem is a complex
one, for if we go back only four steps (and these at least enter
into the composition of a child), there are commonly thirty pro-
genitors to be taken into account. Many curious facts, rarely
admitting of proof, are told us respecting the inheritance of
disease or character from a remote ancestor. We can trace the

187
physical resemblances of parents and children in the same
family—
'Sic oculos, sic ille manus, sic ora ferebat';
but scarcely less often the differences which distinguish chil-
dren both from their parents and from one another. We are
told of similar mental peculiarities running in families, and
again of a tendency, as in the animals, to revert to a common
or original stock. But we have a difficulty in distinguishing
what is a true inheritance of genius or other qualities, and
what is mere imitation or the result of similar circumstances.
Great men and great women have rarely had great fathers and
mothers. Nothing that we know of in the circumstances of their
birth or lineage will explain their appearance. Of the English
poets of the last and two preceding centuries scarcely a des-
cendant remains,—none have ever been distinguished. So
deeply has nature hidden her secret, and so ridiculous is the
fancy which has been entertained by some that we might in
time by suitable marriage arrangements or, as Plato would
have said, 'by an ingenious system of lots,' produce a
Shakespeare or a Milton. Even supposing that we could breed
men having the tenacity of bulldogs, or, like the Spartans,
'lacking the wit to run away in battle,' would the world be any
the better? Many of the noblest specimens of the human race
have been among the weakest physically. Tyrtaeus or Aesop, or
our own Newton, would have been exposed at Sparta; and
some of the fairest and strongest men and women have been
among the wickedest and worst. Not by the Platonic device of
uniting the strong and fair with the strong and fair, regardless
of sentiment and morality, nor yet by his other device of com-
bining dissimilar natures (Statesman), have mankind gradually
passed from the brutality and licentiousness of primitive mar-
riage to marriage Christian and civilized.
Few persons would deny that we bring into the world an in-
heritance of mental and physical qualities derived first from
our parents, or through them from some remoter ancestor,
secondly from our race, thirdly from the general condition of
mankind into which we are born. Nothing is commoner than
the remark, that 'So and so is like his father or his uncle'; and
an aged person may not unfrequently note a resemblance in a
youth to a long-forgotten ancestor, observing that 'Nature

188
sometimes skips a generation.' It may be true also, that if we
knew more about our ancestors, these similarities would be
even more striking to us. Admitting the facts which are thus
described in a popular way, we may however remark that there
is no method of difference by which they can be defined or es-
timated, and that they constitute only a small part of each indi-
vidual. The doctrine of heredity may seem to take out of our
hands the conduct of our own lives, but it is the idea, not the
fact, which is really terrible to us. For what we have received
from our ancestors is only a fraction of what we are, or may be-
come. The knowledge that drunkenness or insanity has been
prevalent in a family may be the best safeguard against their
recurrence in a future generation. The parent will be most
awake to the vices or diseases in his child of which he is most
sensible within himself. The whole of life may be directed to
their prevention or cure. The traces of consumption may be-
come fainter, or be wholly effaced: the inherent tendency to
vice or crime may be eradicated. And so heredity, from being a
curse, may become a blessing. We acknowledge that in the
matter of our birth, as in our nature generally, there are previ-
ous circumstances which affect us. But upon this platform of
circumstances or within this wall of necessity, we have still the
power of creating a life for ourselves by the informing energy
of the human will.
There is another aspect of the marriage question to which
Plato is a stranger. All the children born in his state are found-
lings. It never occurred to him that the greater part of them,
according to universal experience, would have perished. For
children can only be brought up in families. There is a subtle
sympathy between the mother and the child which cannot be
supplied by other mothers, or by 'strong nurses one or more'
(Laws). If Plato's 'pen' was as fatal as the Creches of Paris, or
the foundling hospital of Dublin, more than nine-tenths of his
children would have perished. There would have been no need
to expose or put out of the way the weaklier children, for they
would have died of themselves. So emphatically does nature
protest against the destruction of the family.
What Plato had heard or seen of Sparta was applied by him
in a mistaken way to his ideal commonwealth. He probably ob-
served that both the Spartan men and women were superior in

189
form and strength to the other Greeks; and this superiority he
was disposed to attribute to the laws and customs relating to
marriage. He did not consider that the desire of a noble off-
spring was a passion among the Spartans, or that their physic-
al superiority was to be attributed chiefly, not to their marriage
customs, but to their temperance and training. He did not re-
flect that Sparta was great, not in consequence of the relaxa-
tion of morality, but in spite of it, by virtue of a political prin-
ciple stronger far than existed in any other Grecian state. Least
of all did he observe that Sparta did not really produce the
finest specimens of the Greek race. The genius, the political in-
spiration of Athens, the love of liberty—all that has made
Greece famous with posterity, were wanting among the
Spartans. They had no Themistocles, or Pericles, or Aeschylus,
or Sophocles, or Socrates, or Plato. The individual was not al-
lowed to appear above the state; the laws were fixed, and he
had no business to alter or reform them. Yet whence has the
progress of cities and nations arisen, if not from remarkable in-
dividuals, coming into the world we know not how, and from
causes over which we have no control? Something too much
may have been said in modern times of the value of individual-
ity. But we can hardly condemn too strongly a system which,
instead of fostering the scattered seeds or sparks of genius and
character, tends to smother and extinguish them.
Still, while condemning Plato, we must acknowledge that
neither Christianity, nor any other form of religion and society,
has hitherto been able to cope with this most difficult of social
problems, and that the side from which Plato regarded it is
that from which we turn away. Population is the most untame-
able force in the political and social world. Do we not find, es-
pecially in large cities, that the greatest hindrance to the
amelioration of the poor is their improvidence in marriage?—a
small fault truly, if not involving endless consequences. There
are whole countries too, such as India, or, nearer home, Ire-
land, in which a right solution of the marriage question seems
to lie at the foundation of the happiness of the community.
There are too many people on a given space, or they marry too
early and bring into the world a sickly and half-developed off-
spring; or owing to the very conditions of their existence, they
become emaciated and hand on a similar life to their

190
descendants. But who can oppose the voice of prudence to the
'mightiest passions of mankind' (Laws), especially when they
have been licensed by custom and religion? In addition to the
influences of education, we seem to require some new prin-
ciples of right and wrong in these matters, some force of opin-
ion, which may indeed be already heard whispering in private,
but has never affected the moral sentiments of mankind in gen-
eral. We unavoidably lose sight of the principle of utility, just in
that action of our lives in which we have the most need of it.
The influences which we can bring to bear upon this question
are chiefly indirect. In a generation or two, education, emigra-
tion, improvements in agriculture and manufactures, may have
provided the solution. The state physician hardly likes to probe
the wound: it is beyond his art; a matter which he cannot safely
let alone, but which he dare not touch:
'We do but skin and film the ulcerous place.'
When again in private life we see a whole family one by one
dropping into the grave under the Ate of some inherited mal-
ady, and the parents perhaps surviving them, do our minds
ever go back silently to that day twenty-five or thirty years be-
fore on which under the fairest auspices, amid the rejoicings of
friends and acquaintances, a bride and bridegroom joined
hands with one another? In making such a reflection we are
not opposing physical considerations to moral, but moral to
physical; we are seeking to make the voice of reason heard,
which drives us back from the extravagance of sentimentalism
on common sense. The late Dr. Combe is said by his biographer
to have resisted the temptation to marriage, because he knew
that he was subject to hereditary consumption. One who de-
served to be called a man of genius, a friend of my youth, was
in the habit of wearing a black ribbon on his wrist, in order to
remind him that, being liable to outbreaks of insanity, he must
not give way to the natural impulses of affection: he died un-
married in a lunatic asylum. These two little facts suggest the
reflection that a very few persons have done from a sense of
duty what the rest of mankind ought to have done under like
circumstances, if they had allowed themselves to think of all
the misery which they were about to bring into the world. If we
could prevent such marriages without any violation of feeling
or propriety, we clearly ought; and the prohibition in the

191
course of time would be protected by a 'horror naturalis' simil-
ar to that which, in all civilized ages and countries, has preven-
ted the marriage of near relations by blood. Mankind would
have been the happier, if some things which are now allowed
had from the beginning been denied to them; if the sanction of
religion could have prohibited practices inimical to health; if
sanitary principles could in early ages have been invested with
a superstitious awe. But, living as we do far on in the world's
history, we are no longer able to stamp at once with the im-
press of religion a new prohibition. A free agent cannot have
his fancies regulated by law; and the execution of the law
would be rendered impossible, owing to the uncertainty of the
cases in which marriage was to be forbidden. Who can weigh
virtue, or even fortune against health, or moral and mental
qualities against bodily? Who can measure probabilities
against certainties? There has been some good as well as evil
in the discipline of suffering; and there are diseases, such as
consumption, which have exercised a refining and softening in-
fluence on the character. Youth is too inexperienced to balance
such nice considerations; parents do not often think of them, or
think of them too late. They are at a distance and may probably
be averted; change of place, a new state of life, the interests of
a home may be the cure of them. So persons vainly reason
when their minds are already made up and their fortunes irre-
vocably linked together. Nor is there any ground for supposing
that marriages are to any great extent influenced by reflections
of this sort, which seem unable to make any head against the
irresistible impulse of individual attachment.
Lastly, no one can have observed the first rising flood of the
passions in youth, the difficulty of regulating them, and the ef-
fects on the whole mind and nature which follow from them,
the stimulus which is given to them by the imagination, without
feeling that there is something unsatisfactory in our method of
treating them. That the most important influence on human life
should be wholly left to chance or shrouded in mystery, and in-
stead of being disciplined or understood, should be required to
conform only to an external standard of propriety—cannot be
regarded by the philosopher as a safe or satisfactory condition
of human things. And still those who have the charge of youth
may find a way by watchfulness, by affection, by the manliness

192
and innocence of their own lives, by occasional hints, by gener-
al admonitions which every one can apply for himself, to mitig-
ate this terrible evil which eats out the heart of individuals and
corrupts the moral sentiments of nations. In no duty towards
others is there more need of reticence and self-restraint. So
great is the danger lest he who would be the counsellor of an-
other should reveal the secret prematurely, lest he should get
another too much into his power; or fix the passing impression
of evil by demanding the confession of it.
Nor is Plato wrong in asserting that family attachments may
interfere with higher aims. If there have been some who 'to
party gave up what was meant for mankind,' there have cer-
tainly been others who to family gave up what was meant for
mankind or for their country. The cares of children, the neces-
sity of procuring money for their support, the flatteries of the
rich by the poor, the exclusiveness of caste, the pride of birth
or wealth, the tendency of family life to divert men from the
pursuit of the ideal or the heroic, are as lowering in our own
age as in that of Plato. And if we prefer to look at the gentle in-
fluences of home, the development of the affections, the amen-
ities of society, the devotion of one member of a family for the
good of the others, which form one side of the picture, we must
not quarrel with him, or perhaps ought rather to be grateful to
him, for having presented to us the reverse. Without attempt-
ing to defend Plato on grounds of morality, we may allow that
there is an aspect of the world which has not unnaturally led
him into error.
We hardly appreciate the power which the idea of the State,
like all other abstract ideas, exercised over the mind of Plato.
To us the State seems to be built up out of the family, or some-
times to be the framework in which family and social life is
contained. But to Plato in his present mood of mind the family
is only a disturbing influence which, instead of filling up, tends
to disarrange the higher unity of the State. No organization is
needed except a political, which, regarded from another point
of view, is a military one. The State is all-sufficing for the
wants of man, and, like the idea of the Church in later ages, ab-
sorbs all other desires and affections. In time of war the thou-
sand citizens are to stand like a rampart impregnable against
the world or the Persian host; in time of peace the preparation

193
for war and their duties to the State, which are also their du-
ties to one another, take up their whole life and time. The only
other interest which is allowed to them besides that of war, is
the interest of philosophy. When they are too old to be soldiers
they are to retire from active life and to have a second noviti-
ate of study and contemplation. There is an element of monast-
icism even in Plato's communism. If he could have done
without children, he might have converted his Republic into a
religious order. Neither in the Laws, when the daylight of com-
mon sense breaks in upon him, does he retract his error. In the
state of which he would be the founder, there is no marrying or
giving in marriage: but because of the infirmity of mankind, he
condescends to allow the law of nature to prevail.
(c) But Plato has an equal, or, in his own estimation, even
greater paradox in reserve, which is summed up in the famous
text, 'Until kings are philosophers or philosophers are kings,
cities will never cease from ill.' And by philosophers he ex-
plains himself to mean those who are capable of apprehending
ideas, especially the idea of good. To the attainment of this
higher knowledge the second education is directed. Through a
process of training which has already made them good citizens
they are now to be made good legislators. We find with some
surprise (not unlike the feeling which Aristotle in a well-known
passage describes the hearers of Plato's lectures as experien-
cing, when they went to a discourse on the idea of good, ex-
pecting to be instructed in moral truths, and received instead
of them arithmetical and mathematical formulae) that Plato
does not propose for his future legislators any study of finance
or law or military tactics, but only of abstract mathematics, as
a preparation for the still more abstract conception of good.
We ask, with Aristotle, What is the use of a man knowing the
idea of good, if he does not know what is good for this individu-
al, this state, this condition of society? We cannot understand
how Plato's legislators or guardians are to be fitted for their
work of statesmen by the study of the five mathematical sci-
ences. We vainly search in Plato's own writings for any explan-
ation of this seeming absurdity.
The discovery of a great metaphysical conception seems to
ravish the mind with a prophetic consciousness which takes
away the power of estimating its value. No metaphysical

194
enquirer has ever fairly criticised his own speculations; in his
own judgment they have been above criticism; nor has he un-
derstood that what to him seemed to be absolute truth may re-
appear in the next generation as a form of logic or an instru-
ment of thought. And posterity have also sometimes equally
misapprehended the real value of his speculations. They ap-
pear to them to have contributed nothing to the stock of human
knowledge. The IDEA of good is apt to be regarded by the mod-
ern thinker as an unmeaning abstraction; but he forgets that
this abstraction is waiting ready for use, and will hereafter be
filled up by the divisions of knowledge. When mankind do not
as yet know that the world is subject to law, the introduction of
the mere conception of law or design or final cause, and the
far-off anticipation of the harmony of knowledge, are great
steps onward. Even the crude generalization of the unity of all
things leads men to view the world with different eyes, and
may easily affect their conception of human life and of politics,
and also their own conduct and character (Tim). We can ima-
gine how a great mind like that of Pericles might derive eleva-
tion from his intercourse with Anaxagoras (Phaedr.). To be
struggling towards a higher but unattainable conception is a
more favourable intellectual condition than to rest satisfied in
a narrow portion of ascertained fact. And the earlier, which
have sometimes been the greater ideas of science, are often
lost sight of at a later period. How rarely can we say of any
modern enquirer in the magnificent language of Plato, that 'He
is the spectator of all time and of all existence!'
Nor is there anything unnatural in the hasty application of
these vast metaphysical conceptions to practical and political
life. In the first enthusiasm of ideas men are apt to see them
everywhere, and to apply them in the most remote sphere.
They do not understand that the experience of ages is required
to enable them to fill up 'the intermediate axioms.' Plato him-
self seems to have imagined that the truths of psychology, like
those of astronomy and harmonics, would be arrived at by a
process of deduction, and that the method which he has pur-
sued in the Fourth Book, of inferring them from experience and
the use of language, was imperfect and only provisional. But
when, after having arrived at the idea of good, which is the end
of the science of dialectic, he is asked, What is the nature, and

195
what are the divisions of the science? He refuses to answer, as
if intending by the refusal to intimate that the state of know-
ledge which then existed was not such as would allow the
philosopher to enter into his final rest. The previous sciences
must first be studied, and will, we may add, continue to be
studied tell the end of time, although in a sense different from
any which Plato could have conceived. But we may observe,
that while he is aware of the vacancy of his own ideal, he is full
of enthusiasm in the contemplation of it. Looking into the orb
of light, he sees nothing, but he is warmed and elevated. The
Hebrew prophet believed that faith in God would enable him to
govern the world; the Greek philosopher imagined that con-
templation of the good would make a legislator. There is as
much to be filled up in the one case as in the other, and the
one mode of conception is to the Israelite what the other is to
the Greek. Both find a repose in a divine perfection, which,
whether in a more personal or impersonal form, exists without
them and independently of them, as well as within them.
There is no mention of the idea of good in the Timaeus, nor
of the divine Creator of the world in the Republic; and we are
naturally led to ask in what relation they stand to one another.
Is God above or below the idea of good? Or is the Idea of Good
another mode of conceiving God? The latter appears to be the
truer answer. To the Greek philosopher the perfection and
unity of God was a far higher conception than his personality,
which he hardly found a word to express, and which to him
would have seemed to be borrowed from mythology. To the
Christian, on the other hand, or to the modern thinker in gen-
eral, it is difficult, if not impossible, to attach reality to what he
terms mere abstraction; while to Plato this very abstraction is
the truest and most real of all things. Hence, from a difference
in forms of thought, Plato appears to be resting on a creation
of his own mind only. But if we may be allowed to paraphrase
the idea of good by the words 'intelligent principle of law and
order in the universe, embracing equally man and nature,' we
begin to find a meeting-point between him and ourselves.
The question whether the ruler or statesman should be a
philosopher is one that has not lost interest in modern times. In
most countries of Europe and Asia there has been some one in
the course of ages who has truly united the power of command

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with the power of thought and reflection, as there have been
also many false combinations of these qualities. Some kind of
speculative power is necessary both in practical and political
life; like the rhetorician in the Phaedrus, men require to have a
conception of the varieties of human character, and to be
raised on great occasions above the commonplaces of ordinary
life. Yet the idea of the philosopher-statesman has never been
popular with the mass of mankind; partly because he cannot
take the world into his confidence or make them understand
the motives from which he acts; and also because they are jeal-
ous of a power which they do not understand. The revolution
which human nature desires to effect step by step in many
ages is likely to be precipitated by him in a single year or life.
They are afraid that in the pursuit of his greater aims he may
disregard the common feelings of humanity, he is too apt to be
looking into the distant future or back into the remote past,
and unable to see actions or events which, to use an expression
of Plato's 'are tumbling out at his feet.' Besides, as Plato would
say, there are other corruptions of these philosophical states-
men. Either 'the native hue of resolution is sicklied o'er with
the pale cast of thought,' and at the moment when action
above all things is required he is undecided, or general prin-
ciples are enunciated by him in order to cover some change of
policy; or his ignorance of the world has made him more easily
fall a prey to the arts of others; or in some cases he has been
converted into a courtier, who enjoys the luxury of holding lib-
eral opinions, but was never known to perform a liberal action.
No wonder that mankind have been in the habit of calling
statesmen of this class pedants, sophisters, doctrinaires, vis-
ionaries. For, as we may be allowed to say, a little parodying
the words of Plato, 'they have seen bad imitations of the
philosopher-statesman.' But a man in whom the power of
thought and action are perfectly balanced, equal to the
present, reaching forward to the future, 'such a one,' ruling in
a constitutional state, 'they have never seen.'
But as the philosopher is apt to fail in the routine of political
life, so the ordinary statesman is also apt to fail in extraordin-
ary crises. When the face of the world is beginning to alter,
and thunder is heard in the distance, he is still guided by his
old maxims, and is the slave of his inveterate party prejudices;

197
he cannot perceive the signs of the times; instead of looking
forward he looks back; he learns nothing and forgets nothing;
with 'wise saws and modern instances' he would stem the
rising tide of revolution. He lives more and more within the
circle of his own party, as the world without him becomes
stronger. This seems to be the reason why the old order of
things makes so poor a figure when confronted with the new,
why churches can never reform, why most political changes
are made blindly and convulsively. The great crises in the his-
tory of nations have often been met by an ecclesiastical posit-
iveness, and a more obstinate reassertion of principles which
have lost their hold upon a nation. The fixed ideas of a reac-
tionary statesman may be compared to madness; they grow
upon him, and he becomes possessed by them; no judgement of
others is ever admitted by him to be weighed in the balance
against his own.
(d) Plato, labouring under what, to modern readers, appears
to have been a confusion of ideas, assimilates the state to the
individual, and fails to distinguish Ethics from Politics. He
thinks that to be most of a state which is most like one man,
and in which the citizens have the greatest uniformity of char-
acter. He does not see that the analogy is partly fallacious, and
that the will or character of a state or nation is really the bal-
ance or rather the surplus of individual wills, which are limited
by the condition of having to act in common. The movement of
a body of men can never have the pliancy or facility of a single
man; the freedom of the individual, which is always limited, be-
comes still more straitened when transferred to a nation. The
powers of action and feeling are necessarily weaker and more
balanced when they are diffused through a community; whence
arises the often discussed question, 'Can a nation, like an indi-
vidual, have a conscience?' We hesitate to say that the charac-
ters of nations are nothing more than the sum of the charac-
ters of the individuals who compose them; because there may
be tendencies in individuals which react upon one another. A
whole nation may be wiser than any one man in it; or may be
animated by some common opinion or feeling which could not
equally have affected the mind of a single person, or may have
been inspired by a leader of genius to perform acts more than
human. Plato does not appear to have analysed the

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complications which arise out of the collective action of man-
kind. Neither is he capable of seeing that analogies, though
specious as arguments, may often have no foundation in fact,
or of distinguishing between what is intelligible or vividly
present to the mind, and what is true. In this respect he is far
below Aristotle, who is comparatively seldom imposed upon by
false analogies. He cannot disentangle the arts from the vir-
tues—at least he is always arguing from one to the other. His
notion of music is transferred from harmony of sounds to har-
mony of life: in this he is assisted by the ambiguities of lan-
guage as well as by the prevalence of Pythagorean notions.
And having once assimilated the state to the individual, he ima-
gines that he will find the succession of states paralleled in the
lives of individuals.
Still, through this fallacious medium, a real enlargement of
ideas is attained. When the virtues as yet presented no distinct
conception to the mind, a great advance was made by the com-
parison of them with the arts; for virtue is partly art, and has
an outward form as well as an inward principle. The harmony
of music affords a lively image of the harmonies of the world
and of human life, and may be regarded as a splendid illustra-
tion which was naturally mistaken for a real analogy. In the
same way the identification of ethics with politics has a tend-
ency to give definiteness to ethics, and also to elevate and en-
noble men's notions of the aims of government and of the du-
ties of citizens; for ethics from one point of view may be con-
ceived as an idealized law and politics; and politics, as ethics
reduced to the conditions of human society. There have been
evils which have arisen out of the attempt to identify them, and
this has led to the separation or antagonism of them, which has
been introduced by modern political writers. But we may like-
wise feel that something has been lost in their separation, and
that the ancient philosophers who estimated the moral and in-
tellectual wellbeing of mankind first, and the wealth of nations
and individuals second, may have a salutary influence on the
speculations of modern times. Many political maxims originate
in a reaction against an opposite error; and when the errors
against which they were directed have passed away, they in
turn become errors.

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 3. Plato's views of education are in several respects remark-
able; like the rest of the Republic they are partly Greek and
partly ideal, beginning with the ordinary curriculum of the
Greek youth, and extending to after-life. Plato is the first writer
who distinctly says that education is to comprehend the whole
of life, and to be a preparation for another in which education
begins again. This is the continuous thread which runs through
the Republic, and which more than any other of his ideas ad-
mits of an application to modern life.
He has long given up the notion that virtue cannot be taught;
and he is disposed to modify the thesis of the Protagoras, that
the virtues are one and not many. He is not unwilling to admit
the sensible world into his scheme of truth. Nor does he assert
in the Republic the involuntariness of vice, which is maintained
by him in the Timaeus, Sophist, and Laws (Protag., Apol.,
Gorg.). Nor do the so-called Platonic ideas recovered from a
former state of existence affect his theory of mental improve-
ment. Still we observe in him the remains of the old Socratic
doctrine, that true knowledge must be elicited from within, and
is to be sought for in ideas, not in particulars of sense. Educa-
tion, as he says, will implant a principle of intelligence which is
better than ten thousand eyes. The paradox that the virtues are
one, and the kindred notion that all virtue is knowledge, are
not entirely renounced; the first is seen in the supremacy given
to justice over the rest; the second in the tendency to absorb
the moral virtues in the intellectual, and to centre all goodness
in the contemplation of the idea of good. The world of sense is
still depreciated and identified with opinion, though admitted
to be a shadow of the true. In the Republic he is evidently im-
pressed with the conviction that vice arises chiefly from ignor-
ance and may be cured by education; the multitude are hardly
to be deemed responsible for what they do. A faint allusion to
the doctrine of reminiscence occurs in the Tenth Book; but
Plato's views of education have no more real connection with a
previous state of existence than our own; he only proposes to
elicit from the mind that which is there already. Education is
represented by him, not as the filling of a vessel, but as the
turning the eye of the soul towards the light.
He treats first of music or literature, which he divides into
true and false, and then goes on to gymnastics; of infancy in

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the Republic he takes no notice, though in the Laws he gives
sage counsels about the nursing of children and the manage-
ment of the mothers, and would have an education which is
even prior to birth. But in the Republic he begins with the age
at which the child is capable of receiving ideas, and boldly as-
serts, in language which sounds paradoxical to modern ears,
that he must be taught the false before he can learn the true.
The modern and ancient philosophical world are not agreed
about truth and falsehood; the one identifies truth almost ex-
clusively with fact, the other with ideas. This is the difference
between ourselves and Plato, which is, however, partly a differ-
ence of words. For we too should admit that a child must re-
ceive many lessons which he imperfectly understands; he must
be taught some things in a figure only, some too which he can
hardly be expected to believe when he grows older; but we
should limit the use of fiction by the necessity of the case. Plato
would draw the line differently; according to him the aim of
early education is not truth as a matter of fact, but truth as a
matter of principle; the child is to be taught first simple reli-
gious truths, and then simple moral truths, and insensibly to
learn the lesson of good manners and good taste. He would
make an entire reformation of the old mythology; like Xeno-
phanes and Heracleitus he is sensible of the deep chasm which
separates his own age from Homer and Hesiod, whom he
quotes and invests with an imaginary authority, but only for his
own purposes. The lusts and treacheries of the gods are to be
banished; the terrors of the world below are to be dispelled;
the misbehaviour of the Homeric heroes is not to be a model
for youth. But there is another strain heard in Homer which
may teach our youth endurance; and something may be learnt
in medicine from the simple practice of the Homeric age. The
principles on which religion is to be based are two only: first,
that God is true; secondly, that he is good. Modern and Christi-
an writers have often fallen short of these; they can hardly be
said to have gone beyond them.
The young are to be brought up in happy surroundings, out
of the way of sights or sounds which may hurt the character or
vitiate the taste. They are to live in an atmosphere of health;
the breeze is always to be wafting to them the impressions of
truth and goodness. Could such an education be realized, or if

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our modern religious education could be bound up with truth
and virtue and good manners and good taste, that would be the
best hope of human improvement. Plato, like ourselves, is look-
ing forward to changes in the moral and religious world, and is
preparing for them. He recognizes the danger of unsettling
young men's minds by sudden changes of laws and principles,
by destroying the sacredness of one set of ideas when there is
nothing else to take their place. He is afraid too of the influ-
ence of the drama, on the ground that it encourages false sen-
timent, and therefore he would not have his children taken to
the theatre; he thinks that the effect on the spectators is bad,
and on the actors still worse. His idea of education is that of
harmonious growth, in which are insensibly learnt the lessons
of temperance and endurance, and the body and mind de-
velope in equal proportions. The first principle which runs
through all art and nature is simplicity; this also is to be the
rule of human life.
The second stage of education is gymnastic, which answers
to the period of muscular growth and development. The simpli-
city which is enforced in music is extended to gymnastic; Plato
is aware that the training of the body may be inconsistent with
the training of the mind, and that bodily exercise may be easily
overdone. Excessive training of the body is apt to give men a
headache or to render them sleepy at a lecture on philosophy,
and this they attribute not to the true cause, but to the nature
of the subject. Two points are noticeable in Plato's treatment of
gymnastic:—First, that the time of training is entirely separ-
ated from the time of literary education. He seems to have
thought that two things of an opposite and different nature
could not be learnt at the same time. Here we can hardly agree
with him; and, if we may judge by experience, the effect of
spending three years between the ages of fourteen and seven-
teen in mere bodily exercise would be far from improving to
the intellect. Secondly, he affirms that music and gymnastic
are not, as common opinion is apt to imagine, intended, the
one for the cultivation of the mind and the other of the body,
but that they are both equally designed for the improvement of
the mind. The body, in his view, is the servant of the mind; the
subjection of the lower to the higher is for the advantage of
both. And doubtless the mind may exercise a very great and

202
paramount influence over the body, if exerted not at particular
moments and by fits and starts, but continuously, in making
preparation for the whole of life. Other Greek writers saw the
mischievous tendency of Spartan discipline (Arist. Pol; Thuc.).
But only Plato recognized the fundamental error on which the
practice was based.
The subject of gymnastic leads Plato to the sister subject of
medicine, which he further illustrates by the parallel of law.
The modern disbelief in medicine has led in this, as in some
other departments of knowledge, to a demand for greater sim-
plicity; physicians are becoming aware that they often make
diseases 'greater and more complicated' by their treatment of
them (Rep.). In two thousand years their art has made but
slender progress; what they have gained in the analysis of the
parts is in a great degree lost by their feebler conception of the
human frame as a whole. They have attended more to the cure
of diseases than to the conditions of health; and the improve-
ments in medicine have been more than counterbalanced by
the disuse of regular training. Until lately they have hardly
thought of air and water, the importance of which was well un-
derstood by the ancients; as Aristotle remarks, 'Air and water,
being the elements which we most use, have the greatest effect
upon health' (Polit.). For ages physicians have been under the
dominion of prejudices which have only recently given way;
and now there are as many opinions in medicine as in theology,
and an equal degree of scepticism and some want of toleration
about both. Plato has several good notions about medicine; ac-
cording to him, 'the eye cannot be cured without the rest of the
body, nor the body without the mind' (Charm.). No man of
sense, he says in the Timaeus, would take physic; and we
heartily sympathize with him in the Laws when he declares
that 'the limbs of the rustic worn with toil will derive more be-
nefit from warm baths than from the prescriptions of a not over
wise doctor.' But we can hardly praise him when, in obedience
to the authority of Homer, he depreciates diet, or approve of
the inhuman spirit in which he would get rid of invalid and use-
less lives by leaving them to die. He does not seem to have con-
sidered that the 'bridle of Theages' might be accompanied by
qualities which were of far more value to the State than the
health or strength of the citizens; or that the duty of taking

203
care of the helpless might be an important element of educa-
tion in a State. The physician himself (this is a delicate and
subtle observation) should not be a man in robust health; he
should have, in modern phraseology, a nervous temperament;
he should have experience of disease in his own person, in or-
der that his powers of observation may be quickened in the
case of others.
The perplexity of medicine is paralleled by the perplexity of
law; in which, again, Plato would have men follow the golden
rule of simplicity. Greater matters are to be determined by the
legislator or by the oracle of Delphi, lesser matters are to be
left to the temporary regulation of the citizens themselves.
Plato is aware that laissez faire is an important element of gov-
ernment. The diseases of a State are like the heads of a hydra;
they multiply when they are cut off. The true remedy for them
is not extirpation but prevention. And the way to prevent them
is to take care of education, and education will take care of all
the rest. So in modern times men have often felt that the only
political measure worth having—the only one which would pro-
duce any certain or lasting effect, was a measure of national
education. And in our own more than in any previous age the
necessity has been recognized of restoring the ever-increasing
confusion of law to simplicity and common sense.
When the training in music and gymnastic is completed,
there follows the first stage of active and public life. But soon
education is to begin again from a new point of view. In the in-
terval between the Fourth and Seventh Books we have dis-
cussed the nature of knowledge, and have thence been led to
form a higher conception of what was required of us. For true
knowledge, according to Plato, is of abstractions, and has to
do, not with particulars or individuals, but with universals only;
not with the beauties of poetry, but with the ideas of philo-
sophy. And the great aim of education is the cultivation of the
habit of abstraction. This is to be acquired through the study of
the mathematical sciences. They alone are capable of giving
ideas of relation, and of arousing the dormant energies of
thought.
Mathematics in the age of Plato comprehended a very small
part of that which is now included in them; but they bore a
much larger proportion to the sum of human knowledge. They

204
were the only organon of thought which the human mind at
that time possessed, and the only measure by which the chaos
of particulars could be reduced to rule and order. The faculty
which they trained was naturally at war with the poetical or
imaginative; and hence to Plato, who is everywhere seeking for
abstractions and trying to get rid of the illusions of sense,
nearly the whole of education is contained in them. They
seemed to have an inexhaustible application, partly because
their true limits were not yet understood. These Plato himself
is beginning to investigate; though not aware that number and
figure are mere abstractions of sense, he recognizes that the
forms used by geometry are borrowed from the sensible world.
He seeks to find the ultimate ground of mathematical ideas in
the idea of good, though he does not satisfactorily explain the
connexion between them; and in his conception of the relation
of ideas to numbers, he falls very far short of the definiteness
attributed to him by Aristotle (Met.). But if he fails to recognize
the true limits of mathematics, he also reaches a point beyond
them; in his view, ideas of number become secondary to a
higher conception of knowledge. The dialectician is as much
above the mathematician as the mathematician is above the or-
dinary man. The one, the self-proving, the good which is the
higher sphere of dialectic, is the perfect truth to which all
things ascend, and in which they finally repose.
This self-proving unity or idea of good is a mere vision of
which no distinct explanation can be given, relative only to a
particular stage in Greek philosophy. It is an abstraction under
which no individuals are comprehended, a whole which has no
parts (Arist., Nic. Eth.). The vacancy of such a form was per-
ceived by Aristotle, but not by Plato. Nor did he recognize that
in the dialectical process are included two or more methods of
investigation which are at variance with each other. He did not
see that whether he took the longer or the shorter road, no ad-
vance could be made in this way. And yet such visions often
have an immense effect; for although the method of science
cannot anticipate science, the idea of science, not as it is, but
as it will be in the future, is a great and inspiring principle. In
the pursuit of knowledge we are always pressing forward to
something beyond us; and as a false conception of knowledge,
for example the scholastic philosophy, may lead men astray

205
during many ages, so the true ideal, though vacant, may draw
all their thoughts in a right direction. It makes a great differ-
ence whether the general expectation of knowledge, as this in-
definite feeling may be termed, is based upon a sound judg-
ment. For mankind may often entertain a true conception of
what knowledge ought to be when they have but a slender ex-
perience of facts. The correlation of the sciences, the con-
sciousness of the unity of nature, the idea of classification, the
sense of proportion, the unwillingness to stop short of certainty
or to confound probability with truth, are important principles
of the higher education. Although Plato could tell us nothing,
and perhaps knew that he could tell us nothing, of the absolute
truth, he has exercised an influence on the human mind which
even at the present day is not exhausted; and political and so-
cial questions may yet arise in which the thoughts of Plato may
be read anew and receive a fresh meaning.
The Idea of good is so called only in the Republic, but there
are traces of it in other dialogues of Plato. It is a cause as well
as an idea, and from this point of view may be compared with
the creator of the Timaeus, who out of his goodness created all
things. It corresponds to a certain extent with the modern con-
ception of a law of nature, or of a final cause, or of both in one,
and in this regard may be connected with the measure and
symmetry of the Philebus. It is represented in the Symposium
under the aspect of beauty, and is supposed to be attained
there by stages of initiation, as here by regular gradations of
knowledge. Viewed subjectively, it is the process or science of
dialectic. This is the science which, according to the Phaedrus,
is the true basis of rhetoric, which alone is able to distinguish
the natures and classes of men and things; which divides a
whole into the natural parts, and reunites the scattered parts
into a natural or organized whole; which defines the abstract
essences or universal ideas of all things, and connects them;
which pierces the veil of hypotheses and reaches the final
cause or first principle of all; which regards the sciences in re-
lation to the idea of good. This ideal science is the highest pro-
cess of thought, and may be described as the soul conversing
with herself or holding communion with eternal truth and
beauty, and in another form is the everlasting question and an-
swer—the ceaseless interrogative of Socrates. The dialogues of

206
Plato are themselves examples of the nature and method of
dialectic. Viewed objectively, the idea of good is a power or
cause which makes the world without us correspond with the
world within. Yet this world without us is still a world of ideas.
With Plato the investigation of nature is another department of
knowledge, and in this he seeks to attain only probable conclu-
sions (Timaeus).
If we ask whether this science of dialectic which Plato only
half explains to us is more akin to logic or to metaphysics, the
answer is that in his mind the two sciences are not as yet dis-
tinguished, any more than the subjective and objective aspects
of the world and of man, which German philosophy has re-
vealed to us. Nor has he determined whether his science of
dialectic is at rest or in motion, concerned with the contempla-
tion of absolute being, or with a process of development and
evolution. Modern metaphysics may be described as the sci-
ence of abstractions, or as the science of the evolution of
thought; modern logic, when passing beyond the bounds of
mere Aristotelian forms, may be defined as the science of
method. The germ of both of them is contained in the Platonic
dialectic; all metaphysicians have something in common with
the ideas of Plato; all logicians have derived something from
the method of Plato. The nearest approach in modern philo-
sophy to the universal science of Plato, is to be found in the
Hegelian 'succession of moments in the unity of the idea.' Plato
and Hegel alike seem to have conceived the world as the cor-
relation of abstractions; and not impossibly they would have
understood one another better than any of their commentators
understand them (Swift's Voyage to Laputa. 'Having a desire to
see those ancients who were most renowned for wit and learn-
ing, I set apart one day on purpose. I proposed that Homer and
Aristotle might appear at the head of all their commentators;
but these were so numerous that some hundreds were forced
to attend in the court and outward rooms of the palace. I knew,
and could distinguish these two heroes, at first sight, not only
from the crowd, but from each other. Homer was the taller and
comelier person of the two, walked very erect for one of his
age, and his eyes were the most quick and piercing I ever be-
held. Aristotle stooped much, and made use of a staff. His vis-
age was meagre, his hair lank and thin, and his voice hollow. I

207
soon discovered that both of them were perfect strangers to
the rest of the company, and had never seen or heard of them
before. And I had a whisper from a ghost, who shall be name-
less, "That these commentators always kept in the most distant
quarters from their principals, in the lower world, through a
consciousness of shame and guilt, because they had so horribly
misrepresented the meaning of these authors to posterity." I
introduced Didymus and Eustathius to Homer, and prevailed
on him to treat them better than perhaps they deserved, for he
soon found they wanted a genius to enter into the spirit of a
poet. But Aristotle was out of all patience with the account I
gave him of Scotus and Ramus, as I presented them to him;
and he asked them "whether the rest of the tribe were as great
dunces as themselves?"'). There is, however, a difference
between them: for whereas Hegel is thinking of all the minds
of men as one mind, which developes the stages of the idea in
different countries or at different times in the same country,
with Plato these gradations are regarded only as an order of
thought or ideas; the history of the human mind had not yet
dawned upon him.
Many criticisms may be made on Plato's theory of education.
While in some respects he unavoidably falls short of modern
thinkers, in others he is in advance of them. He is opposed to
the modes of education which prevailed in his own time; but he
can hardly be said to have discovered new ones. He does not
see that education is relative to the characters of individuals;
he only desires to impress the same form of the state on the
minds of all. He has no sufficient idea of the effect of literature
on the formation of the mind, and greatly exaggerates that of
mathematics. His aim is above all things to train the reasoning
faculties; to implant in the mind the spirit and power of ab-
straction; to explain and define general notions, and, if pos-
sible, to connect them. No wonder that in the vacancy of actual
knowledge his followers, and at times even he himself, should
have fallen away from the doctrine of ideas, and have returned
to that branch of knowledge in which alone the relation of the
one and many can be truly seen—the science of number. In his
views both of teaching and training he might be styled, in mod-
ern language, a doctrinaire; after the Spartan fashion he would
have his citizens cast in one mould; he does not seem to

208
consider that some degree of freedom, 'a little wholesome neg-
lect,' is necessary to strengthen and develope the character
and to give play to the individual nature. His citizens would not
have acquired that knowledge which in the vision of Er is sup-
posed to be gained by the pilgrims from their experience of
evil.
On the other hand, Plato is far in advance of modern philo-
sophers and theologians when he teaches that education is to
be continued through life and will begin again in another. He
would never allow education of some kind to cease; although
he was aware that the proverbial saying of Solon, 'I grow old
learning many things,' cannot be applied literally. Himself rav-
ished with the contemplation of the idea of good, and delight-
ing in solid geometry (Rep.), he has no difficulty in imagining
that a lifetime might be passed happily in such pursuits. We
who know how many more men of business there are in the
world than real students or thinkers, are not equally sanguine.
The education which he proposes for his citizens is really the
ideal life of the philosopher or man of genius, interrupted, but
only for a time, by practical duties,—a life not for the many, but
for the few.
Yet the thought of Plato may not be wholly incapable of ap-
plication to our own times. Even if regarded as an ideal which
can never be realized, it may have a great effect in elevating
the characters of mankind, and raising them above the routine
of their ordinary occupation or profession. It is the best form
under which we can conceive the whole of life. Nevertheless
the idea of Plato is not easily put into practice. For the educa-
tion of after life is necessarily the education which each one
gives himself. Men and women cannot be brought together in
schools or colleges at forty or fifty years of age; and if they
could the result would be disappointing. The destination of
most men is what Plato would call 'the Den' for the whole of
life, and with that they are content. Neither have they teachers
or advisers with whom they can take counsel in riper years.
There is no 'schoolmaster abroad' who will tell them of their
faults, or inspire them with the higher sense of duty, or with
the ambition of a true success in life; no Socrates who will con-
vict them of ignorance; no Christ, or follower of Christ, who
will reprove them of sin. Hence they have a difficulty in

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receiving the first element of improvement, which is self-know-
ledge. The hopes of youth no longer stir them; they rather wish
to rest than to pursue high objects. A few only who have come
across great men and women, or eminent teachers of religion
and morality, have received a second life from them, and have
lighted a candle from the fire of their genius.
The want of energy is one of the main reasons why so few
persons continue to improve in later years. They have not the
will, and do not know the way. They 'never try an experiment,'
or look up a point of interest for themselves; they make no sac-
rifices for the sake of knowledge; their minds, like their bodies,
at a certain age become fixed. Genius has been defined as 'the
power of taking pains'; but hardly any one keeps up his interest
in knowledge throughout a whole life. The troubles of a family,
the business of making money, the demands of a profession
destroy the elasticity of the mind. The waxen tablet of the
memory which was once capable of receiving 'true thoughts
and clear impressions' becomes hard and crowded; there is not
room for the accumulations of a long life (Theaet.). The stu-
dent, as years advance, rather makes an exchange of know-
ledge than adds to his stores. There is no pressing necessity to
learn; the stock of Classics or History or Natural Science which
was enough for a man at twenty-five is enough for him at fifty.
Neither is it easy to give a definite answer to any one who asks
how he is to improve. For self-education consists in a thousand
things, commonplace in themselves,—in adding to what we are
by nature something of what we are not; in learning to see
ourselves as others see us; in judging, not by opinion, but by
the evidence of facts; in seeking out the society of superior
minds; in a study of lives and writings of great men; in observa-
tion of the world and character; in receiving kindly the natural
influence of different times of life; in any act or thought which
is raised above the practice or opinions of mankind; in the pur-
suit of some new or original enquiry; in any effort of mind
which calls forth some latent power.
If any one is desirous of carrying out in detail the Platonic
education of after-life, some such counsels as the following
may be offered to him:—That he shall choose the branch of
knowledge to which his own mind most distinctly inclines, and
in which he takes the greatest delight, either one which seems

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to connect with his own daily employment, or, perhaps, fur-
nishes the greatest contrast to it. He may study from the spec-
ulative side the profession or business in which he is practic-
ally engaged. He may make Homer, Dante, Shakespeare, Plato,
Bacon the friends and companions of his life. He may find op-
portunities of hearing the living voice of a great teacher. He
may select for enquiry some point of history or some unex-
plained phenomenon of nature. An hour a day passed in such
scientific or literary pursuits will furnish as many facts as the
memory can retain, and will give him 'a pleasure not to be re-
pented of' (Timaeus). Only let him beware of being the slave of
crotchets, or of running after a Will o' the Wisp in his ignor-
ance, or in his vanity of attributing to himself the gifts of a poet
or assuming the air of a philosopher. He should know the limits
of his own powers. Better to build up the mind by slow addi-
tions, to creep on quietly from one thing to another, to gain in-
sensibly new powers and new interests in knowledge, than to
form vast schemes which are never destined to be realized. But
perhaps, as Plato would say, 'This is part of another subject'
(Tim.); though we may also defend our digression by his ex-
ample (Theaet.).
4. We remark with surprise that the progress of nations or
the natural growth of institutions which fill modern treatises
on political philosophy seem hardly ever to have attracted the
attention of Plato and Aristotle. The ancients were familiar
with the mutability of human affairs; they could moralize over
the ruins of cities and the fall of empires (Plato, Statesman,
and Sulpicius' Letter to Cicero); by them fate and chance were
deemed to be real powers, almost persons, and to have had a
great share in political events. The wiser of them like Thucy-
dides believed that 'what had been would be again,' and that a
tolerable idea of the future could be gathered from the past.
Also they had dreams of a Golden Age which existed once upon
a time and might still exist in some unknown land, or might re-
turn again in the remote future. But the regular growth of a
state enlightened by experience, progressing in knowledge, im-
proving in the arts, of which the citizens were educated by the
fulfilment of political duties, appears never to have come with-
in the range of their hopes and aspirations. Such a state had
never been seen, and therefore could not be conceived by

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them. Their experience (Aristot. Metaph.; Plato, Laws) led
them to conclude that there had been cycles of civilization in
which the arts had been discovered and lost many times over,
and cities had been overthrown and rebuilt again and again,
and deluges and volcanoes and other natural convulsions had
altered the face of the earth. Tradition told them of many de-
structions of mankind and of the preservation of a remnant.
The world began again after a deluge and was reconstructed
out of the fragments of itself. Also they were acquainted with
empires of unknown antiquity, like the Egyptian or Assyrian;
but they had never seen them grow, and could not imagine,
any more than we can, the state of man which preceded them.
They were puzzled and awestricken by the Egyptian monu-
ments, of which the forms, as Plato says, not in a figure, but lit-
erally, were ten thousand years old (Laws), and they contras-
ted the antiquity of Egypt with their own short memories.
The early legends of Hellas have no real connection with the
later history: they are at a distance, and the intermediate re-
gion is concealed from view; there is no road or path which
leads from one to the other. At the beginning of Greek history,
in the vestibule of the temple, is seen standing first of all the
figure of the legislator, himself the interpreter and servant of
the God. The fundamental laws which he gives are not sup-
posed to change with time and circumstances. The salvation of
the state is held rather to depend on the inviolable mainten-
ance of them. They were sanctioned by the authority of heaven,
and it was deemed impiety to alter them. The desire to main-
tain them unaltered seems to be the origin of what at first sight
is very surprising to us—the intolerant zeal of Plato against in-
novators in religion or politics (Laws); although with a happy
inconsistency he is also willing that the laws of other countries
should be studied and improvements in legislation privately
communicated to the Nocturnal Council (Laws). The additions
which were made to them in later ages in order to meet the in-
creasing complexity of affairs were still ascribed by a fiction to
the original legislator; and the words of such enactments at
Athens were disputed over as if they had been the words of So-
lon himself. Plato hopes to preserve in a later generation the
mind of the legislator; he would have his citizens remain within
the lines which he has laid down for them. He would not harass

212
them with minute regulations, he would have allowed some
changes in the laws: but not changes which would affect the
fundamental institutions of the state, such for example as
would convert an aristocracy into a timocracy, or a timocracy
into a popular form of government.
Passing from speculations to facts, we observe that progress
has been the exception rather than the law of human history.
And therefore we are not surprised to find that the idea of pro-
gress is of modern rather than of ancient date; and, like the
idea of a philosophy of history, is not more than a century or
two old. It seems to have arisen out of the impression left on
the human mind by the growth of the Roman Empire and of the
Christian Church, and to be due to the political and social im-
provements which they introduced into the world; and still
more in our own century to the idealism of the first French Re-
volution and the triumph of American Independence; and in a
yet greater degree to the vast material prosperity and growth
of population in England and her colonies and in America. It is
also to be ascribed in a measure to the greater study of the
philosophy of history. The optimist temperament of some great
writers has assisted the creation of it, while the opposite char-
acter has led a few to regard the future of the world as dark.
The 'spectator of all time and of all existence' sees more of 'the
increasing purpose which through the ages ran' than formerly:
but to the inhabitant of a small state of Hellas the vision was
necessarily limited like the valley in which he dwelt. There was
no remote past on which his eye could rest, nor any future
from which the veil was partly lifted up by the analogy of his-
tory. The narrowness of view, which to ourselves appears so
singular, was to him natural, if not unavoidable.
5. For the relation of the Republic to the Statesman and the
Laws, and the two other works of Plato which directly treat of
politics, see the Introductions to the two latter; a few general
points of comparison may be touched upon in this place.
And first of the Laws.
(1) The Republic, though probably written at intervals, yet
speaking generally and judging by the indications of thought
and style, may be reasonably ascribed to the middle period of
Plato's life: the Laws are certainly the work of his declining

213
years, and some portions of them at any rate seem to have
been written in extreme old age.
(2) The Republic is full of hope and aspiration: the Laws bear
the stamp of failure and disappointment. The one is a finished
work which received the last touches of the author: the other is
imperfectly executed, and apparently unfinished. The one has
the grace and beauty of youth: the other has lost the poetical
form, but has more of the severity and knowledge of life which
is characteristic of old age.
(3) The most conspicuous defect of the Laws is the failure of
dramatic power, whereas the Republic is full of striking con-
trasts of ideas and oppositions of character.
(4) The Laws may be said to have more the nature of a ser-
mon, the Republic of a poem; the one is more religious, the
other more intellectual.
(5) Many theories of Plato, such as the doctrine of ideas, the
government of the world by philosophers, are not found in the
Laws; the immortality of the soul is first mentioned in xii; the
person of Socrates has altogether disappeared. The community
of women and children is renounced; the institution of common
or public meals for women (Laws) is for the first time intro-
duced (Ar. Pol.).
(6) There remains in the Laws the old enmity to the poets,
who are ironically saluted in high-flown terms, and, at the
same time, are peremptorily ordered out of the city, if they are
not willing to submit their poems to the censorship of the ma-
gistrates (Rep.).
(7) Though the work is in most respects inferior, there are a
few passages in the Laws, such as the honour due to the soul,
the evils of licentious or unnatural love, the whole of Book x.
(religion), the dishonesty of retail trade, and bequests, which
come more home to us, and contain more of what may be
termed the modern element in Plato than almost anything in
the Republic.
The relation of the two works to one another is very well
given:
(1) by Aristotle in the Politics from the side of the Laws:—
'The same, or nearly the same, objections apply to Plato's
later work, the Laws, and therefore we had better examine
briefly the constitution which is therein described. In the

214
Republic, Socrates has definitely settled in all a few questions
only; such as the community of women and children, the com-
munity of property, and the constitution of the state. The popu-
lation is divided into two classes—one of husbandmen, and the
other of warriors; from this latter is taken a third class of coun-
sellors and rulers of the state. But Socrates has not determined
whether the husbandmen and artists are to have a share in the
government, and whether they too are to carry arms and share
in military service or not. He certainly thinks that the women
ought to share in the education of the guardians, and to fight
by their side. The remainder of the work is filled up with di-
gressions foreign to the main subject, and with discussions
about the education of the guardians. In the Laws there is
hardly anything but laws; not much is said about the constitu-
tion. This, which he had intended to make more of the ordinary
type, he gradually brings round to the other or ideal form. For
with the exception of the community of women and property,
he supposes everything to be the same in both states; there is
to be the same education; the citizens of both are to live free
from servile occupations, and there are to be common meals in
both. The only difference is that in the Laws the common meals
are extended to women, and the warriors number about 5000,
but in the Republic only 1000.'
(2) by Plato in the Laws (Book v.), from the side of the
Republic:—
'The first and highest form of the state and of the govern-
ment and of the law is that in which there prevails most widely
the ancient saying that "Friends have all things in common."
Whether there is now, or ever will be, this communion of wo-
men and children and of property, in which the private and in-
dividual is altogether banished from life, and things which are
by nature private, such as eyes and ears and hands, have be-
come common, and all men express praise and blame, and feel
joy and sorrow, on the same occasions, and the laws unite the
city to the utmost,—whether all this is possible or not, I say
that no man, acting upon any other principle, will ever consti-
tute a state more exalted in virtue, or truer or better than this.
Such a state, whether inhabited by Gods or sons of Gods, will
make them blessed who dwell therein; and therefore to this we
are to look for the pattern of the state, and to cling to this, and,

215
as far as possible, to seek for one which is like this. The state
which we have now in hand, when created, will be nearest to
immortality and unity in the next degree; and after that, by the
grace of God, we will complete the third one. And we will begin
by speaking of the nature and origin of the second.'
The comparatively short work called the Statesman or Politi-
cus in its style and manner is more akin to the Laws, while in
its idealism it rather resembles the Republic. As far as we can
judge by various indications of language and thought, it must
be later than the one and of course earlier than the other. In
both the Republic and Statesman a close connection is main-
tained between Politics and Dialectic. In the Statesman, en-
quiries into the principles of Method are interspersed with dis-
cussions about Politics. The comparative advantages of the rule
of law and of a person are considered, and the decision given
in favour of a person (Arist. Pol.). But much may be said on the
other side, nor is the opposition necessary; for a person may
rule by law, and law may be so applied as to be the living voice
of the legislator. As in the Republic, there is a myth, describ-
ing, however, not a future, but a former existence of mankind.
The question is asked, 'Whether the state of innocence which is
described in the myth, or a state like our own which possesses
art and science and distinguishes good from evil, is the prefer-
able condition of man.' To this question of the comparative
happiness of civilized and primitive life, which was so often dis-
cussed in the last century and in our own, no answer is given.
The Statesman, though less perfect in style than the Republic
and of far less range, may justly be regarded as one of the
greatest of Plato's dialogues.
6. Others as well as Plato have chosen an ideal Republic to
be the vehicle of thoughts which they could not definitely ex-
press, or which went beyond their own age. The classical writ-
ing which approaches most nearly to the Republic of Plato is
the 'De Republica' of Cicero; but neither in this nor in any oth-
er of his dialogues does he rival the art of Plato. The manners
are clumsy and inferior; the hand of the rhetorician is apparent
at every turn. Yet noble sentiments are constantly recurring:
the true note of Roman patriotism—'We Romans are a great
people'—resounds through the whole work. Like Socrates,
Cicero turns away from the phenomena of the heavens to civil

216
and political life. He would rather not discuss the 'two Suns' of
which all Rome was talking, when he can converse about 'the
two nations in one' which had divided Rome ever since the
days of the Gracchi. Like Socrates again, speaking in the per-
son of Scipio, he is afraid lest he should assume too much the
character of a teacher, rather than of an equal who is discuss-
ing among friends the two sides of a question. He would con-
fine the terms King or State to the rule of reason and justice,
and he will not concede that title either to a democracy or to a
monarchy. But under the rule of reason and justice he is will-
ing to include the natural superior ruling over the natural in-
ferior, which he compares to the soul ruling over the body. He
prefers a mixture of forms of government to any single one.
The two portraits of the just and the unjust, which occur in the
second book of the Republic, are transferred to the
state—Philus, one of the interlocutors, maintaining against his
will the necessity of injustice as a principle of government,
while the other, Laelius, supports the opposite thesis. His
views of language and number are derived from Plato; like him
he denounces the drama. He also declares that if his life were
to be twice as long he would have no time to read the lyric po-
ets. The picture of democracy is translated by him word for
word, though he had hardly shown himself able to 'carry the
jest' of Plato. He converts into a stately sentence the humorous
fancy about the animals, who 'are so imbued with the spirit of
democracy that they make the passers-by get out of their way.'
His description of the tyrant is imitated from Plato, but is far
inferior. The second book is historical, and claims for the Ro-
man constitution (which is to him the ideal) a foundation of fact
such as Plato probably intended to have given to the Republic
in the Critias. His most remarkable imitation of Plato is the ad-
aptation of the vision of Er, which is converted by Cicero into
the 'Somnium Scipionis'; he has 'romanized' the myth of the
Republic, adding an argument for the immortality of the soul
taken from the Phaedrus, and some other touches derived from
the Phaedo and the Timaeus. Though a beautiful tale and con-
taining splendid passages, the 'Somnium Scipionis; is very in-
ferior to the vision of Er; it is only a dream, and hardly allows
the reader to suppose that the writer believes in his own cre-
ation. Whether his dialogues were framed on the model of the

217
lost dialogues of Aristotle, as he himself tells us, or of Plato, to
which they bear many superficial resemblances, he is still the
Roman orator; he is not conversing, but making speeches, and
is never able to mould the intractable Latin to the grace and
ease of the Greek Platonic dialogue. But if he is defective in
form, much more is he inferior to the Greek in matter; he
nowhere in his philosophical writings leaves upon our minds
the impression of an original thinker.
Plato's Republic has been said to be a church and not a state;
and such an ideal of a city in the heavens has always hovered
over the Christian world, and is embodied in St. Augustine's
'De Civitate Dei,' which is suggested by the decay and fall of
the Roman Empire, much in the same manner in which we may
imagine the Republic of Plato to have been influenced by the
decline of Greek politics in the writer's own age. The difference
is that in the time of Plato the degeneracy, though certain, was
gradual and insensible: whereas the taking of Rome by the
Goths stirred like an earthquake the age of St. Augustine. Men
were inclined to believe that the overthrow of the city was to
be ascribed to the anger felt by the old Roman deities at the
neglect of their worship. St. Augustine maintains the opposite
thesis; he argues that the destruction of the Roman Empire is
due, not to the rise of Christianity, but to the vices of Pagan-
ism. He wanders over Roman history, and over Greek philo-
sophy and mythology, and finds everywhere crime, impiety and
falsehood. He compares the worst parts of the Gentile religions
with the best elements of the faith of Christ. He shows nothing
of the spirit which led others of the early Christian Fathers to
recognize in the writings of the Greek philosophers the power
of the divine truth. He traces the parallel of the kingdom of
God, that is, the history of the Jews, contained in their scrip-
tures, and of the kingdoms of the world, which are found in
gentile writers, and pursues them both into an ideal future. It
need hardly be remarked that his use both of Greek and of Ro-
man historians and of the sacred writings of the Jews is wholly
uncritical. The heathen mythology, the Sybilline oracles, the
myths of Plato, the dreams of Neo-Platonists are equally re-
garded by him as matter of fact. He must be acknowledged to
be a strictly polemical or controversial writer who makes the
best of everything on one side and the worst of everything on

218
the other. He has no sympathy with the old Roman life as Plato
has with Greek life, nor has he any idea of the ecclesiastical
kingdom which was to arise out of the ruins of the Roman em-
pire. He is not blind to the defects of the Christian Church, and
looks forward to a time when Christian and Pagan shall be
alike brought before the judgment-seat, and the true City of
God shall appear… The work of St. Augustine is a curious rep-
ertory of antiquarian learning and quotations, deeply penet-
rated with Christian ethics, but showing little power of reason-
ing, and a slender knowledge of the Greek literature and lan-
guage. He was a great genius, and a noble character, yet
hardly capable of feeling or understanding anything external to
his own theology. Of all the ancient philosophers he is most at-
tracted by Plato, though he is very slightly acquainted with his
writings. He is inclined to believe that the idea of creation in
the Timaeus is derived from the narrative in Genesis; and he is
strangely taken with the coincidence (?) of Plato's saying that
'the philosopher is the lover of God,' and the words of the Book
of Exodus in which God reveals himself to Moses (Exod.) He
dwells at length on miracles performed in his own day, of
which the evidence is regarded by him as irresistible. He
speaks in a very interesting manner of the beauty and utility of
nature and of the human frame, which he conceives to afford a
foretaste of the heavenly state and of the resurrection of the
body. The book is not really what to most persons the title of it
would imply, and belongs to an age which has passed away.
But it contains many fine passages and thoughts which are for
all time.
The short treatise de Monarchia of Dante is by far the most
remarkable of mediaeval ideals, and bears the impress of the
great genius in whom Italy and the Middle Ages are so vividly
reflected. It is the vision of an Universal Empire, which is sup-
posed to be the natural and necessary government of the
world, having a divine authority distinct from the Papacy, yet
coextensive with it. It is not 'the ghost of the dead Roman Em-
pire sitting crowned upon the grave thereof,' but the legitimate
heir and successor of it, justified by the ancient virtues of the
Romans and the beneficence of their rule. Their right to be the
governors of the world is also confirmed by the testimony of
miracles, and acknowledged by St. Paul when he appealed to

219
Caesar, and even more emphatically by Christ Himself, Who
could not have made atonement for the sins of men if He had
not been condemned by a divinely authorized tribunal. The ne-
cessity for the establishment of an Universal Empire is proved
partly by a priori arguments such as the unity of God and the
unity of the family or nation; partly by perversions of Scripture
and history, by false analogies of nature, by misapplied quota-
tions from the classics, and by odd scraps and commonplaces
of logic, showing a familiar but by no means exact knowledge
of Aristotle (of Plato there is none). But a more convincing ar-
gument still is the miserable state of the world, which he
touchingly describes. He sees no hope of happiness or peace
for mankind until all nations of the earth are comprehended in
a single empire. The whole treatise shows how deeply the idea
of the Roman Empire was fixed in the minds of his contempor-
aries. Not much argument was needed to maintain the truth of
a theory which to his own contemporaries seemed so natural
and congenial. He speaks, or rather preaches, from the point of
view, not of the ecclesiastic, but of the layman, although, as a
good Catholic, he is willing to acknowledge that in certain re-
spects the Empire must submit to the Church. The beginning
and end of all his noble reflections and of his arguments, good
and bad, is the aspiration 'that in this little plot of earth be-
longing to mortal man life may pass in freedom and peace.' So
inextricably is his vision of the future bound up with the beliefs
and circumstances of his own age.
The 'Utopia' of Sir Thomas More is a surprising monument of
his genius, and shows a reach of thought far beyond his con-
temporaries. The book was written by him at the age of about
34 or 35, and is full of the generous sentiments of youth. He
brings the light of Plato to bear upon the miserable state of his
own country. Living not long after the Wars of the Roses, and
in the dregs of the Catholic Church in England, he is indignant
at the corruption of the clergy, at the luxury of the nobility and
gentry, at the sufferings of the poor, at the calamities caused
by war. To the eye of More the whole world was in dissolution
and decay; and side by side with the misery and oppression
which he has described in the First Book of the Utopia, he
places in the Second Book the ideal state which by the help of
Plato he had constructed. The times were full of stir and

220
intellectual interest. The distant murmur of the Reformation
was beginning to be heard. To minds like More's, Greek literat-
ure was a revelation: there had arisen an art of interpretation,
and the New Testament was beginning to be understood as it
had never been before, and has not often been since, in its nat-
ural sense. The life there depicted appeared to him wholly un-
like that of Christian commonwealths, in which 'he saw nothing
but a certain conspiracy of rich men procuring their own com-
modities under the name and title of the Commonwealth.' He
thought that Christ, like Plato, 'instituted all things common,'
for which reason, he tells us, the citizens of Utopia were the
more willing to receive his doctrines ('Howbeit, I think this was
no small help and furtherance in the matter, that they heard us
say that Christ instituted among his, all things common, and
that the same community doth yet remain in the rightest Chris-
tian communities' (Utopia).). The community of property is a
fixed idea with him, though he is aware of the arguments
which may be urged on the other side ('These things (I say),
when I consider with myself, I hold well with Plato, and do
nothing marvel that he would make no laws for them that re-
fused those laws, whereby all men should have and enjoy equal
portions of riches and commodities. For the wise men did eas-
ily foresee this to be the one and only way to the wealth of a
community, if equality of all things should be brought in and
established' (Utopia).). We wonder how in the reign of Henry
VIII, though veiled in another language and published in a for-
eign country, such speculations could have been endured.
He is gifted with far greater dramatic invention than any one
who succeeded him, with the exception of Swift. In the art of
feigning he is a worthy disciple of Plato. Like him, starting
from a small portion of fact, he founds his tale with admirable
skill on a few lines in the Latin narrative of the voyages of
Amerigo Vespucci. He is very precise about dates and facts,
and has the power of making us believe that the narrator of the
tale must have been an eyewitness. We are fairly puzzled by
his manner of mixing up real and imaginary persons; his boy
John Clement and Peter Giles, citizen of Antwerp, with whom
he disputes about the precise words which are supposed to
have been used by the (imaginary) Portuguese traveller,
Raphael Hythloday. 'I have the more cause,' says Hythloday, 'to

221
fear that my words shall not be believed, for that I know how
difficultly and hardly I myself would have believed another man
telling the same, if I had not myself seen it with mine own
eyes.' Or again: 'If you had been with me in Utopia, and had
presently seen their fashions and laws as I did which lived
there five years and more, and would never have come thence,
but only to make the new land known here,' etc. More greatly
regrets that he forgot to ask Hythloday in what part of the
world Utopia is situated; he 'would have spent no small sum of
money rather than it should have escaped him,' and he begs
Peter Giles to see Hythloday or write to him and obtain an an-
swer to the question. After this we are not surprised to hear
that a Professor of Divinity (perhaps 'a late famous vicar of
Croydon in Surrey,' as the translator thinks) is desirous of be-
ing sent thither as a missionary by the High Bishop, 'yea, and
that he may himself be made Bishop of Utopia, nothing doubt-
ing that he must obtain this Bishopric with suit; and he coun-
teth that a godly suit which proceedeth not of the desire of
honour or lucre, but only of a godly zeal.' The design may have
failed through the disappearance of Hythloday, concerning
whom we have 'very uncertain news' after his departure. There
is no doubt, however, that he had told More and Giles the exact
situation of the island, but unfortunately at the same moment
More's attention, as he is reminded in a letter from Giles, was
drawn off by a servant, and one of the company from a cold
caught on shipboard coughed so loud as to prevent Giles from
hearing. And 'the secret has perished' with him; to this day the
place of Utopia remains unknown.
The words of Phaedrus, 'O Socrates, you can easily invent
Egyptians or anything,' are recalled to our mind as we read
this lifelike fiction. Yet the greater merit of the work is not the
admirable art, but the originality of thought. More is as free as
Plato from the prejudices of his age, and far more tolerant. The
Utopians do not allow him who believes not in the immortality
of the soul to share in the administration of the state (Laws),
'howbeit they put him to no punishment, because they be per-
suaded that it is in no man's power to believe what he list'; and
'no man is to be blamed for reasoning in support of his own re-
ligion ('One of our company in my presence was sharply pun-
ished. He, as soon as he was baptised, began, against our wills,

222
with more earnest affection than wisdom, to reason of Christ's
religion, and began to wax so hot in his matter, that he did not
only prefer our religion before all other, but also did despise
and condemn all other, calling them profane, and the followers
of them wicked and devilish, and the children of everlasting
damnation. When he had thus long reasoned the matter, they
laid hold on him, accused him, and condemned him into exile,
not as a despiser of religion, but as a seditious person and a
raiser up of dissension among the people').' In the public ser-
vices 'no prayers be used, but such as every man may boldly
pronounce without giving offence to any sect.' He says signific-
antly, 'There be that give worship to a man that was once of ex-
cellent virtue or of famous glory, not only as God, but also the
chiefest and highest God. But the most and the wisest part, re-
jecting all these, believe that there is a certain godly power un-
known, far above the capacity and reach of man's wit, dis-
persed throughout all the world, not in bigness, but in virtue
and power. Him they call the Father of all. To Him alone they
attribute the beginnings, the increasings, the proceedings, the
changes, and the ends of all things. Neither give they any di-
vine honours to any other than him.' So far was More from
sharing the popular beliefs of his time. Yet at the end he re-
minds us that he does not in all respects agree with the cus-
toms and opinions of the Utopians which he describes. And we
should let him have the benefit of this saving clause, and not
rudely withdraw the veil behind which he has been pleased to
conceal himself.
Nor is he less in advance of popular opinion in his political
and moral speculations. He would like to bring military glory
into contempt; he would set all sorts of idle people to profitable
occupation, including in the same class, priests, women, noble-
men, gentlemen, and 'sturdy and valiant beggars,' that the la-
bour of all may be reduced to six hours a day. His dislike of
capital punishment, and plans for the reformation of offenders;
his detestation of priests and lawyers (Compare his satirical
observation: 'They (the Utopians) have priests of exceeding
holiness, and therefore very few.); his remark that 'although
every one may hear of ravenous dogs and wolves and cruel
man-eaters, it is not easy to find states that are well and wisely
governed,' are curiously at variance with the notions of his age

223
and indeed with his own life. There are many points in which
he shows a modern feeling and a prophetic insight like Plato.
He is a sanitary reformer; he maintains that civilized states
have a right to the soil of waste countries; he is inclined to the
opinion which places happiness in virtuous pleasures, but
herein, as he thinks, not disagreeing from those other philo-
sophers who define virtue to be a life according to nature. He
extends the idea of happiness so as to include the happiness of
others; and he argues ingeniously, 'All men agree that we
ought to make others happy; but if others, how much more
ourselves!' And still he thinks that there may be a more excel-
lent way, but to this no man's reason can attain unless heaven
should inspire him with a higher truth. His ceremonies before
marriage; his humane proposal that war should be carried on
by assassinating the leaders of the enemy, may be compared to
some of the paradoxes of Plato. He has a charming fancy, like
the affinities of Greeks and barbarians in the Timaeus, that the
Utopians learnt the language of the Greeks with the more read-
iness because they were originally of the same race with them.
He is penetrated with the spirit of Plato, and quotes or adapts
many thoughts both from the Republic and from the Timaeus.
He prefers public duties to private, and is somewhat impatient
of the importunity of relations. His citizens have no silver or
gold of their own, but are ready enough to pay them to their
mercenaries. There is nothing of which he is more contemptu-
ous than the love of money. Gold is used for fetters of crimin-
als, and diamonds and pearls for children's necklaces (When
the ambassadors came arrayed in gold and peacocks' feathers
'to the eyes of all the Utopians except very few, which had
been in other countries for some reasonable cause, all that gor-
geousness of apparel seemed shameful and reproachful. In so
much that they most reverently saluted the vilest and most ab-
ject of them for lords—passing over the ambassadors them-
selves without any honour, judging them by their wearing of
golden chains to be bondmen. You should have seen children
also, that had cast away their pearls and precious stones, when
they saw the like sticking upon the ambassadors' caps, dig and
push their mothers under the sides, saying thus to
them—"Look, though he were a little child still." But the

224
mother; yea and that also in good earnest: "Peace, son," saith
she, "I think he be some of the ambassadors' fools."')
Like Plato he is full of satirical reflections on governments
and princes; on the state of the world and of knowledge. The
hero of his discourse (Hythloday) is very unwilling to become a
minister of state, considering that he would lose his independ-
ence and his advice would never be heeded (Compare an ex-
quisite passage, of which the conclusion is as follows: 'And ver-
ily it is naturally given… suppressed and ended.') He ridicules
the new logic of his time; the Utopians could never be made to
understand the doctrine of Second Intentions ('For they have
not devised one of all those rules of restrictions, amplifications,
and suppositions, very wittily invented in the small Logicals,
which here our children in every place do learn. Furthermore,
they were never yet able to find out the second intentions; in-
somuch that none of them all could ever see man himself in
common, as they call him, though he be (as you know) bigger
than was ever any giant, yea, and pointed to of us even with
our finger.') He is very severe on the sports of the gentry; the
Utopians count 'hunting the lowest, the vilest, and the most ab-
ject part of butchery.' He quotes the words of the Republic in
which the philosopher is described 'standing out of the way un-
der a wall until the driving storm of sleet and rain be overpast,'
which admit of a singular application to More's own fate; al-
though, writing twenty years before (about the year 1514), he
can hardly be supposed to have foreseen this. There is no
touch of satire which strikes deeper than his quiet remark that
the greater part of the precepts of Christ are more at variance
with the lives of ordinary Christians than the discourse of Uto-
pia ('And yet the most part of them is more dissident from the
manners of the world now a days, than my communication was.
But preachers, sly and wily men, following your counsel (as I
suppose) because they saw men evil-willing to frame their man-
ners to Christ's rule, they have wrested and wried his doctrine,
and, like a rule of lead, have applied it to men's manners, that
by some means at the least way, they might agree together.')
The 'New Atlantis' is only a fragment, and far inferior in mer-
it to the 'Utopia.' The work is full of ingenuity, but wanting in
creative fancy, and by no means impresses the reader with a
sense of credibility. In some places Lord Bacon is

225
characteristically different from Sir Thomas More, as, for ex-
ample, in the external state which he attributes to the governor
of Solomon's House, whose dress he minutely describes, while
to Sir Thomas More such trappings appear simple ridiculous.
Yet, after this programme of dress, Bacon adds the beautiful
trait, 'that he had a look as though he pitied men.' Several
things are borrowed by him from the Timaeus; but he has in-
jured the unity of style by adding thoughts and passages which
are taken from the Hebrew Scriptures.
The 'City of the Sun' written by Campanella (1568-1639), a
Dominican friar, several years after the 'New Atlantis' of Ba-
con, has many resemblances to the Republic of Plato. The cit-
izens have wives and children in common; their marriages are
of the same temporary sort, and are arranged by the magis-
trates from time to time. They do not, however, adopt his sys-
tem of lots, but bring together the best natures, male and fe-
male, 'according to philosophical rules.' The infants until two
years of age are brought up by their mothers in public temples;
and since individuals for the most part educate their children
badly, at the beginning of their third year they are committed
to the care of the State, and are taught at first, not out of
books, but from paintings of all kinds, which are emblazoned
on the walls of the city. The city has six interior circuits of
walls, and an outer wall which is the seventh. On this outer
wall are painted the figures of legislators and philosophers,
and on each of the interior walls the symbols or forms of some
one of the sciences are delineated. The women are, for the
most part, trained, like the men, in warlike and other exer-
cises; but they have two special occupations of their own. After
a battle, they and the boys soothe and relieve the wounded
warriors; also they encourage them with embraces and pleas-
ant words. Some elements of the Christian or Catholic religion
are preserved among them. The life of the Apostles is greatly
admired by this people because they had all things in common;
and the short prayer which Jesus Christ taught men is used in
their worship. It is a duty of the chief magistrates to pardon
sins, and therefore the whole people make secret confession of
them to the magistrates, and they to their chief, who is a sort
of Rector Metaphysicus; and by this means he is well informed
of all that is going on in the minds of men. After confession,

226
absolution is granted to the citizens collectively, but no one is
mentioned by name. There also exists among them a practice
of perpetual prayer, performed by a succession of priests, who
change every hour. Their religion is a worship of God in Trin-
ity, that is of Wisdom, Love and Power, but without any distinc-
tion of persons. They behold in the sun the reflection of His
glory; mere graven images they reject, refusing to fall under
the 'tyranny' of idolatry.
Many details are given about their customs of eating and
drinking, about their mode of dressing, their employments,
their wars. Campanella looks forward to a new mode of educa-
tion, which is to be a study of nature, and not of Aristotle. He
would not have his citizens waste their time in the considera-
tion of what he calls 'the dead signs of things.' He remarks that
he who knows one science only, does not really know that one
any more than the rest, and insists strongly on the necessity of
a variety of knowledge. More scholars are turned out in the
City of the Sun in one year than by contemporary methods in
ten or fifteen. He evidently believes, like Bacon, that hencefor-
ward natural science will play a great part in education, a hope
which seems hardly to have been realized, either in our own or
in any former age; at any rate the fulfilment of it has been long
deferred.
There is a good deal of ingenuity and even originality in this
work, and a most enlightened spirit pervades it. But it has little
or no charm of style, and falls very far short of the 'New At-
lantis' of Bacon, and still more of the 'Utopia' of Sir Thomas
More. It is full of inconsistencies, and though borrowed from
Plato, shows but a superficial acquaintance with his writings. It
is a work such as one might expect to have been written by a
philosopher and man of genius who was also a friar, and who
had spent twenty-seven years of his life in a prison of the In-
quisition. The most interesting feature of the book, common to
Plato and Sir Thomas More, is the deep feeling which is shown
by the writer, of the misery and ignorance prevailing among
the lower classes in his own time. Campanella takes note of
Aristotle's answer to Plato's community of property, that in a
society where all things are common, no individual would have
any motive to work (Arist. Pol.): he replies, that his citizens be-
ing happy and contented in themselves (they are required to

227
work only four hours a day), will have greater regard for their
fellows than exists among men at present. He thinks, like Plato,
that if he abolishes private feelings and interests, a great pub-
lic feeling will take their place.
Other writings on ideal states, such as the 'Oceana' of Har-
rington, in which the Lord Archon, meaning Cromwell, is de-
scribed, not as he was, but as he ought to have been; or the
'Argenis' of Barclay, which is an historical allegory of his own
time, are too unlike Plato to be worth mentioning. More inter-
esting than either of these, and far more Platonic in style and
thought, is Sir John Eliot's 'Monarchy of Man,' in which the
prisoner of the Tower, no longer able 'to be a politician in the
land of his birth,' turns away from politics to view 'that other
city which is within him,' and finds on the very threshold of the
grave that the secret of human happiness is the mastery of self.
The change of government in the time of the English Common-
wealth set men thinking about first principles, and gave rise to
many works of this class… The great original genius of Swift
owes nothing to Plato; nor is there any trace in the conversa-
tion or in the works of Dr. Johnson of any acquaintance with
his writings. He probably would have refuted Plato without
reading him, in the same fashion in which he supposed himself
to have refuted Bishop Berkeley's theory of the non-existence
of matter. If we except the so-called English Platonists, or
rather Neo-Platonists, who never understood their master, and
the writings of Coleridge, who was to some extent a kindred
spirit, Plato has left no permanent impression on English
literature.
7. Human life and conduct are affected by ideals in the same
way that they are affected by the examples of eminent men.
Neither the one nor the other are immediately applicable to
practice, but there is a virtue flowing from them which tends to
raise individuals above the common routine of society or trade,
and to elevate States above the mere interests of commerce or
the necessities of self-defence. Like the ideals of art they are
partly framed by the omission of particulars; they require to be
viewed at a certain distance, and are apt to fade away if we at-
tempt to approach them. They gain an imaginary distinctness
when embodied in a State or in a system of philosophy, but
they still remain the visions of 'a world unrealized.' More

228
striking and obvious to the ordinary mind are the examples of
great men, who have served their own generation and are re-
membered in another. Even in our own family circle there may
have been some one, a woman, or even a child, in whose face
has shone forth a goodness more than human. The ideal then
approaches nearer to us, and we fondly cling to it. The ideal of
the past, whether of our own past lives or of former states of
society, has a singular fascination for the minds of many. Too
late we learn that such ideals cannot be recalled, though the
recollection of them may have a humanizing influence on other
times. But the abstractions of philosophy are to most persons
cold and vacant; they give light without warmth; they are like
the full moon in the heavens when there are no stars appear-
ing. Men cannot live by thought alone; the world of sense is al-
ways breaking in upon them. They are for the most part con-
fined to a corner of earth, and see but a little way beyond their
own home or place of abode; they 'do not lift up their eyes to
the hills'; they are not awake when the dawn appears. But in
Plato we have reached a height from which a man may look in-
to the distance and behold the future of the world and of philo-
sophy. The ideal of the State and of the life of the philosopher;
the ideal of an education continuing through life and extending
equally to both sexes; the ideal of the unity and correlation of
knowledge; the faith in good and immortality—are the vacant
forms of light on which Plato is seeking to fix the eye of
mankind.
8. Two other ideals, which never appeared above the horizon
in Greek Philosophy, float before the minds of men in our own
day: one seen more clearly than formerly, as though each year
and each generation brought us nearer to some great change;
the other almost in the same degree retiring from view behind
the laws of nature, as if oppressed by them, but still remaining
a silent hope of we know not what hidden in the heart of man.
The first ideal is the future of the human race in this world; the
second the future of the individual in another. The first is the
more perfect realization of our own present life; the second,
the abnegation of it: the one, limited by experience, the other,
transcending it. Both of them have been and are powerful
motives of action; there are a few in whom they have taken the
place of all earthly interests. The hope of a future for the

229
human race at first sight seems to be the more disinterested,
the hope of individual existence the more egotistical, of the two
motives. But when men have learned to resolve their hope of a
future either for themselves or for the world into the will of
God—'not my will but Thine,' the difference between them falls
away; and they may be allowed to make either of them the
basis of their lives, according to their own individual character
or temperament. There is as much faith in the willingness to
work for an unseen future in this world as in another. Neither
is it inconceivable that some rare nature may feel his duty to
another generation, or to another century, almost as strongly
as to his own, or that living always in the presence of God, he
may realize another world as vividly as he does this.
The greatest of all ideals may, or rather must be conceived
by us under similitudes derived from human qualities; although
sometimes, like the Jewish prophets, we may dash away these
figures of speech and describe the nature of God only in negat-
ives. These again by degrees acquire a positive meaning. It
would be well, if when meditating on the higher truths either
of philosophy or religion, we sometimes substituted one form
of expression for another, lest through the necessities of lan-
guage we should become the slaves of mere words.
There is a third ideal, not the same, but akin to these, which
has a place in the home and heart of every believer in the reli-
gion of Christ, and in which men seem to find a nearer and
more familiar truth, the Divine man, the Son of Man, the Sa-
viour of mankind, Who is the first-born and head of the whole
family in heaven and earth, in Whom the Divine and human,
that which is without and that which is within the range of our
earthly faculties, are indissolubly united. Neither is this divine
form of goodness wholly separable from the ideal of the Chris-
tian Church, which is said in the New Testament to be 'His
body,' or at variance with those other images of good which
Plato sets before us. We see Him in a figure only, and of fig-
ures of speech we select but a few, and those the simplest, to
be the expression of Him. We behold Him in a picture, but He
is not there. We gather up the fragments of His discourses, but
neither do they represent Him as He truly was. His dwelling is
neither in heaven nor earth, but in the heart of man. This is
that image which Plato saw dimly in the distance, which, when

230
existing among men, he called, in the language of Homer, 'the
likeness of God,' the likeness of a nature which in all ages men
have felt to be greater and better than themselves, and which
in endless forms, whether derived from Scripture or nature,
from the witness of history or from the human heart, regarded
as a person or not as a person, with or without parts or pas-
sions, existing in space or not in space, is and will always con-
tinue to be to mankind the Idea of Good.

231
PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE.
Socrates, who is the narrator.
Glaucon.
Adeimantus.
Polemarchus.
Cephalus.
Thrasymachus.
Cleitophon.
And others who are mute auditors.
The scene is laid in the house of Cephalus at the Piraeus; and
the whole dialogue is narrated by Socrates the day after it ac-
tually took place to Timaeus, Hermocrates, Critias, and a
nameless person, who are introduced in the Timaeus.

232
Part 1

233
I went down yesterday to the Piraeus with Glaucon the son of
Ariston, that I might offer up my prayers to the goddess
(Bendis, the Thracian Artemis.); and also because I wanted to
see in what manner they would celebrate the festival, which
was a new thing. I was delighted with the procession of the in-
habitants; but that of the Thracians was equally, if not more,
beautiful. When we had finished our prayers and viewed the
spectacle, we turned in the direction of the city; and at that in-
stant Polemarchus the son of Cephalus chanced to catch sight
of us from a distance as we were starting on our way home,
and told his servant to run and bid us wait for him. The servant
took hold of me by the cloak behind, and said: Polemarchus de-
sires you to wait.
I turned round, and asked him where his master was.
There he is, said the youth, coming after you, if you will only
wait.
Certainly we will, said Glaucon; and in a few minutes Pole-
marchus appeared, and with him Adeimantus, Glaucon's broth-
er, Niceratus the son of Nicias, and several others who had
been at the procession.
Polemarchus said to me: I perceive, Socrates, that you and
your companion are already on your way to the city.
You are not far wrong, I said.
But do you see, he rejoined, how many we are?
Of course.
And are you stronger than all these? for if not, you will have
to remain where you are.
May there not be the alternative, I said, that we may per-
suade you to let us go?
But can you persuade us, if we refuse to listen to you? he
said.
Certainly not, replied Glaucon.
Then we are not going to listen; of that you may be assured.
Adeimantus added: Has no one told you of the torch-race on
horseback in honour of the goddess which will take place in
the evening?
With horses! I replied: That is a novelty. Will horsemen carry
torches and pass them one to another during the race?
Yes, said Polemarchus, and not only so, but a festival will be
celebrated at night, which you certainly ought to see. Let us

234
rise soon after supper and see this festival; there will be a
gathering of young men, and we will have a good talk. Stay
then, and do not be perverse.
Glaucon said: I suppose, since you insist, that we must.
Very good, I replied.
Accordingly we went with Polemarchus to his house; and
there we found his brothers Lysias and Euthydemus, and with
them Thrasymachus the Chalcedonian, Charmantides the Pae-
anian, and Cleitophon the son of Aristonymus. There too was
Cephalus the father of Polemarchus, whom I had not seen for a
long time, and I thought him very much aged. He was seated
on a cushioned chair, and had a garland on his head, for he
had been sacrificing in the court; and there were some other
chairs in the room arranged in a semicircle, upon which we sat
down by him. He saluted me eagerly, and then he said:—
You don't come to see me, Socrates, as often as you ought: If
I were still able to go and see you I would not ask you to come
to me. But at my age I can hardly get to the city, and therefore
you should come oftener to the Piraeus. For let me tell you,
that the more the pleasures of the body fade away, the greater
to me is the pleasure and charm of conversation. Do not then
deny my request, but make our house your resort and keep
company with these young men; we are old friends, and you
will be quite at home with us.
I replied: There is nothing which for my part I like better,
Cephalus, than conversing with aged men; for I regard them as
travellers who have gone a journey which I too may have to go,
and of whom I ought to enquire, whether the way is smooth
and easy, or rugged and difficult. And this is a question which I
should like to ask of you who have arrived at that time which
the poets call the 'threshold of old age'—Is life harder towards
the end, or what report do you give of it?
I will tell you, Socrates, he said, what my own feeling is. Men
of my age flock together; we are birds of a feather, as the old
proverb says; and at our meetings the tale of my acquaintance
commonly is—I cannot eat, I cannot drink; the pleasures of
youth and love are fled away: there was a good time once, but
now that is gone, and life is no longer life. Some complain of
the slights which are put upon them by relations, and they will
tell you sadly of how many evils their old age is the cause. But

235
to me, Socrates, these complainers seem to blame that which is
not really in fault. For if old age were the cause, I too being
old, and every other old man, would have felt as they do. But
this is not my own experience, nor that of others whom I have
known. How well I remember the aged poet Sophocles, when
in answer to the question, How does love suit with age, So-
phocles,—are you still the man you were? Peace, he replied;
most gladly have I escaped the thing of which you speak; I feel
as if I had escaped from a mad and furious master. His words
have often occurred to my mind since, and they seem as good
to me now as at the time when he uttered them. For certainly
old age has a great sense of calm and freedom; when the pas-
sions relax their hold, then, as Sophocles says, we are freed
from the grasp not of one mad master only, but of many. The
truth is, Socrates, that these regrets, and also the complaints
about relations, are to be attributed to the same cause, which
is not old age, but men's characters and tempers; for he who is
of a calm and happy nature will hardly feel the pressure of age,
but to him who is of an opposite disposition youth and age are
equally a burden.
I listened in admiration, and wanting to draw him out, that
he might go on—Yes, Cephalus, I said: but I rather suspect that
people in general are not convinced by you when you speak
thus; they think that old age sits lightly upon you, not because
of your happy disposition, but because you are rich, and wealth
is well known to be a great comforter.
You are right, he replied; they are not convinced: and there
is something in what they say; not, however, so much as they
imagine. I might answer them as Themistocles answered the
Seriphian who was abusing him and saying that he was fam-
ous, not for his own merits but because he was an Athenian: 'If
you had been a native of my country or I of yours, neither of us
would have been famous.' And to those who are not rich and
are impatient of old age, the same reply may be made; for to
the good poor man old age cannot be a light burden, nor can a
bad rich man ever have peace with himself.
May I ask, Cephalus, whether your fortune was for the most
part inherited or acquired by you?
Acquired! Socrates; do you want to know how much I ac-
quired? In the art of making money I have been midway

236
between my father and grandfather: for my grandfather, whose
name I bear, doubled and trebled the value of his patrimony,
that which he inherited being much what I possess now; but
my father Lysanias reduced the property below what it is at
present: and I shall be satisfied if I leave to these my sons not
less but a little more than I received.
That was why I asked you the question, I replied, because I
see that you are indifferent about money, which is a character-
istic rather of those who have inherited their fortunes than of
those who have acquired them; the makers of fortunes have a
second love of money as a creation of their own, resembling
the affection of authors for their own poems, or of parents for
their children, besides that natural love of it for the sake of use
and profit which is common to them and all men. And hence
they are very bad company, for they can talk about nothing but
the praises of wealth.
That is true, he said.
Yes, that is very true, but may I ask another question?—What
do you consider to be the greatest blessing which you have
reaped from your wealth?
One, he said, of which I could not expect easily to convince
others. For let me tell you, Socrates, that when a man thinks
himself to be near death, fears and cares enter into his mind
which he never had before; the tales of a world below and the
punishment which is exacted there of deeds done here were
once a laughing matter to him, but now he is tormented with
the thought that they may be true: either from the weakness of
age, or because he is now drawing nearer to that other place,
he has a clearer view of these things; suspicions and alarms
crowd thickly upon him, and he begins to reflect and consider
what wrongs he has done to others. And when he finds that the
sum of his transgressions is great he will many a time like a
child start up in his sleep for fear, and he is filled with dark
forebodings. But to him who is conscious of no sin, sweet hope,
as Pindar charmingly says, is the kind nurse of his age:
'Hope,' he says, 'cherishes the soul of him who lives in justice
and holiness, and is the nurse of his age and the companion of
his journey;—hope which is mightiest to sway the restless soul
of man.'

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 How admirable are his words! And the great blessing of
riches, I do not say to every man, but to a good man, is, that he
has had no occasion to deceive or to defraud others, either in-
tentionally or unintentionally; and when he departs to the
world below he is not in any apprehension about offerings due
to the gods or debts which he owes to men. Now to this peace
of mind the possession of wealth greatly contributes; and
therefore I say, that, setting one thing against another, of the
many advantages which wealth has to give, to a man of sense
this is in my opinion the greatest.
Well said, Cephalus, I replied; but as concerning justice,
what is it?—to speak the truth and to pay your debts—no more
than this? And even to this are there not exceptions? Suppose
that a friend when in his right mind has deposited arms with
me and he asks for them when he is not in his right mind,
ought I to give them back to him? No one would say that I
ought or that I should be right in doing so, any more than they
would say that I ought always to speak the truth to one who is
in his condition.
You are quite right, he replied.
But then, I said, speaking the truth and paying your debts is
not a correct definition of justice.
Quite correct, Socrates, if Simonides is to be believed, said
Polemarchus interposing.
I fear, said Cephalus, that I must go now, for I have to look
after the sacrifices, and I hand over the argument to Pole-
marchus and the company.
Is not Polemarchus your heir? I said.
To be sure, he answered, and went away laughing to the
sacrifices.
Tell me then, O thou heir of the argument, what did Si-
monides say, and according to you truly say, about justice?
He said that the repayment of a debt is just, and in saying so
he appears to me to be right.
I should be sorry to doubt the word of such a wise and in-
spired man, but his meaning, though probably clear to you, is
the reverse of clear to me. For he certainly does not mean, as
we were just now saying, that I ought to return a deposit of
arms or of anything else to one who asks for it when he is not

238
in his right senses; and yet a deposit cannot be denied to be a
debt.
True.
Then when the person who asks me is not in his right mind I
am by no means to make the return?
Certainly not.
When Simonides said that the repayment of a debt was
justice, he did not mean to include that case?
Certainly not; for he thinks that a friend ought always to do
good to a friend and never evil.
You mean that the return of a deposit of gold which is to the
injury of the receiver, if the two parties are friends, is not the
repayment of a debt,—that is what you would imagine him to
say?
Yes.
And are enemies also to receive what we owe to them?
To be sure, he said, they are to receive what we owe them,
and an enemy, as I take it, owes to an enemy that which is due
or proper to him—that is to say, evil.
Simonides, then, after the manner of poets, would seem to
have spoken darkly of the nature of justice; for he really meant
to say that justice is the giving to each man what is proper to
him, and this he termed a debt.
That must have been his meaning, he said.
By heaven! I replied; and if we asked him what due or proper
thing is given by medicine, and to whom, what answer do you
think that he would make to us?
He would surely reply that medicine gives drugs and meat
and drink to human bodies.
And what due or proper thing is given by cookery, and to
what?
Seasoning to food.
And what is that which justice gives, and to whom?
If, Socrates, we are to be guided at all by the analogy of the
preceding instances, then justice is the art which gives good to
friends and evil to enemies.
That is his meaning then?
I think so.
And who is best able to do good to his friends and evil to his
enemies in time of sickness?

239
 The physician.
Or when they are on a voyage, amid the perils of the sea?
The pilot.
And in what sort of actions or with a view to what result is
the just man most able to do harm to his enemy and good to his
friend?
In going to war against the one and in making alliances with
the other.
But when a man is well, my dear Polemarchus, there is no
need of a physician?
No.
And he who is not on a voyage has no need of a pilot?
No.
Then in time of peace justice will be of no use?
I am very far from thinking so.
You think that justice may be of use in peace as well as in
war?
Yes.
Like husbandry for the acquisition of corn?
Yes.
Or like shoemaking for the acquisition of shoes,—that is what
you mean?
Yes.
And what similar use or power of acquisition has justice in
time of peace?
In contracts, Socrates, justice is of use.
And by contracts you mean partnerships?
Exactly.
But is the just man or the skilful player a more useful and
better partner at a game of draughts?
The skilful player.
And in the laying of bricks and stones is the just man a more
useful or better partner than the builder?
Quite the reverse.
Then in what sort of partnership is the just man a better
partner than the harp-player, as in playing the harp the harp-
player is certainly a better partner than the just man?
In a money partnership.
Yes, Polemarchus, but surely not in the use of money; for you
do not want a just man to be your counsellor in the purchase or

240
sale of a horse; a man who is knowing about horses would be
better for that, would he not?
Certainly.
And when you want to buy a ship, the shipwright or the pilot
would be better?
True.
Then what is that joint use of silver or gold in which the just
man is to be preferred?
When you want a deposit to be kept safely.
You mean when money is not wanted, but allowed to lie?
Precisely.
That is to say, justice is useful when money is useless?
That is the inference.
And when you want to keep a pruning-hook safe, then justice
is useful to the individual and to the state; but when you want
to use it, then the art of the vine-dresser?
Clearly.
And when you want to keep a shield or a lyre, and not to use
them, you would say that justice is useful; but when you want
to use them, then the art of the soldier or of the musician?
Certainly.
And so of all other things;—justice is useful when they are
useless, and useless when they are useful?
That is the inference.
Then justice is not good for much. But let us consider this
further point: Is not he who can best strike a blow in a boxing
match or in any kind of fighting best able to ward off a blow?
Certainly.
And he who is most skilful in preventing or escaping from a
disease is best able to create one?
True.
And he is the best guard of a camp who is best able to steal a
march upon the enemy?
Certainly.
Then he who is a good keeper of anything is also a good
thief?
That, I suppose, is to be inferred.
Then if the just man is good at keeping money, he is good at
stealing it.
That is implied in the argument.

241
 Then after all the just man has turned out to be a thief. And
this is a lesson which I suspect you must have learnt out of
Homer; for he, speaking of Autolycus, the maternal grandfath-
er of Odysseus, who is a favourite of his, affirms that
'He was excellent above all men in theft and perjury.'
And so, you and Homer and Simonides are agreed that
justice is an art of theft; to be practised however 'for the good
of friends and for the harm of enemies,'—that was what you
were saying?
No, certainly not that, though I do not now know what I did
say; but I still stand by the latter words.
Well, there is another question: By friends and enemies do
we mean those who are so really, or only in seeming?
Surely, he said, a man may be expected to love those whom
he thinks good, and to hate those whom he thinks evil.
Yes, but do not persons often err about good and evil: many
who are not good seem to be so, and conversely?
That is true.
Then to them the good will be enemies and the evil will be
their friends? True.
And in that case they will be right in doing good to the evil
and evil to the good?
Clearly.
But the good are just and would not do an injustice?
True.
Then according to your argument it is just to injure those
who do no wrong?
Nay, Socrates; the doctrine is immoral.
Then I suppose that we ought to do good to the just and
harm to the unjust?
I like that better.
But see the consequence:—Many a man who is ignorant of
human nature has friends who are bad friends, and in that case
he ought to do harm to them; and he has good enemies whom
he ought to benefit; but, if so, we shall be saying the very op-
posite of that which we affirmed to be the meaning of
Simonides.
Very true, he said: and I think that we had better correct an
error into which we seem to have fallen in the use of the words
'friend' and 'enemy.'

242
 What was the error, Polemarchus? I asked.
We assumed that he is a friend who seems to be or who is
thought good.
And how is the error to be corrected?
We should rather say that he is a friend who is, as well as
seems, good; and that he who seems only, and is not good, only
seems to be and is not a friend; and of an enemy the same may
be said.
You would argue that the good are our friends and the bad
our enemies?
Yes.
And instead of saying simply as we did at first, that it is just
to do good to our friends and harm to our enemies, we should
further say: It is just to do good to our friends when they are
good and harm to our enemies when they are evil?
Yes, that appears to me to be the truth.
But ought the just to injure any one at all?
Undoubtedly he ought to injure those who are both wicked
and his enemies.
When horses are injured, are they improved or deteriorated?
The latter.
Deteriorated, that is to say, in the good qualities of horses,
not of dogs?
Yes, of horses.
And dogs are deteriorated in the good qualities of dogs, and
not of horses?
Of course.
And will not men who are injured be deteriorated in that
which is the proper virtue of man?
Certainly.
And that human virtue is justice?
To be sure.
Then men who are injured are of necessity made unjust?
That is the result.
But can the musician by his art make men unmusical?
Certainly not.
Or the horseman by his art make them bad horsemen?
Impossible.
And can the just by justice make men unjust, or speaking
generally, can the good by virtue make them bad?

243
 Assuredly not.
Any more than heat can produce cold?
It cannot.
Or drought moisture?
Clearly not.
Nor can the good harm any one?
Impossible.
And the just is the good?
Certainly.
Then to injure a friend or any one else is not the act of a just
man, but of the opposite, who is the unjust?
I think that what you say is quite true, Socrates.
Then if a man says that justice consists in the repayment of
debts, and that good is the debt which a just man owes to his
friends, and evil the debt which he owes to his enemies,—to
say this is not wise; for it is not true, if, as has been clearly
shown, the injuring of another can be in no case just.
I agree with you, said Polemarchus.
Then you and I are prepared to take up arms against any one
who attributes such a saying to Simonides or Bias or Pittacus,
or any other wise man or seer?
I am quite ready to do battle at your side, he said.
Shall I tell you whose I believe the saying to be?
Whose?
I believe that Periander or Perdiccas or Xerxes or Ismenias
the Theban, or some other rich and mighty man, who had a
great opinion of his own power, was the first to say that justice
is 'doing good to your friends and harm to your enemies.'
Most true, he said.
Yes, I said; but if this definition of justice also breaks down,
what other can be offered?
Several times in the course of the discussion Thrasymachus
had made an attempt to get the argument into his own hands,
and had been put down by the rest of the company, who
wanted to hear the end. But when Polemarchus and I had done
speaking and there was a pause, he could no longer hold his
peace; and, gathering himself up, he came at us like a wild
beast, seeking to devour us. We were quite panic-stricken at
the sight of him.

244
 He roared out to the whole company: What folly, Socrates,
has taken possession of you all? And why, sillybillies, do you
knock under to one another? I say that if you want really to
know what justice is, you should not only ask but answer, and
you should not seek honour to yourself from the refutation of
an opponent, but have your own answer; for there is many a
one who can ask and cannot answer. And now I will not have
you say that justice is duty or advantage or profit or gain or in-
terest, for this sort of nonsense will not do for me; I must have
clearness and accuracy.
I was panic-stricken at his words, and could not look at him
without trembling. Indeed I believe that if I had not fixed my
eye upon him, I should have been struck dumb: but when I saw
his fury rising, I looked at him first, and was therefore able to
reply to him.
Thrasymachus, I said, with a quiver, don't be hard upon us.
Polemarchus and I may have been guilty of a little mistake in
the argument, but I can assure you that the error was not in-
tentional. If we were seeking for a piece of gold, you would not
imagine that we were 'knocking under to one another,' and so
losing our chance of finding it. And why, when we are seeking
for justice, a thing more precious than many pieces of gold, do
you say that we are weakly yielding to one another and not do-
ing our utmost to get at the truth? Nay, my good friend, we are
most willing and anxious to do so, but the fact is that we can-
not. And if so, you people who know all things should pity us
and not be angry with us.
How characteristic of Socrates! he replied, with a bitter
laugh;—that's your ironical style! Did I not foresee—have I not
already told you, that whatever he was asked he would refuse
to answer, and try irony or any other shuffle, in order that he
might avoid answering?
You are a philosopher, Thrasymachus, I replied, and well
know that if you ask a person what numbers make up twelve,
taking care to prohibit him whom you ask from answering
twice six, or three times four, or six times two, or four times
three, 'for this sort of nonsense will not do for me,'—then obvi-
ously, if that is your way of putting the question, no one can
answer you. But suppose that he were to retort,
'Thrasymachus, what do you mean? If one of these numbers

245
which you interdict be the true answer to the question, am I
falsely to say some other number which is not the right
one?—is that your meaning?'—How would you answer him?
Just as if the two cases were at all alike! he said.
Why should they not be? I replied; and even if they are not,
but only appear to be so to the person who is asked, ought he
not to say what he thinks, whether you and I forbid him or not?
I presume then that you are going to make one of the inter-
dicted answers?
I dare say that I may, notwithstanding the danger, if upon re-
flection I approve of any of them.
But what if I give you an answer about justice other and bet-
ter, he said, than any of these? What do you deserve to have
done to you?
Done to me!—as becomes the ignorant, I must learn from the
wise—that is what I deserve to have done to me.
What, and no payment! a pleasant notion!
I will pay when I have the money, I replied.
But you have, Socrates, said Glaucon: and you,
Thrasymachus, need be under no anxiety about money, for we
will all make a contribution for Socrates.
Yes, he replied, and then Socrates will do as he always
does—refuse to answer himself, but take and pull to pieces the
answer of some one else.
Why, my good friend, I said, how can any one answer who
knows, and says that he knows, just nothing; and who, even if
he has some faint notions of his own, is told by a man of au-
thority not to utter them? The natural thing is, that the speaker
should be some one like yourself who professes to know and
can tell what he knows. Will you then kindly answer, for the
edification of the company and of myself?
Glaucon and the rest of the company joined in my request,
and Thrasymachus, as any one might see, was in reality eager
to speak; for he thought that he had an excellent answer, and
would distinguish himself. But at first he affected to insist on
my answering; at length he consented to begin. Behold, he
said, the wisdom of Socrates; he refuses to teach himself, and
goes about learning of others, to whom he never even says
Thank you.

246
 That I learn of others, I replied, is quite true; but that I am
ungrateful I wholly deny. Money I have none, and therefore I
pay in praise, which is all I have; and how ready I am to praise
any one who appears to me to speak well you will very soon
find out when you answer; for I expect that you will answer
well.
Listen, then, he said; I proclaim that justice is nothing else
than the interest of the stronger. And now why do you not
praise me? But of course you won't.
Let me first understand you, I replied. Justice, as you say, is
the interest of the stronger. What, Thrasymachus, is the mean-
ing of this? You cannot mean to say that because Polydamas,
the pancratiast, is stronger than we are, and finds the eating of
beef conducive to his bodily strength, that to eat beef is there-
fore equally for our good who are weaker than he is, and right
and just for us?
That's abominable of you, Socrates; you take the words in the
sense which is most damaging to the argument.
Not at all, my good sir, I said; I am trying to understand
them; and I wish that you would be a little clearer.
Well, he said, have you never heard that forms of govern-
ment differ; there are tyrannies, and there are democracies,
and there are aristocracies?
Yes, I know.
And the government is the ruling power in each state?
Certainly.
And the different forms of government make laws democrat-
ical, aristocratical, tyrannical, with a view to their several in-
terests; and these laws, which are made by them for their own
interests, are the justice which they deliver to their subjects,
and him who transgresses them they punish as a breaker of the
law, and unjust. And that is what I mean when I say that in all
states there is the same principle of justice, which is the in-
terest of the government; and as the government must be sup-
posed to have power, the only reasonable conclusion is, that
everywhere there is one principle of justice, which is the in-
terest of the stronger.
Now I understand you, I said; and whether you are right or
not I will try to discover. But let me remark, that in defining
justice you have yourself used the word 'interest' which you

247
forbade me to use. It is true, however, that in your definition
the words 'of the stronger' are added.
A small addition, you must allow, he said.
Great or small, never mind about that: we must first enquire
whether what you are saying is the truth. Now we are both
agreed that justice is interest of some sort, but you go on to
say 'of the stronger'; about this addition I am not so sure, and
must therefore consider further.
Proceed.
I will; and first tell me, Do you admit that it is just for sub-
jects to obey their rulers?
I do.
But are the rulers of states absolutely infallible, or are they
sometimes liable to err?
To be sure, he replied, they are liable to err.
Then in making their laws they may sometimes make them
rightly, and sometimes not?
True.
When they make them rightly, they make them agreeably to
their interest; when they are mistaken, contrary to their in-
terest; you admit that?
Yes.
And the laws which they make must be obeyed by their sub-
jects,—and that is what you call justice?
Doubtless.
Then justice, according to your argument, is not only obedi-
ence to the interest of the stronger but the reverse?
What is that you are saying? he asked.
I am only repeating what you are saying, I believe. But let us
consider: Have we not admitted that the rulers may be mis-
taken about their own interest in what they command, and also
that to obey them is justice? Has not that been admitted?
Yes.
Then you must also have acknowledged justice not to be for
the interest of the stronger, when the rulers unintentionally
command things to be done which are to their own injury. For
if, as you say, justice is the obedience which the subject
renders to their commands, in that case, O wisest of men, is
there any escape from the conclusion that the weaker are

248
commanded to do, not what is for the interest, but what is for
the injury of the stronger?
Nothing can be clearer, Socrates, said Polemarchus.
Yes, said Cleitophon, interposing, if you are allowed to be his
witness.
But there is no need of any witness, said Polemarchus, for
Thrasymachus himself acknowledges that rulers may some-
times command what is not for their own interest, and that for
subjects to obey them is justice.
Yes, Polemarchus,—Thrasymachus said that for subjects to
do what was commanded by their rulers is just.
Yes, Cleitophon, but he also said that justice is the interest of
the stronger, and, while admitting both these propositions, he
further acknowledged that the stronger may command the
weaker who are his subjects to do what is not for his own in-
terest; whence follows that justice is the injury quite as much
as the interest of the stronger.
But, said Cleitophon, he meant by the interest of the stronger
what the stronger thought to be his interest,—this was what
the weaker had to do; and this was affirmed by him to be
justice.
Those were not his words, rejoined Polemarchus.
Never mind, I replied, if he now says that they are, let us ac-
cept his statement. Tell me, Thrasymachus, I said, did you
mean by justice what the stronger thought to be his interest,
whether really so or not?
Certainly not, he said. Do you suppose that I call him who is
mistaken the stronger at the time when he is mistaken?
Yes, I said, my impression was that you did so, when you ad-
mitted that the ruler was not infallible but might be sometimes
mistaken.
You argue like an informer, Socrates. Do you mean, for ex-
ample, that he who is mistaken about the sick is a physician in
that he is mistaken? or that he who errs in arithmetic or gram-
mar is an arithmetician or grammarian at the time when he is
making the mistake, in respect of the mistake? True, we say
that the physician or arithmetician or grammarian has made a
mistake, but this is only a way of speaking; for the fact is that
neither the grammarian nor any other person of skill ever
makes a mistake in so far as he is what his name implies; they

249
none of them err unless their skill fails them, and then they
cease to be skilled artists. No artist or sage or ruler errs at the
time when he is what his name implies; though he is commonly
said to err, and I adopted the common mode of speaking. But
to be perfectly accurate, since you are such a lover of accur-
acy, we should say that the ruler, in so far as he is a ruler, is
unerring, and, being unerring, always commands that which is
for his own interest; and the subject is required to execute his
commands; and therefore, as I said at first and now repeat,
justice is the interest of the stronger.
Indeed, Thrasymachus, and do I really appear to you to argue
like an informer?
Certainly, he replied.
And do you suppose that I ask these questions with any
design of injuring you in the argument?
Nay, he replied, 'suppose' is not the word—I know it; but you
will be found out, and by sheer force of argument you will nev-
er prevail.
I shall not make the attempt, my dear man; but to avoid any
misunderstanding occurring between us in future, let me ask,
in what sense do you speak of a ruler or stronger whose in-
terest, as you were saying, he being the superior, it is just that
the inferior should execute—is he a ruler in the popular or in
the strict sense of the term?
In the strictest of all senses, he said. And now cheat and play
the informer if you can; I ask no quarter at your hands. But you
never will be able, never.
And do you imagine, I said, that I am such a madman as to
try and cheat, Thrasymachus? I might as well shave a lion.
Why, he said, you made the attempt a minute ago, and you
failed.
Enough, I said, of these civilities. It will be better that I
should ask you a question: Is the physician, taken in that strict
sense of which you are speaking, a healer of the sick or a
maker of money? And remember that I am now speaking of the
true physician.
A healer of the sick, he replied.
And the pilot—that is to say, the true pilot—is he a captain of
sailors or a mere sailor?
A captain of sailors.

250
 The circumstance that he sails in the ship is not to be taken
into account; neither is he to be called a sailor; the name pilot
by which he is distinguished has nothing to do with sailing, but
is significant of his skill and of his authority over the sailors.
Very true, he said.
Now, I said, every art has an interest?
Certainly.
For which the art has to consider and provide?
Yes, that is the aim of art.
And the interest of any art is the perfection of it—this and
nothing else?
What do you mean?
I mean what I may illustrate negatively by the example of the
body. Suppose you were to ask me whether the body is self-suf-
ficing or has wants, I should reply: Certainly the body has
wants; for the body may be ill and require to be cured, and has
therefore interests to which the art of medicine ministers; and
this is the origin and intention of medicine, as you will acknow-
ledge. Am I not right?
Quite right, he replied.
But is the art of medicine or any other art faulty or deficient
in any quality in the same way that the eye may be deficient in
sight or the ear fail of hearing, and therefore requires another
art to provide for the interests of seeing and hearing—has art
in itself, I say, any similar liability to fault or defect, and does
every art require another supplementary art to provide for its
interests, and that another and another without end? Or have
the arts to look only after their own interests? Or have they no
need either of themselves or of another?—having no faults or
defects, they have no need to correct them, either by the exer-
cise of their own art or of any other; they have only to consider
the interest of their subject-matter. For every art remains pure
and faultless while remaining true—that is to say, while perfect
and unimpaired. Take the words in your precise sense, and tell
me whether I am not right.
Yes, clearly.
Then medicine does not consider the interest of medicine,
but the interest of the body?
True, he said.

251
 Nor does the art of horsemanship consider the interests of
the art of horsemanship, but the interests of the horse; neither
do any other arts care for themselves, for they have no needs;
they care only for that which is the subject of their art?
True, he said.
But surely, Thrasymachus, the arts are the superiors and
rulers of their own subjects?
To this he assented with a good deal of reluctance.
Then, I said, no science or art considers or enjoins the in-
terest of the stronger or superior, but only the interest of the
subject and weaker?
He made an attempt to contest this proposition also, but fi-
nally acquiesced.
Then, I continued, no physician, in so far as he is a physician,
considers his own good in what he prescribes, but the good of
his patient; for the true physician is also a ruler having the hu-
man body as a subject, and is not a mere money-maker; that
has been admitted?
Yes.
And the pilot likewise, in the strict sense of the term, is a
ruler of sailors and not a mere sailor?
That has been admitted.
And such a pilot and ruler will provide and prescribe for the
interest of the sailor who is under him, and not for his own or
the ruler's interest?
He gave a reluctant 'Yes.'
Then, I said, Thrasymachus, there is no one in any rule who,
in so far as he is a ruler, considers or enjoins what is for his
own interest, but always what is for the interest of his subject
or suitable to his art; to that he looks, and that alone he con-
siders in everything which he says and does.
When we had got to this point in the argument, and every
one saw that the definition of justice had been completely up-
set, Thrasymachus, instead of replying to me, said: Tell me, So-
crates, have you got a nurse?
Why do you ask such a question, I said, when you ought
rather to be answering?
Because she leaves you to snivel, and never wipes your nose:
she has not even taught you to know the shepherd from the
sheep.

252
 What makes you say that? I replied.
Because you fancy that the shepherd or neatherd fattens or
tends the sheep or oxen with a view to their own good and not
to the good of himself or his master; and you further imagine
that the rulers of states, if they are true rulers, never think of
their subjects as sheep, and that they are not studying their
own advantage day and night. Oh, no; and so entirely astray
are you in your ideas about the just and unjust as not even to
know that justice and the just are in reality another's good;
that is to say, the interest of the ruler and stronger, and the
loss of the subject and servant; and injustice the opposite; for
the unjust is lord over the truly simple and just: he is the
stronger, and his subjects do what is for his interest, and min-
ister to his happiness, which is very far from being their own.
Consider further, most foolish Socrates, that the just is always
a loser in comparison with the unjust. First of all, in private
contracts: wherever the unjust is the partner of the just you
will find that, when the partnership is dissolved, the unjust
man has always more and the just less. Secondly, in their deal-
ings with the State: when there is an income-tax, the just man
will pay more and the unjust less on the same amount of in-
come; and when there is anything to be received the one gains
nothing and the other much. Observe also what happens when
they take an office; there is the just man neglecting his affairs
and perhaps suffering other losses, and getting nothing out of
the public, because he is just; moreover he is hated by his
friends and acquaintance for refusing to serve them in unlaw-
ful ways. But all this is reversed in the case of the unjust man. I
am speaking, as before, of injustice on a large scale in which
the advantage of the unjust is most apparent; and my meaning
will be most clearly seen if we turn to that highest form of in-
justice in which the criminal is the happiest of men, and the
sufferers or those who refuse to do injustice are the most
miserable—that is to say tyranny, which by fraud and force
takes away the property of others, not little by little but whole-
sale; comprehending in one, things sacred as well as profane,
private and public; for which acts of wrong, if he were detected
perpetrating any one of them singly, he would be punished and
incur great disgrace—they who do such wrong in particular
cases are called robbers of temples, and man-stealers and

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burglars and swindlers and thieves. But when a man besides
taking away the money of the citizens has made slaves of them,
then, instead of these names of reproach, he is termed happy
and blessed, not only by the citizens but by all who hear of his
having achieved the consummation of injustice. For mankind
censure injustice, fearing that they may be the victims of it and
not because they shrink from committing it. And thus, as I have
shown, Socrates, injustice, when on a sufficient scale, has more
strength and freedom and mastery than justice; and, as I said
at first, justice is the interest of the stronger, whereas injustice
is a man's own profit and interest.
Thrasymachus, when he had thus spoken, having, like a bath-
man, deluged our ears with his words, had a mind to go away.
But the company would not let him; they insisted that he
should remain and defend his position; and I myself added my
own humble request that he would not leave us.
Thrasymachus, I said to him, excellent man, how suggestive
are your remarks! And are you going to run away before you
have fairly taught or learned whether they are true or not? Is
the attempt to determine the way of man's life so small a mat-
ter in your eyes—to determine how life may be passed by each
one of us to the greatest advantage?
And do I differ from you, he said, as to the importance of the
enquiry?
You appear rather, I replied, to have no care or thought
about us, Thrasymachus—whether we live better or worse from
not knowing what you say you know, is to you a matter of indif-
ference. Prithee, friend, do not keep your knowledge to your-
self; we are a large party; and any benefit which you confer
upon us will be amply rewarded. For my own part I openly de-
clare that I am not convinced, and that I do not believe in-
justice to be more gainful than justice, even if uncontrolled and
allowed to have free play. For, granting that there may be an
unjust man who is able to commit injustice either by fraud or
force, still this does not convince me of the superior advantage
of injustice, and there may be others who are in the same pre-
dicament with myself. Perhaps we may be wrong; if so, you in
your wisdom should convince us that we are mistaken in pre-
ferring justice to injustice.

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 And how am I to convince you, he said, if you are not already
convinced by what I have just said; what more can I do for you?
Would you have me put the proof bodily into your souls?
Heaven forbid! I said; I would only ask you to be consistent;
or, if you change, change openly and let there be no deception.
For I must remark, Thrasymachus, if you will recall what was
previously said, that although you began by defining the true
physician in an exact sense, you did not observe a like exact-
ness when speaking of the shepherd; you thought that the
shepherd as a shepherd tends the sheep not with a view to
their own good, but like a mere diner or banquetter with a
view to the pleasures of the table; or, again, as a trader for sale
in the market, and not as a shepherd. Yet surely the art of the
shepherd is concerned only with the good of his subjects; he
has only to provide the best for them, since the perfection of
the art is already ensured whenever all the requirements of it
are satisfied. And that was what I was saying just now about
the ruler. I conceived that the art of the ruler, considered as
ruler, whether in a state or in private life, could only regard
the good of his flock or subjects; whereas you seem to think
that the rulers in states, that is to say, the true rulers, like be-
ing in authority.
Think! Nay, I am sure of it.
Then why in the case of lesser offices do men never take
them willingly without payment, unless under the idea that
they govern for the advantage not of themselves but of others?
Let me ask you a question: Are not the several arts different,
by reason of their each having a separate function? And, my
dear illustrious friend, do say what you think, that we may
make a little progress.
Yes, that is the difference, he replied.
And each art gives us a particular good and not merely a
general one—medicine, for example, gives us health; naviga-
tion, safety at sea, and so on?
Yes, he said.
And the art of payment has the special function of giving pay:
but we do not confuse this with other arts, any more than the
art of the pilot is to be confused with the art of medicine, be-
cause the health of the pilot may be improved by a sea voyage.
You would not be inclined to say, would you, that navigation is

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the art of medicine, at least if we are to adopt your exact use of
language?
Certainly not.
Or because a man is in good health when he receives pay you
would not say that the art of payment is medicine?
I should not.
Nor would you say that medicine is the art of receiving pay
because a man takes fees when he is engaged in healing?
Certainly not.
And we have admitted, I said, that the good of each art is
specially confined to the art?
Yes.
Then, if there be any good which all artists have in common,
that is to be attributed to something of which they all have the
common use?
True, he replied.
And when the artist is benefited by receiving pay the advant-
age is gained by an additional use of the art of pay, which is
not the art professed by him?
He gave a reluctant assent to this.
Then the pay is not derived by the several artists from their
respective arts. But the truth is, that while the art of medicine
gives health, and the art of the builder builds a house, another
art attends them which is the art of pay. The various arts may
be doing their own business and benefiting that over which
they preside, but would the artist receive any benefit from his
art unless he were paid as well?
I suppose not.
But does he therefore confer no benefit when he works for
nothing?
Certainly, he confers a benefit.
Then now, Thrasymachus, there is no longer any doubt that
neither arts nor governments provide for their own interests;
but, as we were before saying, they rule and provide for the in-
terests of their subjects who are the weaker and not the
stronger—to their good they attend and not to the good of the
superior. And this is the reason, my dear Thrasymachus, why,
as I was just now saying, no one is willing to govern; because
no one likes to take in hand the reformation of evils which are
not his concern without remuneration. For, in the execution of

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his work, and in giving his orders to another, the true artist
does not regard his own interest, but always that of his sub-
jects; and therefore in order that rulers may be willing to rule,
they must be paid in one of three modes of payment, money, or
honour, or a penalty for refusing.
What do you mean, Socrates? said Glaucon. The first two
modes of payment are intelligible enough, but what the penalty
is I do not understand, or how a penalty can be a payment.
You mean that you do not understand the nature of this pay-
ment which to the best men is the great inducement to rule? Of
course you know that ambition and avarice are held to be, as
indeed they are, a disgrace?
Very true.
And for this reason, I said, money and honour have no attrac-
tion for them; good men do not wish to be openly demanding
payment for governing and so to get the name of hirelings, nor
by secretly helping themselves out of the public revenues to
get the name of thieves. And not being ambitious they do not
care about honour. Wherefore necessity must be laid upon
them, and they must be induced to serve from the fear of pun-
ishment. And this, as I imagine, is the reason why the forward-
ness to take office, instead of waiting to be compelled, has
been deemed dishonourable. Now the worst part of the punish-
ment is that he who refuses to rule is liable to be ruled by one
who is worse than himself. And the fear of this, as I conceive,
induces the good to take office, not because they would, but
because they cannot help—not under the idea that they are go-
ing to have any benefit or enjoyment themselves, but as a ne-
cessity, and because they are not able to commit the task of
ruling to any one who is better than themselves, or indeed as
good. For there is reason to think that if a city were composed
entirely of good men, then to avoid office would be as much an
object of contention as to obtain office is at present; then we
should have plain proof that the true ruler is not meant by
nature to regard his own interest, but that of his subjects; and
every one who knew this would choose rather to receive a be-
nefit from another than to have the trouble of conferring one.
So far am I from agreeing with Thrasymachus that justice is
the interest of the stronger. This latter question need not be
further discussed at present; but when Thrasymachus says that

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the life of the unjust is more advantageous than that of the
just, his new statement appears to me to be of a far more seri-
ous character. Which of us has spoken truly? And which sort of
life, Glaucon, do you prefer?
I for my part deem the life of the just to be the more advant-
ageous, he answered.
Did you hear all the advantages of the unjust which
Thrasymachus was rehearsing?
Yes, I heard him, he replied, but he has not convinced me.
Then shall we try to find some way of convincing him, if we
can, that he is saying what is not true?
Most certainly, he replied.
If, I said, he makes a set speech and we make another re-
counting all the advantages of being just, and he answers and
we rejoin, there must be a numbering and measuring of the
goods which are claimed on either side, and in the end we shall
want judges to decide; but if we proceed in our enquiry as we
lately did, by making admissions to one another, we shall unite
the offices of judge and advocate in our own persons.
Very good, he said.
And which method do I understand you to prefer? I said.
That which you propose.
Well, then, Thrasymachus, I said, suppose you begin at the
beginning and answer me. You say that perfect injustice is
more gainful than perfect justice?
Yes, that is what I say, and I have given you my reasons.
And what is your view about them? Would you call one of
them virtue and the other vice?
Certainly.
I suppose that you would call justice virtue and injustice
vice?
What a charming notion! So likely too, seeing that I affirm in-
justice to be profitable and justice not.
What else then would you say?
The opposite, he replied.
And would you call justice vice?
No, I would rather say sublime simplicity.
Then would you call injustice malignity?
No; I would rather say discretion.
And do the unjust appear to you to be wise and good?

258
 Yes, he said; at any rate those of them who are able to be
perfectly unjust, and who have the power of subduing states
and nations; but perhaps you imagine me to be talking of cut-
purses. Even this profession if undetected has advantages,
though they are not to be compared with those of which I was
just now speaking.
I do not think that I misapprehend your meaning,
Thrasymachus, I replied; but still I cannot hear without
amazement that you class injustice with wisdom and virtue,
and justice with the opposite.
Certainly I do so class them.
Now, I said, you are on more substantial and almost un-
answerable ground; for if the injustice which you were main-
taining to be profitable had been admitted by you as by others
to be vice and deformity, an answer might have been given to
you on received principles; but now I perceive that you will call
injustice honourable and strong, and to the unjust you will at-
tribute all the qualities which were attributed by us before to
the just, seeing that you do not hesitate to rank injustice with
wisdom and virtue.
You have guessed most infallibly, he replied.
Then I certainly ought not to shrink from going through with
the argument so long as I have reason to think that you,
Thrasymachus, are speaking your real mind; for I do believe
that you are now in earnest and are not amusing yourself at
our expense.
I may be in earnest or not, but what is that to you?—to refute
the argument is your business.
Very true, I said; that is what I have to do: But will you be so
good as answer yet one more question? Does the just man try
to gain any advantage over the just?
Far otherwise; if he did he would not be the simple amusing
creature which he is.
And would he try to go beyond just action?
He would not.
And how would he regard the attempt to gain an advantage
over the unjust; would that be considered by him as just or
unjust?
He would think it just, and would try to gain the advantage;
but he would not be able.

259
 Whether he would or would not be able, I said, is not to the
point. My question is only whether the just man, while refusing
to have more than another just man, would wish and claim to
have more than the unjust?
Yes, he would.
And what of the unjust—does he claim to have more than the
just man and to do more than is just?
Of course, he said, for he claims to have more than all men.
And the unjust man will strive and struggle to obtain more
than the unjust man or action, in order that he may have more
than all?
True.
We may put the matter thus, I said—the just does not desire
more than his like but more than his unlike, whereas the unjust
desires more than both his like and his unlike?
Nothing, he said, can be better than that statement.
And the unjust is good and wise, and the just is neither?
Good again, he said.
And is not the unjust like the wise and good and the just un-
like them?
Of course, he said, he who is of a certain nature, is like those
who are of a certain nature; he who is not, not.
Each of them, I said, is such as his like is?
Certainly, he replied.
Very good, Thrasymachus, I said; and now to take the case of
the arts: you would admit that one man is a musician and an-
other not a musician?
Yes.
And which is wise and which is foolish?
Clearly the musician is wise, and he who is not a musician is
foolish.
And he is good in as far as he is wise, and bad in as far as he
is foolish?
Yes.
And you would say the same sort of thing of the physician?
Yes.
And do you think, my excellent friend, that a musician when
he adjusts the lyre would desire or claim to exceed or go bey-
ond a musician in the tightening and loosening the strings?
I do not think that he would.

260
 But he would claim to exceed the non-musician?
Of course.
And what would you say of the physician? In prescribing
meats and drinks would he wish to go beyond another physi-
cian or beyond the practice of medicine?
He would not.
But he would wish to go beyond the non-physician?
Yes.
And about knowledge and ignorance in general; see whether
you think that any man who has knowledge ever would wish to
have the choice of saying or doing more than another man who
has knowledge. Would he not rather say or do the same as his
like in the same case?
That, I suppose, can hardly be denied.
And what of the ignorant? would he not desire to have more
than either the knowing or the ignorant?
I dare say.
And the knowing is wise?
Yes.
And the wise is good?
True.
Then the wise and good will not desire to gain more than his
like, but more than his unlike and opposite?
I suppose so.
Whereas the bad and ignorant will desire to gain more than
both?
Yes.
But did we not say, Thrasymachus, that the unjust goes bey-
ond both his like and unlike? Were not these your words?
They were.
And you also said that the just will not go beyond his like but
his unlike?
Yes.
Then the just is like the wise and good, and the unjust like
the evil and ignorant?
That is the inference.
And each of them is such as his like is?
That was admitted.
Then the just has turned out to be wise and good and the un-
just evil and ignorant.

261
 Thrasymachus made all these admissions, not fluently, as I
repeat them, but with extreme reluctance; it was a hot
summer's day, and the perspiration poured from him in tor-
rents; and then I saw what I had never seen before,
Thrasymachus blushing. As we were now agreed that justice
was virtue and wisdom, and injustice vice and ignorance, I pro-
ceeded to another point:
Well, I said, Thrasymachus, that matter is now settled; but
were we not also saying that injustice had strength; do you
remember?
Yes, I remember, he said, but do not suppose that I approve
of what you are saying or have no answer; if however I were to
answer, you would be quite certain to accuse me of har-
anguing; therefore either permit me to have my say out, or if
you would rather ask, do so, and I will answer 'Very good,' as
they say to story-telling old women, and will nod 'Yes' and 'No.'
Certainly not, I said, if contrary to your real opinion.
Yes, he said, I will, to please you, since you will not let me
speak. What else would you have?
Nothing in the world, I said; and if you are so disposed I will
ask and you shall answer.
Proceed.
Then I will repeat the question which I asked before, in order
that our examination of the relative nature of justice and in-
justice may be carried on regularly. A statement was made that
injustice is stronger and more powerful than justice, but now
justice, having been identified with wisdom and virtue, is easily
shown to be stronger than injustice, if injustice is ignorance;
this can no longer be questioned by any one. But I want to view
the matter, Thrasymachus, in a different way: You would not
deny that a state may be unjust and may be unjustly attempt-
ing to enslave other states, or may have already enslaved
them, and may be holding many of them in subjection?
True, he replied; and I will add that the best and most per-
fectly unjust state will be most likely to do so.
I know, I said, that such was your position; but what I would
further consider is, whether this power which is possessed by
the superior state can exist or be exercised without justice or
only with justice.

262
 If you are right in your view, and justice is wisdom, then only
with justice; but if I am right, then without justice.
I am delighted, Thrasymachus, to see you not only nodding
assent and dissent, but making answers which are quite
excellent.
That is out of civility to you, he replied.
You are very kind, I said; and would you have the goodness
also to inform me, whether you think that a state, or an army,
or a band of robbers and thieves, or any other gang of evil-
doers could act at all if they injured one another?
No indeed, he said, they could not.
But if they abstained from injuring one another, then they
might act together better?
Yes.
And this is because injustice creates divisions and hatreds
and fighting, and justice imparts harmony and friendship; is
not that true, Thrasymachus?
I agree, he said, because I do not wish to quarrel with you.
How good of you, I said; but I should like to know also wheth-
er injustice, having this tendency to arouse hatred, wherever
existing, among slaves or among freemen, will not make them
hate one another and set them at variance and render them in-
capable of common action?
Certainly.
And even if injustice be found in two only, will they not quar-
rel and fight, and become enemies to one another and to the
just?
They will.
And suppose injustice abiding in a single person, would your
wisdom say that she loses or that she retains her natural
power?
Let us assume that she retains her power.
Yet is not the power which injustice exercises of such a
nature that wherever she takes up her abode, whether in a
city, in an army, in a family, or in any other body, that body is,
to begin with, rendered incapable of united action by reason of
sedition and distraction; and does it not become its own enemy
and at variance with all that opposes it, and with the just? Is
not this the case?
Yes, certainly.

263
 And is not injustice equally fatal when existing in a single
person; in the first place rendering him incapable of action be-
cause he is not at unity with himself, and in the second place
making him an enemy to himself and the just? Is not that true,
Thrasymachus?
Yes.
And O my friend, I said, surely the gods are just?
Granted that they are.
But if so, the unjust will be the enemy of the gods, and the
just will be their friend?
Feast away in triumph, and take your fill of the argument; I
will not oppose you, lest I should displease the company.
Well then, proceed with your answers, and let me have the
remainder of my repast. For we have already shown that the
just are clearly wiser and better and abler than the unjust, and
that the unjust are incapable of common action; nay more, that
to speak as we did of men who are evil acting at any time vig-
orously together, is not strictly true, for if they had been per-
fectly evil, they would have laid hands upon one another; but it
is evident that there must have been some remnant of justice
in them, which enabled them to combine; if there had not been
they would have injured one another as well as their victims;
they were but half-villains in their enterprises; for had they
been whole villains, and utterly unjust, they would have been
utterly incapable of action. That, as I believe, is the truth of the
matter, and not what you said at first. But whether the just
have a better and happier life than the unjust is a further ques-
tion which we also proposed to consider. I think that they have,
and for the reasons which I have given; but still I should like to
examine further, for no light matter is at stake, nothing less
than the rule of human life.
Proceed.
I will proceed by asking a question: Would you not say that a
horse has some end?
I should.
And the end or use of a horse or of anything would be that
which could not be accomplished, or not so well accomplished,
by any other thing?
I do not understand, he said.
Let me explain: Can you see, except with the eye?

264
 Certainly not.
Or hear, except with the ear?
No.
These then may be truly said to be the ends of these organs?
They may.
But you can cut off a vine-branch with a dagger or with a
chisel, and in many other ways?
Of course.
And yet not so well as with a pruning-hook made for the
purpose?
True.
May we not say that this is the end of a pruning-hook?
We may.
Then now I think you will have no difficulty in understanding
my meaning when I asked the question whether the end of any-
thing would be that which could not be accomplished, or not so
well accomplished, by any other thing?
I understand your meaning, he said, and assent.
And that to which an end is appointed has also an excel-
lence? Need I ask again whether the eye has an end?
It has.
And has not the eye an excellence?
Yes.
And the ear has an end and an excellence also?
True.
And the same is true of all other things; they have each of
them an end and a special excellence?
That is so.
Well, and can the eyes fulfil their end if they are wanting in
their own proper excellence and have a defect instead?
How can they, he said, if they are blind and cannot see?
You mean to say, if they have lost their proper excellence,
which is sight; but I have not arrived at that point yet. I would
rather ask the question more generally, and only enquire
whether the things which fulfil their ends fulfil them by their
own proper excellence, and fail of fulfilling them by their own
defect?
Certainly, he replied.
I might say the same of the ears; when deprived of their own
proper excellence they cannot fulfil their end?

265
 True.
And the same observation will apply to all other things?
I agree.
Well; and has not the soul an end which nothing else can ful-
fil? for example, to superintend and command and deliberate
and the like. Are not these functions proper to the soul, and
can they rightly be assigned to any other?
To no other.
And is not life to be reckoned among the ends of the soul?
Assuredly, he said.
And has not the soul an excellence also?
Yes.
And can she or can she not fulfil her own ends when de-
prived of that excellence?
She cannot.
Then an evil soul must necessarily be an evil ruler and super-
intendent, and the good soul a good ruler?
Yes, necessarily.
And we have admitted that justice is the excellence of the
soul, and injustice the defect of the soul?
That has been admitted.
Then the just soul and the just man will live well, and the un-
just man will live ill?
That is what your argument proves.
And he who lives well is blessed and happy, and he who lives
ill the reverse of happy?
Certainly.
Then the just is happy, and the unjust miserable?
So be it.
But happiness and not misery is profitable.
Of course.
Then, my blessed Thrasymachus, injustice can never be more
profitable than justice.
Let this, Socrates, he said, be your entertainment at the
Bendidea.
For which I am indebted to you, I said, now that you have
grown gentle towards me and have left off scolding. Neverthe-
less, I have not been well entertained; but that was my own
fault and not yours. As an epicure snatches a taste of every
dish which is successively brought to table, he not having

266
allowed himself time to enjoy the one before, so have I gone
from one subject to another without having discovered what I
sought at first, the nature of justice. I left that enquiry and
turned away to consider whether justice is virtue and wisdom
or evil and folly; and when there arose a further question about
the comparative advantages of justice and injustice, I could not
refrain from passing on to that. And the result of the whole dis-
cussion has been that I know nothing at all. For I know not
what justice is, and therefore I am not likely to know whether it
is or is not a virtue, nor can I say whether the just man is
happy or unhappy.

267
Part 2

268
With these words I was thinking that I had made an end of the
discussion; but the end, in truth, proved to be only a beginning.
For Glaucon, who is always the most pugnacious of men, was
dissatisfied at Thrasymachus' retirement; he wanted to have
the battle out. So he said to me: Socrates, do you wish really to
persuade us, or only to seem to have persuaded us, that to be
just is always better than to be unjust?
I should wish really to persuade you, I replied, if I could.
Then you certainly have not succeeded. Let me ask you
now:—How would you arrange goods—are there not some
which we welcome for their own sakes, and independently of
their consequences, as, for example, harmless pleasures and
enjoyments, which delight us at the time, although nothing fol-
lows from them?
I agree in thinking that there is such a class, I replied.
Is there not also a second class of goods, such as knowledge,
sight, health, which are desirable not only in themselves, but
also for their results?
Certainly, I said.
And would you not recognize a third class, such as gymnast-
ic, and the care of the sick, and the physician's art; also the
various ways of money-making—these do us good but we re-
gard them as disagreeable; and no one would choose them for
their own sakes, but only for the sake of some reward or result
which flows from them?
There is, I said, this third class also. But why do you ask?
Because I want to know in which of the three classes you
would place justice?
In the highest class, I replied,—among those goods which he
who would be happy desires both for their own sake and for
the sake of their results.
Then the many are of another mind; they think that justice is
to be reckoned in the troublesome class, among goods which
are to be pursued for the sake of rewards and of reputation,
but in themselves are disagreeable and rather to be avoided.
I know, I said, that this is their manner of thinking, and that
this was the thesis which Thrasymachus was maintaining just
now, when he censured justice and praised injustice. But I am
too stupid to be convinced by him.

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 I wish, he said, that you would hear me as well as him, and
then I shall see whether you and I agree. For Thrasymachus
seems to me, like a snake, to have been charmed by your voice
sooner than he ought to have been; but to my mind the nature
of justice and injustice have not yet been made clear. Setting
aside their rewards and results, I want to know what they are
in themselves, and how they inwardly work in the soul. If you,
please, then, I will revive the argument of Thrasymachus. And
first I will speak of the nature and origin of justice according to
the common view of them. Secondly, I will show that all men
who practise justice do so against their will, of necessity, but
not as a good. And thirdly, I will argue that there is reason in
this view, for the life of the unjust is after all better far than
the life of the just—if what they say is true, Socrates, since I
myself am not of their opinion. But still I acknowledge that I
am perplexed when I hear the voices of Thrasymachus and
myriads of others dinning in my ears; and, on the other hand, I
have never yet heard the superiority of justice to injustice
maintained by any one in a satisfactory way. I want to hear
justice praised in respect of itself; then I shall be satisfied, and
you are the person from whom I think that I am most likely to
hear this; and therefore I will praise the unjust life to the ut-
most of my power, and my manner of speaking will indicate the
manner in which I desire to hear you too praising justice and
censuring injustice. Will you say whether you approve of my
proposal?
Indeed I do; nor can I imagine any theme about which a man
of sense would oftener wish to converse.
I am delighted, he replied, to hear you say so, and shall begin
by speaking, as I proposed, of the nature and origin of justice.
They say that to do injustice is, by nature, good; to suffer in-
justice, evil; but that the evil is greater than the good. And so
when men have both done and suffered injustice and have had
experience of both, not being able to avoid the one and obtain
the other, they think that they had better agree among them-
selves to have neither; hence there arise laws and mutual cov-
enants; and that which is ordained by law is termed by them
lawful and just. This they affirm to be the origin and nature of
justice;—it is a mean or compromise, between the best of all,
which is to do injustice and not be punished, and the worst of

270
all, which is to suffer injustice without the power of retaliation;
and justice, being at a middle point between the two, is toler-
ated not as a good, but as the lesser evil, and honoured by
reason of the inability of men to do injustice. For no man who
is worthy to be called a man would ever submit to such an
agreement if he were able to resist; he would be mad if he did.
Such is the received account, Socrates, of the nature and ori-
gin of justice.
Now that those who practise justice do so involuntarily and
because they have not the power to be unjust will best appear
if we imagine something of this kind: having given both to the
just and the unjust power to do what they will, let us watch and
see whither desire will lead them; then we shall discover in the
very act the just and unjust man to be proceeding along the
same road, following their interest, which all natures deem to
be their good, and are only diverted into the path of justice by
the force of law. The liberty which we are supposing may be
most completely given to them in the form of such a power as
is said to have been possessed by Gyges, the ancestor of Croe-
sus the Lydian. According to the tradition, Gyges was a shep-
herd in the service of the king of Lydia; there was a great
storm, and an earthquake made an opening in the earth at the
place where he was feeding his flock. Amazed at the sight, he
descended into the opening, where, among other marvels, he
beheld a hollow brazen horse, having doors, at which he stoop-
ing and looking in saw a dead body of stature, as appeared to
him, more than human, and having nothing on but a gold ring;
this he took from the finger of the dead and reascended. Now
the shepherds met together, according to custom, that they
might send their monthly report about the flocks to the king;
into their assembly he came having the ring on his finger, and
as he was sitting among them he chanced to turn the collet of
the ring inside his hand, when instantly he became invisible to
the rest of the company and they began to speak of him as if he
were no longer present. He was astonished at this, and again
touching the ring he turned the collet outwards and re-
appeared; he made several trials of the ring, and always with
the same result—when he turned the collet inwards he became
invisible, when outwards he reappeared. Whereupon he con-
trived to be chosen one of the messengers who were sent to

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the court; whereas soon as he arrived he seduced the queen,
and with her help conspired against the king and slew him, and
took the kingdom. Suppose now that there were two such ma-
gic rings, and the just put on one of them and the unjust the
other; no man can be imagined to be of such an iron nature
that he would stand fast in justice. No man would keep his
hands off what was not his own when he could safely take what
he liked out of the market, or go into houses and lie with any
one at his pleasure, or kill or release from prison whom he
would, and in all respects be like a God among men. Then the
actions of the just would be as the actions of the unjust; they
would both come at last to the same point. And this we may
truly affirm to be a great proof that a man is just, not willingly
or because he thinks that justice is any good to him individu-
ally, but of necessity, for wherever any one thinks that he can
safely be unjust, there he is unjust. For all men believe in their
hearts that injustice is far more profitable to the individual
than justice, and he who argues as I have been supposing, will
say that they are right. If you could imagine any one obtaining
this power of becoming invisible, and never doing any wrong
or touching what was another's, he would be thought by the
lookers-on to be a most wretched idiot, although they would
praise him to one another's faces, and keep up appearances
with one another from a fear that they too might suffer in-
justice. Enough of this.
Now, if we are to form a real judgment of the life of the just
and unjust, we must isolate them; there is no other way; and
how is the isolation to be effected? I answer: Let the unjust
man be entirely unjust, and the just man entirely just; nothing
is to be taken away from either of them, and both are to be per-
fectly furnished for the work of their respective lives. First, let
the unjust be like other distinguished masters of craft; like the
skilful pilot or physician, who knows intuitively his own powers
and keeps within their limits, and who, if he fails at any point,
is able to recover himself. So let the unjust make his unjust at-
tempts in the right way, and lie hidden if he means to be great
in his injustice: (he who is found out is nobody:) for the highest
reach of injustice is, to be deemed just when you are not.
Therefore I say that in the perfectly unjust man we must as-
sume the most perfect injustice; there is to be no deduction,

272
but we must allow him, while doing the most unjust acts, to
have acquired the greatest reputation for justice. If he have
taken a false step he must be able to recover himself; he must
be one who can speak with effect, if any of his deeds come to
light, and who can force his way where force is required by his
courage and strength, and command of money and friends. And
at his side let us place the just man in his nobleness and simpli-
city, wishing, as Aeschylus says, to be and not to seem good.
There must be no seeming, for if he seem to be just he will be
honoured and rewarded, and then we shall not know whether
he is just for the sake of justice or for the sake of honours and
rewards; therefore, let him be clothed in justice only, and have
no other covering; and he must be imagined in a state of life
the opposite of the former. Let him be the best of men, and let
him be thought the worst; then he will have been put to the
proof; and we shall see whether he will be affected by the fear
of infamy and its consequences. And let him continue thus to
the hour of death; being just and seeming to be unjust. When
both have reached the uttermost extreme, the one of justice
and the other of injustice, let judgment be given which of them
is the happier of the two.
Heavens! my dear Glaucon, I said, how energetically you pol-
ish them up for the decision, first one and then the other, as if
they were two statues.
I do my best, he said. And now that we know what they are
like there is no difficulty in tracing out the sort of life which
awaits either of them. This I will proceed to describe; but as
you may think the description a little too coarse, I ask you to
suppose, Socrates, that the words which follow are not
mine.—Let me put them into the mouths of the eulogists of in-
justice: They will tell you that the just man who is thought un-
just will be scourged, racked, bound—will have his eyes burnt
out; and, at last, after suffering every kind of evil, he will be
impaled: Then he will understand that he ought to seem only,
and not to be, just; the words of Aeschylus may be more truly
spoken of the unjust than of the just. For the unjust is pursuing
a reality; he does not live with a view to appearances—he
wants to be really unjust and not to seem only:—
'His mind has a soil deep and fertile, Out of which spring his
prudent counsels.'

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 In the first place, he is thought just, and therefore bears rule
in the city; he can marry whom he will, and give in marriage to
whom he will; also he can trade and deal where he likes, and
always to his own advantage, because he has no misgivings
about injustice; and at every contest, whether in public or
private, he gets the better of his antagonists, and gains at their
expense, and is rich, and out of his gains he can benefit his
friends, and harm his enemies; moreover, he can offer sacri-
fices, and dedicate gifts to the gods abundantly and magnifi-
cently, and can honour the gods or any man whom he wants to
honour in a far better style than the just, and therefore he is
likely to be dearer than they are to the gods. And thus, So-
crates, gods and men are said to unite in making the life of the
unjust better than the life of the just.
I was going to say something in answer to Glaucon, when
Adeimantus, his brother, interposed: Socrates, he said, you do
not suppose that there is nothing more to be urged?
Why, what else is there? I answered.
The strongest point of all has not been even mentioned, he
replied.
Well, then, according to the proverb, 'Let brother help broth-
er'—if he fails in any part do you assist him; although I must
confess that Glaucon has already said quite enough to lay me
in the dust, and take from me the power of helping justice.
Nonsense, he replied. But let me add something more: There
is another side to Glaucon's argument about the praise and
censure of justice and injustice, which is equally required in or-
der to bring out what I believe to be his meaning. Parents and
tutors are always telling their sons and their wards that they
are to be just; but why? not for the sake of justice, but for the
sake of character and reputation; in the hope of obtaining for
him who is reputed just some of those offices, marriages, and
the like which Glaucon has enumerated among the advantages
accruing to the unjust from the reputation of justice. More,
however, is made of appearances by this class of persons than
by the others; for they throw in the good opinion of the gods,
and will tell you of a shower of benefits which the heavens, as
they say, rain upon the pious; and this accords with the testi-
mony of the noble Hesiod and Homer, the first of whom says,
that the gods make the oaks of the just—

274
 'To bear acorns at their summit, and bees in the middle;
And the sheep are bowed down with the weight of their
fleeces,'

and many other blessings of a like kind are provided for

them. And Homer has a very similar strain; for he speaks of
one whose fame is—
'As the fame of some blameless king who, like a god, Main-
tains justice; to whom the black earth brings forth Wheat and
barley, whose trees are bowed with fruit, And his sheep never
fail to bear, and the sea gives him fish.'
Still grander are the gifts of heaven which Musaeus and his
son vouchsafe to the just; they take them down into the world
below, where they have the saints lying on couches at a feast,
everlastingly drunk, crowned with garlands; their idea seems
to be that an immortality of drunkenness is the highest meed of
virtue. Some extend their rewards yet further; the posterity, as
they say, of the faithful and just shall survive to the third and
fourth generation. This is the style in which they praise justice.
But about the wicked there is another strain; they bury them in
a slough in Hades, and make them carry water in a sieve; also
while they are yet living they bring them to infamy, and inflict
upon them the punishments which Glaucon described as the
portion of the just who are reputed to be unjust; nothing else
does their invention supply. Such is their manner of praising
the one and censuring the other.
Once more, Socrates, I will ask you to consider another way
of speaking about justice and injustice, which is not confined to
the poets, but is found in prose writers. The universal voice of
mankind is always declaring that justice and virtue are honour-
able, but grievous and toilsome; and that the pleasures of vice
and injustice are easy of attainment, and are only censured by
law and opinion. They say also that honesty is for the most part
less profitable than dishonesty; and they are quite ready to call
wicked men happy, and to honour them both in public and
private when they are rich or in any other way influential,
while they despise and overlook those who may be weak and
poor, even though acknowledging them to be better than the
others. But most extraordinary of all is their mode of speaking
about virtue and the gods: they say that the gods apportion

275
calamity and misery to many good men, and good and happi-
ness to the wicked. And mendicant prophets go to rich men's
doors and persuade them that they have a power committed to
them by the gods of making an atonement for a man's own or
his ancestor's sins by sacrifices or charms, with rejoicings and
feasts; and they promise to harm an enemy, whether just or un-
just, at a small cost; with magic arts and incantations binding
heaven, as they say, to execute their will. And the poets are the
authorities to whom they appeal, now smoothing the path of
vice with the words of Hesiod;—
'Vice may be had in abundance without trouble; the way is
smooth and her dwelling-place is near. But before virtue the
gods have set toil,'
and a tedious and uphill road: then citing Homer as a witness
that the gods may be influenced by men; for he also says:—
'The gods, too, may be turned from their purpose; and men
pray to them and avert their wrath by sacrifices and soothing
entreaties, and by libations and the odour of fat, when they
have sinned and transgressed.'
And they produce a host of books written by Musaeus and
Orpheus, who were children of the Moon and the Muses—that
is what they say—according to which they perform their ritual,
and persuade not only individuals, but whole cities, that expi-
ations and atonements for sin may be made by sacrifices and
amusements which fill a vacant hour, and are equally at the
service of the living and the dead; the latter sort they call mys-
teries, and they redeem us from the pains of hell, but if we neg-
lect them no one knows what awaits us.
He proceeded: And now when the young hear all this said
about virtue and vice, and the way in which gods and men re-
gard them, how are their minds likely to be affected, my dear
Socrates,—those of them, I mean, who are quickwitted, and,
like bees on the wing, light on every flower, and from all that
they hear are prone to draw conclusions as to what manner of
persons they should be and in what way they should walk if
they would make the best of life? Probably the youth will say to
himself in the words of Pindar—
'Can I by justice or by crooked ways of deceit ascend a loftier
tower which may be a fortress to me all my days?'

276
 For what men say is that, if I am really just and am not also
thought just profit there is none, but the pain and loss on the
other hand are unmistakeable. But if, though unjust, I acquire
the reputation of justice, a heavenly life is promised to me.
Since then, as philosophers prove, appearance tyrannizes over
truth and is lord of happiness, to appearance I must devote my-
self. I will describe around me a picture and shadow of virtue
to be the vestibule and exterior of my house; behind I will trail
the subtle and crafty fox, as Archilochus, greatest of sages, re-
commends. But I hear some one exclaiming that the conceal-
ment of wickedness is often difficult; to which I answer, Noth-
ing great is easy. Nevertheless, the argument indicates this, if
we would be happy, to be the path along which we should pro-
ceed. With a view to concealment we will establish secret
brotherhoods and political clubs. And there are professors of
rhetoric who teach the art of persuading courts and assem-
blies; and so, partly by persuasion and partly by force, I shall
make unlawful gains and not be punished. Still I hear a voice
saying that the gods cannot be deceived, neither can they be
compelled. But what if there are no gods? or, suppose them to
have no care of human things—why in either case should we
mind about concealment? And even if there are gods, and they
do care about us, yet we know of them only from tradition and
the genealogies of the poets; and these are the very persons
who say that they may be influenced and turned by 'sacrifices
and soothing entreaties and by offerings.' Let us be consistent
then, and believe both or neither. If the poets speak truly, why
then we had better be unjust, and offer of the fruits of in-
justice; for if we are just, although we may escape the ven-
geance of heaven, we shall lose the gains of injustice; but, if we
are unjust, we shall keep the gains, and by our sinning and
praying, and praying and sinning, the gods will be propitiated,
and we shall not be punished. 'But there is a world below in
which either we or our posterity will suffer for our unjust
deeds.' Yes, my friend, will be the reflection, but there are mys-
teries and atoning deities, and these have great power. That is
what mighty cities declare; and the children of the gods, who
were their poets and prophets, bear a like testimony.
On what principle, then, shall we any longer choose justice
rather than the worst injustice? when, if we only unite the

277
latter with a deceitful regard to appearances, we shall fare to
our mind both with gods and men, in life and after death, as
the most numerous and the highest authorities tell us. Knowing
all this, Socrates, how can a man who has any superiority of
mind or person or rank or wealth, be willing to honour justice;
or indeed to refrain from laughing when he hears justice
praised? And even if there should be some one who is able to
disprove the truth of my words, and who is satisfied that
justice is best, still he is not angry with the unjust, but is very
ready to forgive them, because he also knows that men are not
just of their own free will; unless, peradventure, there be some
one whom the divinity within him may have inspired with a
hatred of injustice, or who has attained knowledge of the
truth—but no other man. He only blames injustice who, owing
to cowardice or age or some weakness, has not the power of
being unjust. And this is proved by the fact that when he ob-
tains the power, he immediately becomes unjust as far as he
can be.
The cause of all this, Socrates, was indicated by us at the be-
ginning of the argument, when my brother and I told you how
astonished we were to find that of all the professing panegyr-
ists of justice—beginning with the ancient heroes of whom any
memorial has been preserved to us, and ending with the men
of our own time—no one has ever blamed injustice or praised
justice except with a view to the glories, honours, and benefits
which flow from them. No one has ever adequately described
either in verse or prose the true essential nature of either of
them abiding in the soul, and invisible to any human or divine
eye; or shown that of all the things of a man's soul which he
has within him, justice is the greatest good, and injustice the
greatest evil. Had this been the universal strain, had you
sought to persuade us of this from our youth upwards, we
should not have been on the watch to keep one another from
doing wrong, but every one would have been his own watch-
man, because afraid, if he did wrong, of harbouring in himself
the greatest of evils. I dare say that Thrasymachus and others
would seriously hold the language which I have been merely
repeating, and words even stronger than these about justice
and injustice, grossly, as I conceive, perverting their true
nature. But I speak in this vehement manner, as I must frankly

278
confess to you, because I want to hear from you the opposite
side; and I would ask you to show not only the superiority
which justice has over injustice, but what effect they have on
the possessor of them which makes the one to be a good and
the other an evil to him. And please, as Glaucon requested of
you, to exclude reputations; for unless you take away from
each of them his true reputation and add on the false, we shall
say that you do not praise justice, but the appearance of it; we
shall think that you are only exhorting us to keep injustice
dark, and that you really agree with Thrasymachus in thinking
that justice is another's good and the interest of the stronger,
and that injustice is a man's own profit and interest, though in-
jurious to the weaker. Now as you have admitted that justice is
one of that highest class of goods which are desired indeed for
their results, but in a far greater degree for their own
sakes—like sight or hearing or knowledge or health, or any oth-
er real and natural and not merely conventional good—I would
ask you in your praise of justice to regard one point only: I
mean the essential good and evil which justice and injustice
work in the possessors of them. Let others praise justice and
censure injustice, magnifying the rewards and honours of the
one and abusing the other; that is a manner of arguing which,
coming from them, I am ready to tolerate, but from you who
have spent your whole life in the consideration of this question,
unless I hear the contrary from your own lips, I expect
something better. And therefore, I say, not only prove to us
that justice is better than injustice, but show what they either
of them do to the possessor of them, which makes the one to
be a good and the other an evil, whether seen or unseen by
gods and men.
I had always admired the genius of Glaucon and Adeimantus,
but on hearing these words I was quite delighted, and said:
Sons of an illustrious father, that was not a bad beginning of
the Elegiac verses which the admirer of Glaucon made in hon-
our of you after you had distinguished yourselves at the battle
of Megara:—
'Sons of Ariston,' he sang, 'divine offspring of an illustrious
hero.'
The epithet is very appropriate, for there is something truly
divine in being able to argue as you have done for the

279
superiority of injustice, and remaining unconvinced by your
own arguments. And I do believe that you are not con-
vinced—this I infer from your general character, for had I
judged only from your speeches I should have mistrusted you.
But now, the greater my confidence in you, the greater is my
difficulty in knowing what to say. For I am in a strait between
two; on the one hand I feel that I am unequal to the task; and
my inability is brought home to me by the fact that you were
not satisfied with the answer which I made to Thrasymachus,
proving, as I thought, the superiority which justice has over in-
justice. And yet I cannot refuse to help, while breath and
speech remain to me; I am afraid that there would be an impi-
ety in being present when justice is evil spoken of and not lift-
ing up a hand in her defence. And therefore I had best give
such help as I can.
Glaucon and the rest entreated me by all means not to let the
question drop, but to proceed in the investigation. They wanted
to arrive at the truth, first, about the nature of justice and in-
justice, and secondly, about their relative advantages. I told
them, what I really thought, that the enquiry would be of a ser-
ious nature, and would require very good eyes. Seeing then, I
said, that we are no great wits, I think that we had better ad-
opt a method which I may illustrate thus; suppose that a short-
sighted person had been asked by some one to read small let-
ters from a distance; and it occurred to some one else that they
might be found in another place which was larger and in which
the letters were larger—if they were the same and he could
read the larger letters first, and then proceed to the less-
er—this would have been thought a rare piece of good fortune.
Very true, said Adeimantus; but how does the illustration ap-
ply to our enquiry?
I will tell you, I replied; justice, which is the subject of our
enquiry, is, as you know, sometimes spoken of as the virtue of
an individual, and sometimes as the virtue of a State.
True, he replied.
And is not a State larger than an individual?
It is.
Then in the larger the quantity of justice is likely to be larger
and more easily discernible. I propose therefore that we en-
quire into the nature of justice and injustice, first as they

280
appear in the State, and secondly in the individual, proceeding
from the greater to the lesser and comparing them.
That, he said, is an excellent proposal.
And if we imagine the State in process of creation, we shall
see the justice and injustice of the State in process of creation
also.
I dare say.
When the State is completed there may be a hope that the
object of our search will be more easily discovered.
Yes, far more easily.
But ought we to attempt to construct one? I said; for to do so,
as I am inclined to think, will be a very serious task. Reflect
therefore.
I have reflected, said Adeimantus, and am anxious that you
should proceed.
A State, I said, arises, as I conceive, out of the needs of man-
kind; no one is self-sufficing, but all of us have many wants.
Can any other origin of a State be imagined?
There can be no other.
Then, as we have many wants, and many persons are needed
to supply them, one takes a helper for one purpose and another
for another; and when these partners and helpers are gathered
together in one habitation the body of inhabitants is termed a
State.
True, he said.
And they exchange with one another, and one gives, and an-
other receives, under the idea that the exchange will be for
their good.
Very true.
Then, I said, let us begin and create in idea a State; and yet
the true creator is necessity, who is the mother of our
invention.
Of course, he replied.
Now the first and greatest of necessities is food, which is the
condition of life and existence.
Certainly.
The second is a dwelling, and the third clothing and the like.
True.
And now let us see how our city will be able to supply this
great demand: We may suppose that one man is a

281
husbandman, another a builder, some one else a weaver—shall
we add to them a shoemaker, or perhaps some other purveyor
to our bodily wants?
Quite right.
The barest notion of a State must include four or five men.
Clearly.
And how will they proceed? Will each bring the result of his
labours into a common stock?—the individual husbandman, for
example, producing for four, and labouring four times as long
and as much as he need in the provision of food with which he
supplies others as well as himself; or will he have nothing to do
with others and not be at the trouble of producing for them,
but provide for himself alone a fourth of the food in a fourth of
the time, and in the remaining three fourths of his time be em-
ployed in making a house or a coat or a pair of shoes, having
no partnership with others, but supplying himself all his own
wants?
Adeimantus thought that he should aim at producing food
only and not at producing everything.
Probably, I replied, that would be the better way; and when I
hear you say this, I am myself reminded that we are not all
alike; there are diversities of natures among us which are ad-
apted to different occupations.
Very true.
And will you have a work better done when the workman has
many occupations, or when he has only one?
When he has only one.
Further, there can be no doubt that a work is spoilt when not
done at the right time?
No doubt.
For business is not disposed to wait until the doer of the
business is at leisure; but the doer must follow up what he is
doing, and make the business his first object.
He must.
And if so, we must infer that all things are produced more
plentifully and easily and of a better quality when one man
does one thing which is natural to him and does it at the right
time, and leaves other things.
Undoubtedly.

282
 Then more than four citizens will be required; for the hus-
bandman will not make his own plough or mattock, or other
implements of agriculture, if they are to be good for anything.
Neither will the builder make his tools—and he too needs
many; and in like manner the weaver and shoemaker.
True.
Then carpenters, and smiths, and many other artisans, will
be sharers in our little State, which is already beginning to
grow?
True.
Yet even if we add neatherds, shepherds, and other herds-
men, in order that our husbandmen may have oxen to plough
with, and builders as well as husbandmen may have draught
cattle, and curriers and weavers fleeces and hides,—still our
State will not be very large.
That is true; yet neither will it be a very small State which
contains all these.
Then, again, there is the situation of the city—to find a place
where nothing need be imported is wellnigh impossible.
Impossible.
Then there must be another class of citizens who will bring
the required supply from another city?
There must.
But if the trader goes empty-handed, having nothing which
they require who would supply his need, he will come back
empty-handed.
That is certain.
And therefore what they produce at home must be not only
enough for themselves, but such both in quantity and quality as
to accommodate those from whom their wants are supplied.
Very true.
Then more husbandmen and more artisans will be required?
They will.
Not to mention the importers and exporters, who are called
merchants?
Yes.
Then we shall want merchants?
We shall.
And if merchandise is to be carried over the sea, skilful sail-
ors will also be needed, and in considerable numbers?

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 Yes, in considerable numbers.
Then, again, within the city, how will they exchange their
productions? To secure such an exchange was, as you will re-
member, one of our principal objects when we formed them in-
to a society and constituted a State.
Clearly they will buy and sell.
Then they will need a market-place, and a money-token for
purposes of exchange.
Certainly.
Suppose now that a husbandman, or an artisan, brings some
production to market, and he comes at a time when there is no
one to exchange with him,—is he to leave his calling and sit
idle in the market-place?
Not at all; he will find people there who, seeing the want, un-
dertake the office of salesmen. In well-ordered states they are
commonly those who are the weakest in bodily strength, and
therefore of little use for any other purpose; their duty is to be
in the market, and to give money in exchange for goods to
those who desire to sell and to take money from those who de-
sire to buy.
This want, then, creates a class of retail-traders in our State.
Is not 'retailer' the term which is applied to those who sit in the
market-place engaged in buying and selling, while those who
wander from one city to another are called merchants?
Yes, he said.
And there is another class of servants, who are intellectually
hardly on the level of companionship; still they have plenty of
bodily strength for labour, which accordingly they sell, and are
called, if I do not mistake, hirelings, hire being the name which
is given to the price of their labour.
True.
Then hirelings will help to make up our population?
Yes.
And now, Adeimantus, is our State matured and perfected?
I think so.
Where, then, is justice, and where is injustice, and in what
part of the State did they spring up?
Probably in the dealings of these citizens with one another. I
cannot imagine that they are more likely to be found any where
else.

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 I dare say that you are right in your suggestion, I said; we
had better think the matter out, and not shrink from the
enquiry.
Let us then consider, first of all, what will be their way of life,
now that we have thus established them. Will they not produce
corn, and wine, and clothes, and shoes, and build houses for
themselves? And when they are housed, they will work, in sum-
mer, commonly, stripped and barefoot, but in winter substan-
tially clothed and shod. They will feed on barley-meal and flour
of wheat, baking and kneading them, making noble cakes and
loaves; these they will serve up on a mat of reeds or on clean
leaves, themselves reclining the while upon beds strewn with
yew or myrtle. And they and their children will feast, drinking
of the wine which they have made, wearing garlands on their
heads, and hymning the praises of the gods, in happy converse
with one another. And they will take care that their families do
not exceed their means; having an eye to poverty or war.
But, said Glaucon, interposing, you have not given them a
relish to their meal.
True, I replied, I had forgotten; of course they must have a
relish—salt, and olives, and cheese, and they will boil roots and
herbs such as country people prepare; for a dessert we shall
give them figs, and peas, and beans; and they will roast myrtle-
berries and acorns at the fire, drinking in moderation. And
with such a diet they may be expected to live in peace and
health to a good old age, and bequeath a similar life to their
children after them.
Yes, Socrates, he said, and if you were providing for a city of
pigs, how else would you feed the beasts?
But what would you have, Glaucon? I replied.
Why, he said, you should give them the ordinary conveni-
ences of life. People who are to be comfortable are accustomed
to lie on sofas, and dine off tables, and they should have sauces
and sweets in the modern style.
Yes, I said, now I understand: the question which you would
have me consider is, not only how a State, but how a luxurious
State is created; and possibly there is no harm in this, for in
such a State we shall be more likely to see how justice and in-
justice originate. In my opinion the true and healthy constitu-
tion of the State is the one which I have described. But if you

285
wish also to see a State at fever-heat, I have no objection. For I
suspect that many will not be satisfied with the simpler way of
life. They will be for adding sofas, and tables, and other fur-
niture; also dainties, and perfumes, and incense, and courtes-
ans, and cakes, all these not of one sort only, but in every vari-
ety; we must go beyond the necessaries of which I was at first
speaking, such as houses, and clothes, and shoes: the arts of
the painter and the embroiderer will have to be set in motion,
and gold and ivory and all sorts of materials must be procured.
True, he said.
Then we must enlarge our borders; for the original healthy
State is no longer sufficient. Now will the city have to fill and
swell with a multitude of callings which are not required by
any natural want; such as the whole tribe of hunters and act-
ors, of whom one large class have to do with forms and col-
ours; another will be the votaries of music—poets and their at-
tendant train of rhapsodists, players, dancers, contractors; also
makers of divers kinds of articles, including women's dresses.
And we shall want more servants. Will not tutors be also in re-
quest, and nurses wet and dry, tirewomen and barbers, as well
as confectioners and cooks; and swineherds, too, who were not
needed and therefore had no place in the former edition of our
State, but are needed now? They must not be forgotten: and
there will be animals of many other kinds, if people eat them.
Certainly.
And living in this way we shall have much greater need of
physicians than before?
Much greater.
And the country which was enough to support the original in-
habitants will be too small now, and not enough?
Quite true.
Then a slice of our neighbours' land will be wanted by us for
pasture and tillage, and they will want a slice of ours, if, like
ourselves, they exceed the limit of necessity, and give them-
selves up to the unlimited accumulation of wealth?
That, Socrates, will be inevitable.
And so we shall go to war, Glaucon. Shall we not?
Most certainly, he replied.
Then without determining as yet whether war does good or
harm, thus much we may affirm, that now we have discovered

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war to be derived from causes which are also the causes of al-
most all the evils in States, private as well as public.
Undoubtedly.
And our State must once more enlarge; and this time the en-
largement will be nothing short of a whole army, which will
have to go out and fight with the invaders for all that we have,
as well as for the things and persons whom we were describing
above.
Why? he said; are they not capable of defending themselves?
No, I said; not if we were right in the principle which was ac-
knowledged by all of us when we were framing the State: the
principle, as you will remember, was that one man cannot
practise many arts with success.
Very true, he said.
But is not war an art?
Certainly.
And an art requiring as much attention as shoemaking?
Quite true.
And the shoemaker was not allowed by us to be a husband-
man, or a weaver, or a builder—in order that we might have
our shoes well made; but to him and to every other worker was
assigned one work for which he was by nature fitted, and at
that he was to continue working all his life long and at no oth-
er; he was not to let opportunities slip, and then he would be-
come a good workman. Now nothing can be more important
than that the work of a soldier should be well done. But is war
an art so easily acquired that a man may be a warrior who is
also a husbandman, or shoemaker, or other artisan; although
no one in the world would be a good dice or draught player
who merely took up the game as a recreation, and had not
from his earliest years devoted himself to this and nothing
else? No tools will make a man a skilled workman, or master of
defence, nor be of any use to him who has not learned how to
handle them, and has never bestowed any attention upon them.
How then will he who takes up a shield or other implement of
war become a good fighter all in a day, whether with heavy-
armed or any other kind of troops?
Yes, he said, the tools which would teach men their own use
would be beyond price.

287
 And the higher the duties of the guardian, I said, the more
time, and skill, and art, and application will be needed by him?
No doubt, he replied.
Will he not also require natural aptitude for his calling?
Certainly.
Then it will be our duty to select, if we can, natures which
are fitted for the task of guarding the city?
It will.
And the selection will be no easy matter, I said; but we must
be brave and do our best.
We must.
Is not the noble youth very like a well-bred dog in respect of
guarding and watching?
What do you mean?
I mean that both of them ought to be quick to see, and swift
to overtake the enemy when they see him; and strong too if,
when they have caught him, they have to fight with him.
All these qualities, he replied, will certainly be required by
them.
Well, and your guardian must be brave if he is to fight well?
Certainly.
And is he likely to be brave who has no spirit, whether horse
or dog or any other animal? Have you never observed how in-
vincible and unconquerable is spirit and how the presence of it
makes the soul of any creature to be absolutely fearless and
indomitable?
I have.
Then now we have a clear notion of the bodily qualities
which are required in the guardian.
True.
And also of the mental ones; his soul is to be full of spirit?
Yes.
But are not these spirited natures apt to be savage with one
another, and with everybody else?
A difficulty by no means easy to overcome, he replied.
Whereas, I said, they ought to be dangerous to their en-
emies, and gentle to their friends; if not, they will destroy
themselves without waiting for their enemies to destroy them.
True, he said.

288
 What is to be done then? I said; how shall we find a gentle
nature which has also a great spirit, for the one is the contra-
diction of the other?
True.
He will not be a good guardian who is wanting in either of
these two qualities; and yet the combination of them appears
to be impossible; and hence we must infer that to be a good
guardian is impossible.
I am afraid that what you say is true, he replied.
Here feeling perplexed I began to think over what had pre-
ceded.—My friend, I said, no wonder that we are in a perplex-
ity; for we have lost sight of the image which we had before us.
What do you mean? he said.
I mean to say that there do exist natures gifted with those
opposite qualities.
And where do you find them?
Many animals, I replied, furnish examples of them; our friend
the dog is a very good one: you know that well-bred dogs are
perfectly gentle to their familiars and acquaintances, and the
reverse to strangers.
Yes, I know.
Then there is nothing impossible or out of the order of nature
in our finding a guardian who has a similar combination of
qualities?
Certainly not.
Would not he who is fitted to be a guardian, besides the spir-
ited nature, need to have the qualities of a philosopher?
I do not apprehend your meaning.
The trait of which I am speaking, I replied, may be also seen
in the dog, and is remarkable in the animal.
What trait?
Why, a dog, whenever he sees a stranger, is angry; when an
acquaintance, he welcomes him, although the one has never
done him any harm, nor the other any good. Did this never
strike you as curious?
The matter never struck me before; but I quite recognise the
truth of your remark.
And surely this instinct of the dog is very charming;—your
dog is a true philosopher.
Why?

289
 Why, because he distinguishes the face of a friend and of an
enemy only by the criterion of knowing and not knowing. And
must not an animal be a lover of learning who determines what
he likes and dislikes by the test of knowledge and ignorance?
Most assuredly.
And is not the love of learning the love of wisdom, which is
philosophy?
They are the same, he replied.
And may we not say confidently of man also, that he who is
likely to be gentle to his friends and acquaintances, must by
nature be a lover of wisdom and knowledge?
That we may safely affirm.
Then he who is to be a really good and noble guardian of the
State will require to unite in himself philosophy and spirit and
swiftness and strength?
Undoubtedly.
Then we have found the desired natures; and now that we
have found them, how are they to be reared and educated? Is
not this an enquiry which may be expected to throw light on
the greater enquiry which is our final end—How do justice and
injustice grow up in States? for we do not want either to omit
what is to the point or to draw out the argument to an incon-
venient length.
Adeimantus thought that the enquiry would be of great ser-
vice to us.
Then, I said, my dear friend, the task must not be given up,
even if somewhat long.
Certainly not.
Come then, and let us pass a leisure hour in story-telling, and
our story shall be the education of our heroes.
By all means.
And what shall be their education? Can we find a better than
the traditional sort?—and this has two divisions, gymnastic for
the body, and music for the soul.
True.
Shall we begin education with music, and go on to gymnastic
afterwards?
By all means.
And when you speak of music, do you include literature or
not?

290
 I do.
And literature may be either true or false?
Yes.
And the young should be trained in both kinds, and we begin
with the false?
I do not understand your meaning, he said.
You know, I said, that we begin by telling children stories
which, though not wholly destitute of truth, are in the main fic-
titious; and these stories are told them when they are not of an
age to learn gymnastics.
Very true.
That was my meaning when I said that we must teach music
before gymnastics.
Quite right, he said.
You know also that the beginning is the most important part
of any work, especially in the case of a young and tender thing;
for that is the time at which the character is being formed and
the desired impression is more readily taken.
Quite true.
And shall we just carelessly allow children to hear any casual
tales which may be devised by casual persons, and to receive
into their minds ideas for the most part the very opposite of
those which we should wish them to have when they are grown
up?
We cannot.
Then the first thing will be to establish a censorship of the
writers of fiction, and let the censors receive any tale of fiction
which is good, and reject the bad; and we will desire mothers
and nurses to tell their children the authorised ones only. Let
them fashion the mind with such tales, even more fondly than
they mould the body with their hands; but most of those which
are now in use must be discarded.
Of what tales are you speaking? he said.
You may find a model of the lesser in the greater, I said; for
they are necessarily of the same type, and there is the same
spirit in both of them.
Very likely, he replied; but I do not as yet know what you
would term the greater.

291
 Those, I said, which are narrated by Homer and Hesiod, and
the rest of the poets, who have ever been the great story-tell-
ers of mankind.
But which stories do you mean, he said; and what fault do
you find with them?
A fault which is most serious, I said; the fault of telling a lie,
and, what is more, a bad lie.
But when is this fault committed?
Whenever an erroneous representation is made of the nature
of gods and heroes,—as when a painter paints a portrait not
having the shadow of a likeness to the original.
Yes, he said, that sort of thing is certainly very blameable;
but what are the stories which you mean?
First of all, I said, there was that greatest of all lies in high
places, which the poet told about Uranus, and which was a bad
lie too,—I mean what Hesiod says that Uranus did, and how
Cronus retaliated on him. The doings of Cronus, and the suffer-
ings which in turn his son inflicted upon him, even if they were
true, ought certainly not to be lightly told to young and
thoughtless persons; if possible, they had better be buried in
silence. But if there is an absolute necessity for their mention,
a chosen few might hear them in a mystery, and they should
sacrifice not a common (Eleusinian) pig, but some huge and
unprocurable victim; and then the number of the hearers will
be very few indeed.
Why, yes, said he, those stories are extremely objectionable.
Yes, Adeimantus, they are stories not to be repeated in our
State; the young man should not be told that in committing the
worst of crimes he is far from doing anything outrageous; and
that even if he chastises his father when he does wrong, in
whatever manner, he will only be following the example of the
first and greatest among the gods.
I entirely agree with you, he said; in my opinion those stories
are quite unfit to be repeated.
Neither, if we mean our future guardians to regard the habit
of quarrelling among themselves as of all things the basest,
should any word be said to them of the wars in heaven, and of
the plots and fightings of the gods against one another, for
they are not true. No, we shall never mention the battles of the
giants, or let them be embroidered on garments; and we shall

292
be silent about the innumerable other quarrels of gods and
heroes with their friends and relatives. If they would only be-
lieve us we would tell them that quarrelling is unholy, and that
never up to this time has there been any quarrel between cit-
izens; this is what old men and old women should begin by
telling children; and when they grow up, the poets also should
be told to compose for them in a similar spirit. But the narrat-
ive of Hephaestus binding Here his mother, or how on another
occasion Zeus sent him flying for taking her part when she was
being beaten, and all the battles of the gods in Homer—these
tales must not be admitted into our State, whether they are
supposed to have an allegorical meaning or not. For a young
person cannot judge what is allegorical and what is literal; any-
thing that he receives into his mind at that age is likely to be-
come indelible and unalterable; and therefore it is most import-
ant that the tales which the young first hear should be models
of virtuous thoughts.
There you are right, he replied; but if any one asks where are
such models to be found and of what tales are you speak-
ing—how shall we answer him?
I said to him, You and I, Adeimantus, at this moment are not
poets, but founders of a State: now the founders of a State
ought to know the general forms in which poets should cast
their tales, and the limits which must be observed by them, but
to make the tales is not their business.
Very true, he said; but what are these forms of theology
which you mean?
Something of this kind, I replied:—God is always to be rep-
resented as he truly is, whatever be the sort of poetry, epic,
lyric or tragic, in which the representation is given.
Right.
And is he not truly good? and must he not be represented as
such?
Certainly.
And no good thing is hurtful?
No, indeed.
And that which is not hurtful hurts not?
Certainly not.
And that which hurts not does no evil?
No.

293
 And can that which does no evil be a cause of evil?
Impossible.
And the good is advantageous?
Yes.
And therefore the cause of well-being?
Yes.
It follows therefore that the good is not the cause of all
things, but of the good only?
Assuredly.
Then God, if he be good, is not the author of all things, as the
many assert, but he is the cause of a few things only, and not
of most things that occur to men. For few are the goods of hu-
man life, and many are the evils, and the good is to be attrib-
uted to God alone; of the evils the causes are to be sought else-
where, and not in him.
That appears to me to be most true, he said.
Then we must not listen to Homer or to any other poet who is
guilty of the folly of saying that two casks
'Lie at the threshold of Zeus, full of lots, one of good, the oth-
er of evil lots,'
and that he to whom Zeus gives a mixture of the two
'Sometimes meets with evil fortune, at other times with
good;'
but that he to whom is given the cup of unmingled ill,
'Him wild hunger drives o'er the beauteous earth.'
And again—
'Zeus, who is the dispenser of good and evil to us.'
And if any one asserts that the violation of oaths and treaties,
which was really the work of Pandarus, was brought about by
Athene and Zeus, or that the strife and contention of the gods
was instigated by Themis and Zeus, he shall not have our ap-
proval; neither will we allow our young men to hear the words
of Aeschylus, that
'God plants guilt among men when he desires utterly to des-
troy a house.'
And if a poet writes of the sufferings of Niobe—the subject of
the tragedy in which these iambic verses occur—or of the
house of Pelops, or of the Trojan war or on any similar theme,
either we must not permit him to say that these are the works
of God, or if they are of God, he must devise some explanation

294
of them such as we are seeking; he must say that God did what
was just and right, and they were the better for being pun-
ished; but that those who are punished are miserable, and that
God is the author of their misery—the poet is not to be permit-
ted to say; though he may say that the wicked are miserable
because they require to be punished, and are benefited by re-
ceiving punishment from God; but that God being good is the
author of evil to any one is to be strenuously denied, and not to
be said or sung or heard in verse or prose by any one whether
old or young in any well-ordered commonwealth. Such a fiction
is suicidal, ruinous, impious.
I agree with you, he replied, and am ready to give my assent
to the law.
Let this then be one of our rules and principles concerning
the gods, to which our poets and reciters will be expected to
conform,—that God is not the author of all things, but of good
only.
That will do, he said.
And what do you think of a second principle? Shall I ask you
whether God is a magician, and of a nature to appear insidi-
ously now in one shape, and now in another—sometimes him-
self changing and passing into many forms, sometimes deceiv-
ing us with the semblance of such transformations; or is he one
and the same immutably fixed in his own proper image?
I cannot answer you, he said, without more thought.
Well, I said; but if we suppose a change in anything, that
change must be effected either by the thing itself, or by some
other thing?
Most certainly.
And things which are at their best are also least liable to be
altered or discomposed; for example, when healthiest and
strongest, the human frame is least liable to be affected by
meats and drinks, and the plant which is in the fullest vigour
also suffers least from winds or the heat of the sun or any sim-
ilar causes.
Of course.
And will not the bravest and wisest soul be least confused or
deranged by any external influence?
True.

295
 And the same principle, as I should suppose, applies to all
composite things—furniture, houses, garments: when good and
well made, they are least altered by time and circumstances.
Very true.
Then everything which is good, whether made by art or
nature, or both, is least liable to suffer change from without?
True.
But surely God and the things of God are in every way
perfect?
Of course they are.
Then he can hardly be compelled by external influence to
take many shapes?
He cannot.
But may he not change and transform himself?
Clearly, he said, that must be the case if he is changed at all.
And will he then change himself for the better and fairer, or
for the worse and more unsightly?
If he change at all he can only change for the worse, for we
cannot suppose him to be deficient either in virtue or beauty.
Very true, Adeimantus; but then, would any one, whether
God or man, desire to make himself worse?
Impossible.
Then it is impossible that God should ever be willing to
change; being, as is supposed, the fairest and best that is con-
ceivable, every God remains absolutely and for ever in his own
form.
That necessarily follows, he said, in my judgment.
Then, I said, my dear friend, let none of the poets tell us that
'The gods, taking the disguise of strangers from other lands,
walk up and down cities in all sorts of forms;'
and let no one slander Proteus and Thetis, neither let any
one, either in tragedy or in any other kind of poetry, introduce
Here disguised in the likeness of a priestess asking an alms
'For the life-giving daughters of Inachus the river of Argos;'
—let us have no more lies of that sort. Neither must we have
mothers under the influence of the poets scaring their children
with a bad version of these myths—telling how certain gods, as
they say, 'Go about by night in the likeness of so many
strangers and in divers forms;' but let them take heed lest they

296
make cowards of their children, and at the same time speak
blasphemy against the gods.
Heaven forbid, he said.
But although the gods are themselves unchangeable, still by
witchcraft and deception they may make us think that they ap-
pear in various forms?
Perhaps, he replied.
Well, but can you imagine that God will be willing to lie,
whether in word or deed, or to put forth a phantom of himself?
I cannot say, he replied.
Do you not know, I said, that the true lie, if such an expres-
sion may be allowed, is hated of gods and men?
What do you mean? he said.
I mean that no one is willingly deceived in that which is the
truest and highest part of himself, or about the truest and
highest matters; there, above all, he is most afraid of a lie hav-
ing possession of him.
Still, he said, I do not comprehend you.
The reason is, I replied, that you attribute some profound
meaning to my words; but I am only saying that deception, or
being deceived or uninformed about the highest realities in the
highest part of themselves, which is the soul, and in that part
of them to have and to hold the lie, is what mankind least
like;—that, I say, is what they utterly detest.
There is nothing more hateful to them.
And, as I was just now remarking, this ignorance in the soul
of him who is deceived may be called the true lie; for the lie in
words is only a kind of imitation and shadowy image of a previ-
ous affection of the soul, not pure unadulterated falsehood. Am
I not right?
Perfectly right.
The true lie is hated not only by the gods, but also by men?
Yes.
Whereas the lie in words is in certain cases useful and not
hateful; in dealing with enemies—that would be an instance; or
again, when those whom we call our friends in a fit of madness
or illusion are going to do some harm, then it is useful and is a
sort of medicine or preventive; also in the tales of mythology,
of which we were just now speaking—because we do not know

297
the truth about ancient times, we make falsehood as much like
truth as we can, and so turn it to account.
Very true, he said.
But can any of these reasons apply to God? Can we suppose
that he is ignorant of antiquity, and therefore has recourse to
invention?
That would be ridiculous, he said.
Then the lying poet has no place in our idea of God?
I should say not.
Or perhaps he may tell a lie because he is afraid of enemies?
That is inconceivable.
But he may have friends who are senseless or mad?
But no mad or senseless person can be a friend of God.
Then no motive can be imagined why God should lie?
None whatever.
Then the superhuman and divine is absolutely incapable of
falsehood?
Yes.
Then is God perfectly simple and true both in word and deed;
he changes not; he deceives not, either by sign or word, by
dream or waking vision.
Your thoughts, he said, are the reflection of my own.
You agree with me then, I said, that this is the second type or
form in which we should write and speak about divine things.
The gods are not magicians who transform themselves, neither
do they deceive mankind in any way.
I grant that.
Then, although we are admirers of Homer, we do not admire
the lying dream which Zeus sends to Agamemnon; neither will
we praise the verses of Aeschylus in which Thetis says that
Apollo at her nuptials
'Was celebrating in song her fair progeny whose days were
to be long, and to know no sickness. And when he had spoken
of my lot as in all things blessed of heaven he raised a note of
triumph and cheered my soul. And I thought that the word of
Phoebus, being divine and full of prophecy, would not fail. And
now he himself who uttered the strain, he who was present at
the banquet, and who said this—he it is who has slain my son.'
These are the kind of sentiments about the gods which will
arouse our anger; and he who utters them shall be refused a

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chorus; neither shall we allow teachers to make use of them in
the instruction of the young, meaning, as we do, that our
guardians, as far as men can be, should be true worshippers of
the gods and like them.
I entirely agree, he said, in these principles, and promise to
make them my laws.

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Part 3

300
Such then, I said, are our principles of theology—some tales
are to be told, and others are not to be told to our disciples
from their youth upwards, if we mean them to honour the gods
and their parents, and to value friendship with one another.
Yes; and I think that our principles are right, he said.
But if they are to be courageous, must they not learn other
lessons besides these, and lessons of such a kind as will take
away the fear of death? Can any man be courageous who has
the fear of death in him?
Certainly not, he said.
And can he be fearless of death, or will he choose death in
battle rather than defeat and slavery, who believes the world
below to be real and terrible?
Impossible.
Then we must assume a control over the narrators of this
class of tales as well as over the others, and beg them not
simply to revile but rather to commend the world below, intim-
ating to them that their descriptions are untrue, and will do
harm to our future warriors.
That will be our duty, he said.
Then, I said, we shall have to obliterate many obnoxious pas-
sages, beginning with the verses,
'I would rather be a serf on the land of a poor and portionless
man than rule over all the dead who have come to nought.'
We must also expunge the verse, which tells us how Pluto
feared,
'Lest the mansions grim and squalid which the gods abhor
should be seen both of mortals and immortals.'
And again:—
'O heavens! verily in the house of Hades there is soul and
ghostly form but no mind at all!'
Again of Tiresias:—
'(To him even after death did Persephone grant mind,) that
he alone should be wise; but the other souls are flitting
shades.'
Again:—
'The soul flying from the limbs had gone to Hades, lamenting
her fate, leaving manhood and youth.'
Again:—

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 'And the soul, with shrilling cry, passed like smoke beneath
the earth.'
And,—
'As bats in hollow of mystic cavern, whenever any of them
has dropped out of the string and falls from the rock, fly shrill-
ing and cling to one another, so did they with shrilling cry hold
together as they moved.'
And we must beg Homer and the other poets not to be angry
if we strike out these and similar passages, not because they
are unpoetical, or unattractive to the popular ear, but because
the greater the poetical charm of them, the less are they meet
for the ears of boys and men who are meant to be free, and
who should fear slavery more than death.
Undoubtedly.
Also we shall have to reject all the terrible and appalling
names which describe the world below—Cocytus and Styx,
ghosts under the earth, and sapless shades, and any similar
words of which the very mention causes a shudder to pass
through the inmost soul of him who hears them. I do not say
that these horrible stories may not have a use of some kind;
but there is a danger that the nerves of our guardians may be
rendered too excitable and effeminate by them.
There is a real danger, he said.
Then we must have no more of them.
True.
Another and a nobler strain must be composed and sung by
us.
Clearly.
And shall we proceed to get rid of the weepings and wailings
of famous men?
They will go with the rest.
But shall we be right in getting rid of them? Reflect: our prin-
ciple is that the good man will not consider death terrible to
any other good man who is his comrade.
Yes; that is our principle.
And therefore he will not sorrow for his departed friend as
though he had suffered anything terrible?
He will not.

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 Such an one, as we further maintain, is sufficient for himself
and his own happiness, and therefore is least in need of other
men.
True, he said.
And for this reason the loss of a son or brother, or the
deprivation of fortune, is to him of all men least terrible.
Assuredly.
And therefore he will be least likely to lament, and will bear
with the greatest equanimity any misfortune of this sort which
may befall him.
Yes, he will feel such a misfortune far less than another.
Then we shall be right in getting rid of the lamentations of
famous men, and making them over to women (and not even to
women who are good for anything), or to men of a baser sort,
that those who are being educated by us to be the defenders of
their country may scorn to do the like.
That will be very right.
Then we will once more entreat Homer and the other poets
not to depict Achilles, who is the son of a goddess, first lying
on his side, then on his back, and then on his face; then start-
ing up and sailing in a frenzy along the shores of the barren
sea; now taking the sooty ashes in both his hands and pouring
them over his head, or weeping and wailing in the various
modes which Homer has delineated. Nor should he describe
Priam the kinsman of the gods as praying and beseeching,
'Rolling in the dirt, calling each man loudly by his name.'
Still more earnestly will we beg of him at all events not to in-
troduce the gods lamenting and saying,
'Alas! my misery! Alas! that I bore the bravest to my sorrow.'
But if he must introduce the gods, at any rate let him not
dare so completely to misrepresent the greatest of the gods, as
to make him say—
'O heavens! with my eyes verily I behold a dear friend of
mine chased round and round the city, and my heart is
sorrowful.'
Or again:—
Woe is me that I am fated to have Sarpedon, dearest of men
to me, subdued at the hands of Patroclus the son of
Menoetius.'

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 For if, my sweet Adeimantus, our youth seriously listen to
such unworthy representations of the gods, instead of laughing
at them as they ought, hardly will any of them deem that he
himself, being but a man, can be dishonoured by similar ac-
tions; neither will he rebuke any inclination which may arise in
his mind to say and do the like. And instead of having any
shame or self-control, he will be always whining and lamenting
on slight occasions.
Yes, he said, that is most true.
Yes, I replied; but that surely is what ought not to be, as the
argument has just proved to us; and by that proof we must
abide until it is disproved by a better.
It ought not to be.
Neither ought our guardians to be given to laughter. For a fit
of laughter which has been indulged to excess almost always
produces a violent reaction.
So I believe.
Then persons of worth, even if only mortal men, must not be
represented as overcome by laughter, and still less must such a
representation of the gods be allowed.
Still less of the gods, as you say, he replied.
Then we shall not suffer such an expression to be used about
the gods as that of Homer when he describes how
'Inextinguishable laughter arose among the blessed gods,
when they saw Hephaestus bustling about the mansion.'
On your views, we must not admit them.
On my views, if you like to father them on me; that we must
not admit them is certain.
Again, truth should be highly valued; if, as we were saying, a
lie is useless to the gods, and useful only as a medicine to men,
then the use of such medicines should be restricted to physi-
cians; private individuals have no business with them.
Clearly not, he said.
Then if any one at all is to have the privilege of lying, the
rulers of the State should be the persons; and they, in their
dealings either with enemies or with their own citizens, may be
allowed to lie for the public good. But nobody else should
meddle with anything of the kind; and although the rulers have
this privilege, for a private man to lie to them in return is to be
deemed a more heinous fault than for the patient or the pupil

304
of a gymnasium not to speak the truth about his own bodily ill-
nesses to the physician or to the trainer, or for a sailor not to
tell the captain what is happening about the ship and the rest
of the crew, and how things are going with himself or his fel-
low sailors.
Most true, he said.
If, then, the ruler catches anybody beside himself lying in the
State,
'Any of the craftsmen, whether he be priest or physician or
carpenter,'
he will punish him for introducing a practice which is equally
subversive and destructive of ship or State.
Most certainly, he said, if our idea of the State is ever carried
out.
In the next place our youth must be temperate?
Certainly.
Are not the chief elements of temperance, speaking gener-
ally, obedience to commanders and self-control in sensual
pleasures?
True.
Then we shall approve such language as that of Diomede in
Homer,
'Friend, sit still and obey my word,'
and the verses which follow,
'The Greeks marched breathing prowess, … in silent awe of
their leaders,'
and other sentiments of the same kind.
We shall.
What of this line,
'O heavy with wine, who hast the eyes of a dog and the heart
of a stag,'
and of the words which follow? Would you say that these, or
any similar impertinences which private individuals are sup-
posed to address to their rulers, whether in verse or prose, are
well or ill spoken?
They are ill spoken.
They may very possibly afford some amusement, but they do
not conduce to temperance. And therefore they are likely to do
harm to our young men—you would agree with me there?
Yes.

305
 And then, again, to make the wisest of men say that nothing
in his opinion is more glorious than
'When the tables are full of bread and meat, and the cup-
bearer carries round wine which he draws from the bowl and
pours into the cups,'
is it fit or conducive to temperance for a young man to hear
such words? Or the verse
'The saddest of fates is to die and meet destiny from hunger?'
What would you say again to the tale of Zeus, who, while oth-
er gods and men were asleep and he the only person awake,
lay devising plans, but forgot them all in a moment through his
lust, and was so completely overcome at the sight of Here that
he would not even go into the hut, but wanted to lie with her
on the ground, declaring that he had never been in such a state
of rapture before, even when they first met one another
'Without the knowledge of their parents;'
or that other tale of how Hephaestus, because of similar go-
ings on, cast a chain around Ares and Aphrodite?
Indeed, he said, I am strongly of opinion that they ought not
to hear that sort of thing.
But any deeds of endurance which are done or told by fam-
ous men, these they ought to see and hear; as, for example,
what is said in the verses,
'He smote his breast, and thus reproached his heart, Endure,
my heart; far worse hast thou endured!'
Certainly, he said.
In the next place, we must not let them be receivers of gifts
or lovers of money.
Certainly not.
Neither must we sing to them of
'Gifts persuading gods, and persuading reverend kings.'
Neither is Phoenix, the tutor of Achilles, to be approved or
deemed to have given his pupil good counsel when he told him
that he should take the gifts of the Greeks and assist them; but
that without a gift he should not lay aside his anger. Neither
will we believe or acknowledge Achilles himself to have been
such a lover of money that he took Agamemnon's gifts, or that
when he had received payment he restored the dead body of
Hector, but that without payment he was unwilling to do so.

306
 Undoubtedly, he said, these are not sentiments which can be
approved.
Loving Homer as I do, I hardly like to say that in attributing
these feelings to Achilles, or in believing that they are truly at-
tributed to him, he is guilty of downright impiety. As little can I
believe the narrative of his insolence to Apollo, where he says,
'Thou hast wronged me, O far-darter, most abominable of
deities. Verily I would be even with thee, if I had only the
power;'
or his insubordination to the river-god, on whose divinity he
is ready to lay hands; or his offering to the dead Patroclus of
his own hair, which had been previously dedicated to the other
river-god Spercheius, and that he actually performed this vow;
or that he dragged Hector round the tomb of Patroclus, and
slaughtered the captives at the pyre; of all this I cannot believe
that he was guilty, any more than I can allow our citizens to be-
lieve that he, the wise Cheiron's pupil, the son of a goddess
and of Peleus who was the gentlest of men and third in descent
from Zeus, was so disordered in his wits as to be at one time
the slave of two seemingly inconsistent passions, meanness,
not untainted by avarice, combined with overweening con-
tempt of gods and men.
You are quite right, he replied.
And let us equally refuse to believe, or allow to be repeated,
the tale of Theseus son of Poseidon, or of Peirithous son of
Zeus, going forth as they did to perpetrate a horrid rape; or of
any other hero or son of a god daring to do such impious and
dreadful things as they falsely ascribe to them in our day: and
let us further compel the poets to declare either that these acts
were not done by them, or that they were not the sons of
gods;—both in the same breath they shall not be permitted to
affirm. We will not have them trying to persuade our youth that
the gods are the authors of evil, and that heroes are no better
than men—sentiments which, as we were saying, are neither
pious nor true, for we have already proved that evil cannot
come from the gods.
Assuredly not.
And further they are likely to have a bad effect on those who
hear them; for everybody will begin to excuse his own vices

307
when he is convinced that similar wickednesses are always be-
ing perpetrated by—
'The kindred of the gods, the relatives of Zeus, whose ances-
tral altar, the altar of Zeus, is aloft in air on the peak of Ida,'
and who have
'the blood of deities yet flowing in their veins.'
And therefore let us put an end to such tales, lest they en-
gender laxity of morals among the young.
By all means, he replied.
But now that we are determining what classes of subjects are
or are not to be spoken of, let us see whether any have been
omitted by us. The manner in which gods and demigods and
heroes and the world below should be treated has been already
laid down.
Very true.
And what shall we say about men? That is clearly the remain-
ing portion of our subject.
Clearly so.
But we are not in a condition to answer this question at
present, my friend.
Why not?
Because, if I am not mistaken, we shall have to say that
about men poets and story-tellers are guilty of making the
gravest misstatements when they tell us that wicked men are
often happy, and the good miserable; and that injustice is prof-
itable when undetected, but that justice is a man's own loss
and another's gain—these things we shall forbid them to utter,
and command them to sing and say the opposite.
To be sure we shall, he replied.
But if you admit that I am right in this, then I shall maintain
that you have implied the principle for which we have been all
along contending.
I grant the truth of your inference.
That such things are or are not to be said about men is a
question which we cannot determine until we have discovered
what justice is, and how naturally advantageous to the pos-
sessor, whether he seem to be just or not.
Most true, he said.

308
 Enough of the subjects of poetry: let us now speak of the
style; and when this has been considered, both matter and
manner will have been completely treated.
I do not understand what you mean, said Adeimantus.
Then I must make you understand; and perhaps I may be
more intelligible if I put the matter in this way. You are aware,
I suppose, that all mythology and poetry is a narration of
events, either past, present, or to come?
Certainly, he replied.
And narration may be either simple narration, or imitation,
or a union of the two?
That again, he said, I do not quite understand.
I fear that I must be a ridiculous teacher when I have so
much difficulty in making myself apprehended. Like a bad
speaker, therefore, I will not take the whole of the subject, but
will break a piece off in illustration of my meaning. You know
the first lines of the Iliad, in which the poet says that Chryses
prayed Agamemnon to release his daughter, and that Agamem-
non flew into a passion with him; whereupon Chryses, failing of
his object, invoked the anger of the God against the Achaeans.
Now as far as these lines,
'And he prayed all the Greeks, but especially the two sons of
Atreus, the chiefs of the people,'
the poet is speaking in his own person; he never leads us to
suppose that he is any one else. But in what follows he takes
the person of Chryses, and then he does all that he can to
make us believe that the speaker is not Homer, but the aged
priest himself. And in this double form he has cast the entire
narrative of the events which occurred at Troy and in Ithaca
and throughout the Odyssey.
Yes.
And a narrative it remains both in the speeches which the
poet recites from time to time and in the intermediate
passages?
Quite true.
But when the poet speaks in the person of another, may we
not say that he assimilates his style to that of the person who,
as he informs you, is going to speak?
Certainly.

309
 And this assimilation of himself to another, either by the use
of voice or gesture, is the imitation of the person whose char-
acter he assumes?
Of course.
Then in this case the narrative of the poet may be said to
proceed by way of imitation?
Very true.
Or, if the poet everywhere appears and never conceals him-
self, then again the imitation is dropped, and his poetry be-
comes simple narration. However, in order that I may make my
meaning quite clear, and that you may no more say, 'I don't un-
derstand,' I will show how the change might be effected. If
Homer had said, 'The priest came, having his daughter's
ransom in his hands, supplicating the Achaeans, and above all
the kings;' and then if, instead of speaking in the person of
Chryses, he had continued in his own person, the words would
have been, not imitation, but simple narration. The passage
would have run as follows (I am no poet, and therefore I drop
the metre), 'The priest came and prayed the gods on behalf of
the Greeks that they might capture Troy and return safely
home, but begged that they would give him back his daughter,
and take the ransom which he brought, and respect the God.
Thus he spoke, and the other Greeks revered the priest and as-
sented. But Agamemnon was wroth, and bade him depart and
not come again, lest the staff and chaplets of the God should be
of no avail to him—the daughter of Chryses should not be re-
leased, he said—she should grow old with him in Argos. And
then he told him to go away and not to provoke him, if he in-
tended to get home unscathed. And the old man went away in
fear and silence, and, when he had left the camp, he called
upon Apollo by his many names, reminding him of everything
which he had done pleasing to him, whether in building his
temples, or in offering sacrifice, and praying that his good
deeds might be returned to him, and that the Achaeans might
expiate his tears by the arrows of the god,'—and so on. In this
way the whole becomes simple narrative.
I understand, he said.
Or you may suppose the opposite case—that the intermediate
passages are omitted, and the dialogue only left.

310
 That also, he said, I understand; you mean, for example, as in
tragedy.
You have conceived my meaning perfectly; and if I mistake
not, what you failed to apprehend before is now made clear to
you, that poetry and mythology are, in some cases, wholly imit-
ative—instances of this are supplied by tragedy and comedy;
there is likewise the opposite style, in which the poet is the
only speaker—of this the dithyramb affords the best example;
and the combination of both is found in epic, and in several
other styles of poetry. Do I take you with me?
Yes, he said; I see now what you meant.
I will ask you to remember also what I began by saying, that
we had done with the subject and might proceed to the style.
Yes, I remember.
In saying this, I intended to imply that we must come to an
understanding about the mimetic art,—whether the poets, in
narrating their stories, are to be allowed by us to imitate, and
if so, whether in whole or in part, and if the latter, in what
parts; or should all imitation be prohibited?
You mean, I suspect, to ask whether tragedy and comedy
shall be admitted into our State?
Yes, I said; but there may be more than this in question: I
really do not know as yet, but whither the argument may blow,
thither we go.
And go we will, he said.
Then, Adeimantus, let me ask you whether our guardians
ought to be imitators; or rather, has not this question been de-
cided by the rule already laid down that one man can only do
one thing well, and not many; and that if he attempt many, he
will altogether fail of gaining much reputation in any?
Certainly.
And this is equally true of imitation; no one man can imitate
many things as well as he would imitate a single one?
He cannot.
Then the same person will hardly be able to play a serious
part in life, and at the same time to be an imitator and imitate
many other parts as well; for even when two species of imita-
tion are nearly allied, the same persons cannot succeed in
both, as, for example, the writers of tragedy and comedy—did
you not just now call them imitations?

311
 Yes, I did; and you are right in thinking that the same per-
sons cannot succeed in both.
Any more than they can be rhapsodists and actors at once?
True.
Neither are comic and tragic actors the same; yet all these
things are but imitations.
They are so.
And human nature, Adeimantus, appears to have been coined
into yet smaller pieces, and to be as incapable of imitating
many things well, as of performing well the actions of which
the imitations are copies.
Quite true, he replied.
If then we adhere to our original notion and bear in mind
that our guardians, setting aside every other business, are to
dedicate themselves wholly to the maintenance of freedom in
the State, making this their craft, and engaging in no work
which does not bear on this end, they ought not to practise or
imitate anything else; if they imitate at all, they should imitate
from youth upward only those characters which are suitable to
their profession—the courageous, temperate, holy, free, and
the like; but they should not depict or be skilful at imitating
any kind of illiberality or baseness, lest from imitation they
should come to be what they imitate. Did you never observe
how imitations, beginning in early youth and continuing far in-
to life, at length grow into habits and become a second nature,
affecting body, voice, and mind?
Yes, certainly, he said.
Then, I said, we will not allow those for whom we profess a
care and of whom we say that they ought to be good men, to
imitate a woman, whether young or old, quarrelling with her
husband, or striving and vaunting against the gods in conceit
of her happiness, or when she is in affliction, or sorrow, or
weeping; and certainly not one who is in sickness, love, or
labour.
Very right, he said.
Neither must they represent slaves, male or female, perform-
ing the offices of slaves?
They must not.
And surely not bad men, whether cowards or any others, who
do the reverse of what we have just been prescribing, who

312
scold or mock or revile one another in drink or out of drink, or
who in any other manner sin against themselves and their
neighbours in word or deed, as the manner of such is. Neither
should they be trained to imitate the action or speech of men
or women who are mad or bad; for madness, like vice, is to be
known but not to be practised or imitated.
Very true, he replied.
Neither may they imitate smiths or other artificers, or oars-
men, or boatswains, or the like?
How can they, he said, when they are not allowed to apply
their minds to the callings of any of these?
Nor may they imitate the neighing of horses, the bellowing of
bulls, the murmur of rivers and roll of the ocean, thunder, and
all that sort of thing?
Nay, he said, if madness be forbidden, neither may they copy
the behaviour of madmen.
You mean, I said, if I understand you aright, that there is one
sort of narrative style which may be employed by a truly good
man when he has anything to say, and that another sort will be
used by a man of an opposite character and education.
And which are these two sorts? he asked.
Suppose, I answered, that a just and good man in the course
of a narration comes on some saying or action of another good
man,—I should imagine that he will like to personate him, and
will not be ashamed of this sort of imitation: he will be most
ready to play the part of the good man when he is acting firmly
and wisely; in a less degree when he is overtaken by illness or
love or drink, or has met with any other disaster. But when he
comes to a character which is unworthy of him, he will not
make a study of that; he will disdain such a person, and will as-
sume his likeness, if at all, for a moment only when he is per-
forming some good action; at other times he will be ashamed
to play a part which he has never practised, nor will he like to
fashion and frame himself after the baser models; he feels the
employment of such an art, unless in jest, to be beneath him,
and his mind revolts at it.
So I should expect, he replied.
Then he will adopt a mode of narration such as we have illus-
trated out of Homer, that is to say, his style will be both

313
imitative and narrative; but there will be very little of the
former, and a great deal of the latter. Do you agree?
Certainly, he said; that is the model which such a speaker
must necessarily take.
But there is another sort of character who will narrate any-
thing, and, the worse he is, the more unscrupulous he will be;
nothing will be too bad for him: and he will be ready to imitate
anything, not as a joke, but in right good earnest, and before a
large company. As I was just now saying, he will attempt to
represent the roll of thunder, the noise of wind and hail, or the
creaking of wheels, and pulleys, and the various sounds of
flutes, pipes, trumpets, and all sorts of instruments: he will
bark like a dog, bleat like a sheep, or crow like a cock; his en-
tire art will consist in imitation of voice and gesture, and there
will be very little narration.
That, he said, will be his mode of speaking.
These, then, are the two kinds of style?
Yes.
And you would agree with me in saying that one of them is
simple and has but slight changes; and if the harmony and
rhythm are also chosen for their simplicity, the result is that
the speaker, if he speaks correctly, is always pretty much the
same in style, and he will keep within the limits of a single har-
mony (for the changes are not great), and in like manner he
will make use of nearly the same rhythm?
That is quite true, he said.
Whereas the other requires all sorts of harmonies and all
sorts of rhythms, if the music and the style are to correspond,
because the style has all sorts of changes.
That is also perfectly true, he replied.
And do not the two styles, or the mixture of the two, compre-
hend all poetry, and every form of expression in words? No one
can say anything except in one or other of them or in both
together.
They include all, he said.
And shall we receive into our State all the three styles, or
one only of the two unmixed styles? or would you include the
mixed?
I should prefer only to admit the pure imitator of virtue.

314
 Yes, I said, Adeimantus, but the mixed style is also very
charming: and indeed the pantomimic, which is the opposite of
the one chosen by you, is the most popular style with children
and their attendants, and with the world in general.
I do not deny it.
But I suppose you would argue that such a style is unsuitable
to our State, in which human nature is not twofold or manifold,
for one man plays one part only?
Yes; quite unsuitable.
And this is the reason why in our State, and in our State only,
we shall find a shoemaker to be a shoemaker and not a pilot
also, and a husbandman to be a husbandman and not a dicast
also, and a soldier a soldier and not a trader also, and the same
throughout?
True, he said.
And therefore when any one of these pantomimic gentlemen,
who are so clever that they can imitate anything, comes to us,
and makes a proposal to exhibit himself and his poetry, we will
fall down and worship him as a sweet and holy and wonderful
being; but we must also inform him that in our State such as he
are not permitted to exist; the law will not allow them. And so
when we have anointed him with myrrh, and set a garland of
wool upon his head, we shall send him away to another city.
For we mean to employ for our souls' health the rougher and
severer poet or story-teller, who will imitate the style of the vir-
tuous only, and will follow those models which we prescribed
at first when we began the education of our soldiers.
We certainly will, he said, if we have the power.
Then now, my friend, I said, that part of music or literary
education which relates to the story or myth may be con-
sidered to be finished; for the matter and manner have both
been discussed.
I think so too, he said.
Next in order will follow melody and song.
That is obvious.
Every one can see already what we ought to say about them,
if we are to be consistent with ourselves.
I fear, said Glaucon, laughing, that the word 'every one'
hardly includes me, for I cannot at the moment say what they
should be; though I may guess.

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 At any rate you can tell that a song or ode has three
parts—the words, the melody, and the rhythm; that degree of
knowledge I may presuppose?
Yes, he said; so much as that you may.
And as for the words, there will surely be no difference
between words which are and which are not set to music; both
will conform to the same laws, and these have been already de-
termined by us?
Yes.
And the melody and rhythm will depend upon the words?
Certainly.
We were saying, when we spoke of the subject-matter, that
we had no need of lamentation and strains of sorrow?
True.
And which are the harmonies expressive of sorrow? You are
musical, and can tell me.
The harmonies which you mean are the mixed or tenor Lydi-
an, and the full-toned or bass Lydian, and such like.
These then, I said, must be banished; even to women who
have a character to maintain they are of no use, and much less
to men.
Certainly.
In the next place, drunkenness and softness and indolence
are utterly unbecoming the character of our guardians.
Utterly unbecoming.
And which are the soft or drinking harmonies?
The Ionian, he replied, and the Lydian; they are termed
'relaxed.'
Well, and are these of any military use?
Quite the reverse, he replied; and if so the Dorian and the
Phrygian are the only ones which you have left.
I answered: Of the harmonies I know nothing, but I want to
have one warlike, to sound the note or accent which a brave
man utters in the hour of danger and stern resolve, or when his
cause is failing, and he is going to wounds or death or is over-
taken by some other evil, and at every such crisis meets the
blows of fortune with firm step and a determination to endure;
and another to be used by him in times of peace and freedom
of action, when there is no pressure of necessity, and he is
seeking to persuade God by prayer, or man by instruction and

316
admonition, or on the other hand, when he is expressing his
willingness to yield to persuasion or entreaty or admonition,
and which represents him when by prudent conduct he has at-
tained his end, not carried away by his success, but acting
moderately and wisely under the circumstances, and acquies-
cing in the event. These two harmonies I ask you to leave; the
strain of necessity and the strain of freedom, the strain of the
unfortunate and the strain of the fortunate, the strain of cour-
age, and the strain of temperance; these, I say, leave.
And these, he replied, are the Dorian and Phrygian harmon-
ies of which I was just now speaking.
Then, I said, if these and these only are to be used in our
songs and melodies, we shall not want multiplicity of notes or a
panharmonic scale?
I suppose not.
Then we shall not maintain the artificers of lyres with three
corners and complex scales, or the makers of any other many-
stringed curiously-harmonised instruments?
Certainly not.
But what do you say to flute-makers and flute-players? Would
you admit them into our State when you reflect that in this
composite use of harmony the flute is worse than all the
stringed instruments put together; even the panharmonic mu-
sic is only an imitation of the flute?
Clearly not.
There remain then only the lyre and the harp for use in the
city, and the shepherds may have a pipe in the country.
That is surely the conclusion to be drawn from the argument.
The preferring of Apollo and his instruments to Marsyas and
his instruments is not at all strange, I said.
Not at all, he replied.
And so, by the dog of Egypt, we have been unconsciously
purging the State, which not long ago we termed luxurious.
And we have done wisely, he replied.
Then let us now finish the purgation, I said. Next in order to
harmonies, rhythms will naturally follow, and they should be
subject to the same rules, for we ought not to seek out complex
systems of metre, or metres of every kind, but rather to discov-
er what rhythms are the expressions of a courageous and har-
monious life; and when we have found them, we shall adapt the

317
foot and the melody to words having a like spirit, not the words
to the foot and melody. To say what these rhythms are will be
your duty—you must teach me them, as you have already
taught me the harmonies.
But, indeed, he replied, I cannot tell you. I only know that
there are some three principles of rhythm out of which metric-
al systems are framed, just as in sounds there are four notes
(i.e. the four notes of the tetrachord.) out of which all the har-
monies are composed; that is an observation which I have
made. But of what sort of lives they are severally the imitations
I am unable to say.
Then, I said, we must take Damon into our counsels; and he
will tell us what rhythms are expressive of meanness, or in-
solence, or fury, or other unworthiness, and what are to be re-
served for the expression of opposite feelings. And I think that
I have an indistinct recollection of his mentioning a complex
Cretic rhythm; also a dactylic or heroic, and he arranged them
in some manner which I do not quite understand, making the
rhythms equal in the rise and fall of the foot, long and short al-
ternating; and, unless I am mistaken, he spoke of an iambic as
well as of a trochaic rhythm, and assigned to them short and
long quantities. Also in some cases he appeared to praise or
censure the movement of the foot quite as much as the rhythm;
or perhaps a combination of the two; for I am not certain what
he meant. These matters, however, as I was saying, had better
be referred to Damon himself, for the analysis of the subject
would be difficult, you know? (Socrates expresses himself care-
lessly in accordance with his assumed ignorance of the details
of the subject. In the first part of the sentence he appears to be
speaking of paeonic rhythms which are in the ratio of 3/2; in
the second part, of dactylic and anapaestic rhythms, which are
in the ratio of 1/1; in the last clause, of iambic and trochaic
rhythms, which are in the ratio of 1/2 or 2/1.)
Rather so, I should say.
But there is no difficulty in seeing that grace or the absence
of grace is an effect of good or bad rhythm.
None at all.
And also that good and bad rhythm naturally assimilate to a
good and bad style; and that harmony and discord in like

318
manner follow style; for our principle is that rhythm and har-
mony are regulated by the words, and not the words by them.
Just so, he said, they should follow the words.
And will not the words and the character of the style depend
on the temper of the soul?
Yes.
And everything else on the style?
Yes.
Then beauty of style and harmony and grace and good
rhythm depend on simplicity,—I mean the true simplicity of a
rightly and nobly ordered mind and character, not that other
simplicity which is only an euphemism for folly?
Very true, he replied.
And if our youth are to do their work in life, must they not
make these graces and harmonies their perpetual aim?
They must.
And surely the art of the painter and every other creative and
constructive art are full of them,—weaving, embroidery, archi-
tecture, and every kind of manufacture; also nature, animal
and vegetable,—in all of them there is grace or the absence of
grace. And ugliness and discord and inharmonious motion are
nearly allied to ill words and ill nature, as grace and harmony
are the twin sisters of goodness and virtue and bear their
likeness.
That is quite true, he said.
But shall our superintendence go no further, and are the po-
ets only to be required by us to express the image of the good
in their works, on pain, if they do anything else, of expulsion
from our State? Or is the same control to be extended to other
artists, and are they also to be prohibited from exhibiting the
opposite forms of vice and intemperance and meanness and in-
decency in sculpture and building and the other creative arts;
and is he who cannot conform to this rule of ours to be preven-
ted from practising his art in our State, lest the taste of our cit-
izens be corrupted by him? We would not have our guardians
grow up amid images of moral deformity, as in some noxious
pasture, and there browse and feed upon many a baneful herb
and flower day by day, little by little, until they silently gather
a festering mass of corruption in their own soul. Let our artists
rather be those who are gifted to discern the true nature of the

319
beautiful and graceful; then will our youth dwell in a land of
health, amid fair sights and sounds, and receive the good in
everything; and beauty, the effluence of fair works, shall flow
into the eye and ear, like a health-giving breeze from a purer
region, and insensibly draw the soul from earliest years into
likeness and sympathy with the beauty of reason.
There can be no nobler training than that, he replied.
And therefore, I said, Glaucon, musical training is a more po-
tent instrument than any other, because rhythm and harmony
find their way into the inward places of the soul, on which they
mightily fasten, imparting grace, and making the soul of him
who is rightly educated graceful, or of him who is ill-educated
ungraceful; and also because he who has received this true
education of the inner being will most shrewdly perceive omis-
sions or faults in art and nature, and with a true taste, while he
praises and rejoices over and receives into his soul the good,
and becomes noble and good, he will justly blame and hate the
bad, now in the days of his youth, even before he is able to
know the reason why; and when reason comes he will recog-
nise and salute the friend with whom his education has made
him long familiar.
Yes, he said, I quite agree with you in thinking that our youth
should be trained in music and on the grounds which you
mention.
Just as in learning to read, I said, we were satisfied when we
knew the letters of the alphabet, which are very few, in all
their recurring sizes and combinations; not slighting them as
unimportant whether they occupy a space large or small, but
everywhere eager to make them out; and not thinking
ourselves perfect in the art of reading until we recognise them
wherever they are found:
True—
Or, as we recognise the reflection of letters in the water, or
in a mirror, only when we know the letters themselves; the
same art and study giving us the knowledge of both:
Exactly—
Even so, as I maintain, neither we nor our guardians, whom
we have to educate, can ever become musical until we and
they know the essential forms of temperance, courage, liberal-
ity, magnificence, and their kindred, as well as the contrary

320
forms, in all their combinations, and can recognise them and
their images wherever they are found, not slighting them
either in small things or great, but believing them all to be
within the sphere of one art and study.
Most assuredly.
And when a beautiful soul harmonizes with a beautiful form,
and the two are cast in one mould, that will be the fairest of
sights to him who has an eye to see it?
The fairest indeed.
And the fairest is also the loveliest?
That may be assumed.
And the man who has the spirit of harmony will be most in
love with the loveliest; but he will not love him who is of an in-
harmonious soul?
That is true, he replied, if the deficiency be in his soul; but if
there be any merely bodily defect in another he will be patient
of it, and will love all the same.
I perceive, I said, that you have or have had experiences of
this sort, and I agree. But let me ask you another question: Has
excess of pleasure any affinity to temperance?
How can that be? he replied; pleasure deprives a man of the
use of his faculties quite as much as pain.
Or any affinity to virtue in general?
None whatever.
Any affinity to wantonness and intemperance?
Yes, the greatest.
And is there any greater or keener pleasure than that of sen-
sual love?
No, nor a madder.
Whereas true love is a love of beauty and order—temperate
and harmonious?
Quite true, he said.
Then no intemperance or madness should be allowed to ap-
proach true love?
Certainly not.
Then mad or intemperate pleasure must never be allowed to
come near the lover and his beloved; neither of them can have
any part in it if their love is of the right sort?
No, indeed, Socrates, it must never come near them.

321
 Then I suppose that in the city which we are founding you
would make a law to the effect that a friend should use no oth-
er familiarity to his love than a father would use to his son, and
then only for a noble purpose, and he must first have the
other's consent; and this rule is to limit him in all his inter-
course, and he is never to be seen going further, or, if he ex-
ceeds, he is to be deemed guilty of coarseness and bad taste.
I quite agree, he said.
Thus much of music, which makes a fair ending; for what
should be the end of music if not the love of beauty?
I agree, he said.
After music comes gymnastic, in which our youth are next to
be trained.
Certainly.
Gymnastic as well as music should begin in early years; the
training in it should be careful and should continue through
life. Now my belief is,—and this is a matter upon which I
should like to have your opinion in confirmation of my own, but
my own belief is,—not that the good body by any bodily excel-
lence improves the soul, but, on the contrary, that the good
soul, by her own excellence, improves the body as far as this
may be possible. What do you say?
Yes, I agree.
Then, to the mind when adequately trained, we shall be right
in handing over the more particular care of the body; and in or-
der to avoid prolixity we will now only give the general outlines
of the subject.
Very good.
That they must abstain from intoxication has been already re-
marked by us; for of all persons a guardian should be the last
to get drunk and not know where in the world he is.
Yes, he said; that a guardian should require another guardi-
an to take care of him is ridiculous indeed.
But next, what shall we say of their food; for the men are in
training for the great contest of all—are they not?
Yes, he said.
And will the habit of body of our ordinary athletes be suited
to them?
Why not?

322
 I am afraid, I said, that a habit of body such as they have is
but a sleepy sort of thing, and rather perilous to health. Do you
not observe that these athletes sleep away their lives, and are
liable to most dangerous illnesses if they depart, in ever so
slight a degree, from their customary regimen?
Yes, I do.
Then, I said, a finer sort of training will be required for our
warrior athletes, who are to be like wakeful dogs, and to see
and hear with the utmost keenness; amid the many changes of
water and also of food, of summer heat and winter cold, which
they will have to endure when on a campaign, they must not be
liable to break down in health.
That is my view.
The really excellent gymnastic is twin sister of that simple
music which we were just now describing.
How so?
Why, I conceive that there is a gymnastic which, like our mu-
sic, is simple and good; and especially the military gymnastic.
What do you mean?
My meaning may be learned from Homer; he, you know,
feeds his heroes at their feasts, when they are campaigning, on
soldiers' fare; they have no fish, although they are on the
shores of the Hellespont, and they are not allowed boiled
meats but only roast, which is the food most convenient for sol-
diers, requiring only that they should light a fire, and not in-
volving the trouble of carrying about pots and pans.
True.
And I can hardly be mistaken in saying that sweet sauces are
nowhere mentioned in Homer. In proscribing them, however,
he is not singular; all professional athletes are well aware that
a man who is to be in good condition should take nothing of the
kind.
Yes, he said; and knowing this, they are quite right in not
taking them.
Then you would not approve of Syracusan dinners, and the
refinements of Sicilian cookery?
I think not.
Nor, if a man is to be in condition, would you allow him to
have a Corinthian girl as his fair friend?
Certainly not.

323
 Neither would you approve of the delicacies, as they are
thought, of Athenian confectionary?
Certainly not.
All such feeding and living may be rightly compared by us to
melody and song composed in the panharmonic style, and in all
the rhythms.
Exactly.
There complexity engendered licence, and here disease;
whereas simplicity in music was the parent of temperance in
the soul; and simplicity in gymnastic of health in the body.
Most true, he said.
But when intemperance and diseases multiply in a State,
halls of justice and medicine are always being opened; and the
arts of the doctor and the lawyer give themselves airs, finding
how keen is the interest which not only the slaves but the free-
men of a city take about them.
Of course.
And yet what greater proof can there be of a bad and dis-
graceful state of education than this, that not only artisans and
the meaner sort of people need the skill of first-rate physicians
and judges, but also those who would profess to have had a lib-
eral education? Is it not disgraceful, and a great sign of want of
good-breeding, that a man should have to go abroad for his law
and physic because he has none of his own at home, and must
therefore surrender himself into the hands of other men whom
he makes lords and judges over him?
Of all things, he said, the most disgraceful.
Would you say 'most,' I replied, when you consider that there
is a further stage of the evil in which a man is not only a life-
long litigant, passing all his days in the courts, either as
plaintiff or defendant, but is actually led by his bad taste to
pride himself on his litigiousness; he imagines that he is a mas-
ter in dishonesty; able to take every crooked turn, and wriggle
into and out of every hole, bending like a withy and getting out
of the way of justice: and all for what?—in order to gain small
points not worth mentioning, he not knowing that so to order
his life as to be able to do without a napping judge is a far
higher and nobler sort of thing. Is not that still more
disgraceful?
Yes, he said, that is still more disgraceful.

324
 Well, I said, and to require the help of medicine, not when a
wound has to be cured, or on occasion of an epidemic, but just
because, by indolence and a habit of life such as we have been
describing, men fill themselves with waters and winds, as if
their bodies were a marsh, compelling the ingenious sons of
Asclepius to find more names for diseases, such as flatulence
and catarrh; is not this, too, a disgrace?
Yes, he said, they do certainly give very strange and new-
fangled names to diseases.
Yes, I said, and I do not believe that there were any such dis-
eases in the days of Asclepius; and this I infer from the circum-
stance that the hero Eurypylus, after he has been wounded in
Homer, drinks a posset of Pramnian wine well besprinkled with
barley-meal and grated cheese, which are certainly inflammat-
ory, and yet the sons of Asclepius who were at the Trojan war
do not blame the damsel who gives him the drink, or rebuke
Patroclus, who is treating his case.
Well, he said, that was surely an extraordinary drink to be
given to a person in his condition.
Not so extraordinary, I replied, if you bear in mind that in
former days, as is commonly said, before the time of Herodi-
cus, the guild of Asclepius did not practise our present system
of medicine, which may be said to educate diseases. But
Herodicus, being a trainer, and himself of a sickly constitution,
by a combination of training and doctoring found out a way of
torturing first and chiefly himself, and secondly the rest of the
world.
How was that? he said.
By the invention of lingering death; for he had a mortal dis-
ease which he perpetually tended, and as recovery was out of
the question, he passed his entire life as a valetudinarian; he
could do nothing but attend upon himself, and he was in con-
stant torment whenever he departed in anything from his usual
regimen, and so dying hard, by the help of science he
struggled on to old age.
A rare reward of his skill!
Yes, I said; a reward which a man might fairly expect who
never understood that, if Asclepius did not instruct his des-
cendants in valetudinarian arts, the omission arose, not from
ignorance or inexperience of such a branch of medicine, but

325
because he knew that in all well-ordered states every individu-
al has an occupation to which he must attend, and has there-
fore no leisure to spend in continually being ill. This we remark
in the case of the artisan, but, ludicrously enough, do not apply
the same rule to people of the richer sort.
How do you mean? he said.
I mean this: When a carpenter is ill he asks the physician for
a rough and ready cure; an emetic or a purge or a cautery or
the knife,—these are his remedies. And if some one prescribes
for him a course of dietetics, and tells him that he must swathe
and swaddle his head, and all that sort of thing, he replies at
once that he has no time to be ill, and that he sees no good in a
life which is spent in nursing his disease to the neglect of his
customary employment; and therefore bidding good-bye to this
sort of physician, he resumes his ordinary habits, and either
gets well and lives and does his business, or, if his constitution
fails, he dies and has no more trouble.
Yes, he said, and a man in his condition of life ought to use
the art of medicine thus far only.
Has he not, I said, an occupation; and what profit would
there be in his life if he were deprived of his occupation?
Quite true, he said.
But with the rich man this is otherwise; of him we do not say
that he has any specially appointed work which he must per-
form, if he would live.
He is generally supposed to have nothing to do.
Then you never heard of the saying of Phocylides, that as
soon as a man has a livelihood he should practise virtue?
Nay, he said, I think that he had better begin somewhat
sooner.
Let us not have a dispute with him about this, I said; but
rather ask ourselves: Is the practice of virtue obligatory on the
rich man, or can he live without it? And if obligatory on him,
then let us raise a further question, whether this dieting of dis-
orders, which is an impediment to the application of the mind
in carpentering and the mechanical arts, does not equally
stand in the way of the sentiment of Phocylides?
Of that, he replied, there can be no doubt; such excessive
care of the body, when carried beyond the rules of gymnastic,
is most inimical to the practice of virtue.

326
 Yes, indeed, I replied, and equally incompatible with the
management of a house, an army, or an office of state; and,
what is most important of all, irreconcileable with any kind of
study or thought or self-reflection—there is a constant suspi-
cion that headache and giddiness are to be ascribed to philo-
sophy, and hence all practising or making trial of virtue in the
higher sense is absolutely stopped; for a man is always fancy-
ing that he is being made ill, and is in constant anxiety about
the state of his body.
Yes, likely enough.
And therefore our politic Asclepius may be supposed to have
exhibited the power of his art only to persons who, being gen-
erally of healthy constitution and habits of life, had a definite
ailment; such as these he cured by purges and operations, and
bade them live as usual, herein consulting the interests of the
State; but bodies which disease had penetrated through and
through he would not have attempted to cure by gradual pro-
cesses of evacuation and infusion: he did not want to lengthen
out good-for-nothing lives, or to have weak fathers begetting
weaker sons;—if a man was not able to live in the ordinary way
he had no business to cure him; for such a cure would have
been of no use either to himself, or to the State.
Then, he said, you regard Asclepius as a statesman.
Clearly; and his character is further illustrated by his sons.
Note that they were heroes in the days of old and practised the
medicines of which I am speaking at the siege of Troy: You will
remember how, when Pandarus wounded Menelaus, they
'Sucked the blood out of the wound, and sprinkled soothing
remedies,'
but they never prescribed what the patient was afterwards to
eat or drink in the case of Menelaus, any more than in the case
of Eurypylus; the remedies, as they conceived, were enough to
heal any man who before he was wounded was healthy and
regular in his habits; and even though he did happen to drink a
posset of Pramnian wine, he might get well all the same. But
they would have nothing to do with unhealthy and intemperate
subjects, whose lives were of no use either to themselves or
others; the art of medicine was not designed for their good,
and though they were as rich as Midas, the sons of Asclepius
would have declined to attend them.

327
 They were very acute persons, those sons of Asclepius.
Naturally so, I replied. Nevertheless, the tragedians and Pin-
dar disobeying our behests, although they acknowledge that
Asclepius was the son of Apollo, say also that he was bribed in-
to healing a rich man who was at the point of death, and for
this reason he was struck by lightning. But we, in accordance
with the principle already affirmed by us, will not believe them
when they tell us both;—if he was the son of a god, we main-
tain that he was not avaricious; or, if he was avaricious, he was
not the son of a god.
All that, Socrates, is excellent; but I should like to put a ques-
tion to you: Ought there not to be good physicians in a State,
and are not the best those who have treated the greatest num-
ber of constitutions good and bad? and are not the best judges
in like manner those who are acquainted with all sorts of moral
natures?
Yes, I said, I too would have good judges and good physi-
cians. But do you know whom I think good?
Will you tell me?
I will, if I can. Let me however note that in the same question
you join two things which are not the same.
How so? he asked.
Why, I said, you join physicians and judges. Now the most
skilful physicians are those who, from their youth upwards,
have combined with the knowledge of their art the greatest ex-
perience of disease; they had better not be robust in health,
and should have had all manner of diseases in their own per-
sons. For the body, as I conceive, is not the instrument with
which they cure the body; in that case we could not allow them
ever to be or to have been sickly; but they cure the body with
the mind, and the mind which has become and is sick can cure
nothing.
That is very true, he said.
But with the judge it is otherwise; since he governs mind by
mind; he ought not therefore to have been trained among vi-
cious minds, and to have associated with them from youth up-
wards, and to have gone through the whole calendar of crime,
only in order that he may quickly infer the crimes of others as
he might their bodily diseases from his own self-consciousness;
the honourable mind which is to form a healthy judgment

328
should have had no experience or contamination of evil habits
when young. And this is the reason why in youth good men of-
ten appear to be simple, and are easily practised upon by the
dishonest, because they have no examples of what evil is in
their own souls.
Yes, he said, they are far too apt to be deceived.
Therefore, I said, the judge should not be young; he should
have learned to know evil, not from his own soul, but from late
and long observation of the nature of evil in others: knowledge
should be his guide, not personal experience.
Yes, he said, that is the ideal of a judge.
Yes, I replied, and he will be a good man (which is my answer
to your question); for he is good who has a good soul. But the
cunning and suspicious nature of which we spoke,—he who has
committed many crimes, and fancies himself to be a master in
wickedness, when he is amongst his fellows, is wonderful in
the precautions which he takes, because he judges of them by
himself: but when he gets into the company of men of virtue,
who have the experience of age, he appears to be a fool again,
owing to his unseasonable suspicions; he cannot recognise an
honest man, because he has no pattern of honesty in himself;
at the same time, as the bad are more numerous than the good,
and he meets with them oftener, he thinks himself, and is by
others thought to be, rather wise than foolish.
Most true, he said.
Then the good and wise judge whom we are seeking is not
this man, but the other; for vice cannot know virtue too, but a
virtuous nature, educated by time, will acquire a knowledge
both of virtue and vice: the virtuous, and not the vicious, man
has wisdom—in my opinion.
And in mine also.
This is the sort of medicine, and this is the sort of law, which
you will sanction in your state. They will minister to better
natures, giving health both of soul and of body; but those who
are diseased in their bodies they will leave to die, and the cor-
rupt and incurable souls they will put an end to themselves.
That is clearly the best thing both for the patients and for the
State.

329
 And thus our youth, having been educated only in that simple
music which, as we said, inspires temperance, will be reluctant
to go to law.
Clearly.
And the musician, who, keeping to the same track, is content
to practise the simple gymnastic, will have nothing to do with
medicine unless in some extreme case.
That I quite believe.
The very exercises and tolls which he undergoes are inten-
ded to stimulate the spirited element of his nature, and not to
increase his strength; he will not, like common athletes, use ex-
ercise and regimen to develope his muscles.
Very right, he said.
Neither are the two arts of music and gymnastic really de-
signed, as is often supposed, the one for the training of the
soul, the other for the training of the body.
What then is the real object of them?
I believe, I said, that the teachers of both have in view chiefly
the improvement of the soul.
How can that be? he asked.
Did you never observe, I said, the effect on the mind itself of
exclusive devotion to gymnastic, or the opposite effect of an ex-
clusive devotion to music?
In what way shown? he said.
The one producing a temper of hardness and ferocity, the
other of softness and effeminacy, I replied.
Yes, he said, I am quite aware that the mere athlete becomes
too much of a savage, and that the mere musician is melted
and softened beyond what is good for him.
Yet surely, I said, this ferocity only comes from spirit, which,
if rightly educated, would give courage, but, if too much intens-
ified, is liable to become hard and brutal.
That I quite think.
On the other hand the philosopher will have the quality of
gentleness. And this also, when too much indulged, will turn to
softness, but, if educated rightly, will be gentle and moderate.
True.
And in our opinion the guardians ought to have both these
qualities?
Assuredly.

330
 And both should be in harmony?
Beyond question.
And the harmonious soul is both temperate and courageous?
Yes.
And the inharmonious is cowardly and boorish?
Very true.
And, when a man allows music to play upon him and to pour
into his soul through the funnel of his ears those sweet and soft
and melancholy airs of which we were just now speaking, and
his whole life is passed in warbling and the delights of song; in
the first stage of the process the passion or spirit which is in
him is tempered like iron, and made useful, instead of brittle
and useless. But, if he carries on the softening and soothing
process, in the next stage he begins to melt and waste, until he
has wasted away his spirit and cut out the sinews of his soul;
and he becomes a feeble warrior.
Very true.
If the element of spirit is naturally weak in him the change is
speedily accomplished, but if he have a good deal, then the
power of music weakening the spirit renders him excit-
able;—on the least provocation he flames up at once, and is
speedily extinguished; instead of having spirit he grows irrit-
able and passionate and is quite impracticable.
Exactly.
And so in gymnastics, if a man takes violent exercise and is a
great feeder, and the reverse of a great student of music and
philosophy, at first the high condition of his body fills him with
pride and spirit, and he becomes twice the man that he was.
Certainly.
And what happens? if he do nothing else, and holds no con-
verse with the Muses, does not even that intelligence which
there may be in him, having no taste of any sort of learning or
enquiry or thought or culture, grow feeble and dull and blind,
his mind never waking up or receiving nourishment, and his
senses not being purged of their mists?
True, he said.
And he ends by becoming a hater of philosophy, uncivilized,
never using the weapon of persuasion,—he is like a wild beast,
all violence and fierceness, and knows no other way of dealing;

331
and he lives in all ignorance and evil conditions, and has no
sense of propriety and grace.
That is quite true, he said.
And as there are two principles of human nature, one the
spirited and the other the philosophical, some God, as I should
say, has given mankind two arts answering to them (and only
indirectly to the soul and body), in order that these two prin-
ciples (like the strings of an instrument) may be relaxed or
drawn tighter until they are duly harmonized.
That appears to be the intention.
And he who mingles music with gymnastic in the fairest pro-
portions, and best attempers them to the soul, may be rightly
called the true musician and harmonist in a far higher sense
than the tuner of the strings.
You are quite right, Socrates.
And such a presiding genius will be always required in our
State if the government is to last.
Yes, he will be absolutely necessary.
Such, then, are our principles of nurture and education:
Where would be the use of going into further details about the
dances of our citizens, or about their hunting and coursing,
their gymnastic and equestrian contests? For these all follow
the general principle, and having found that, we shall have no
difficulty in discovering them.
I dare say that there will be no difficulty.
Very good, I said; then what is the next question? Must we
not ask who are to be rulers and who subjects?
Certainly.
There can be no doubt that the elder must rule the younger.
Clearly.
And that the best of these must rule.
That is also clear.
Now, are not the best husbandmen those who are most de-
voted to husbandry?
Yes.
And as we are to have the best of guardians for our city,
must they not be those who have most the character of
guardians?
Yes.

332
 And to this end they ought to be wise and efficient, and to
have a special care of the State?
True.
And a man will be most likely to care about that which he
loves?
To be sure.
And he will be most likely to love that which he regards as
having the same interests with himself, and that of which the
good or evil fortune is supposed by him at any time most to af-
fect his own?
Very true, he replied.
Then there must be a selection. Let us note among the
guardians those who in their whole life show the greatest
eagerness to do what is for the good of their country, and the
greatest repugnance to do what is against her interests.
Those are the right men.
And they will have to be watched at every age, in order that
we may see whether they preserve their resolution, and never,
under the influence either of force or enchantment, forget or
cast off their sense of duty to the State.
How cast off? he said.
I will explain to you, I replied. A resolution may go out of a
man's mind either with his will or against his will; with his will
when he gets rid of a falsehood and learns better, against his
will whenever he is deprived of a truth.
I understand, he said, the willing loss of a resolution; the
meaning of the unwilling I have yet to learn.
Why, I said, do you not see that men are unwillingly deprived
of good, and willingly of evil? Is not to have lost the truth an
evil, and to possess the truth a good? and you would agree that
to conceive things as they are is to possess the truth?
Yes, he replied; I agree with you in thinking that mankind are
deprived of truth against their will.
And is not this involuntary deprivation caused either by theft,
or force, or enchantment?
Still, he replied, I do not understand you.
I fear that I must have been talking darkly, like the tragedi-
ans. I only mean that some men are changed by persuasion and
that others forget; argument steals away the hearts of one

333
class, and time of the other; and this I call theft. Now you un-
derstand me?
Yes.
Those again who are forced, are those whom the violence of
some pain or grief compels to change their opinion.
I understand, he said, and you are quite right.
And you would also acknowledge that the enchanted are
those who change their minds either under the softer influence
of pleasure, or the sterner influence of fear?
Yes, he said; everything that deceives may be said to
enchant.
Therefore, as I was just now saying, we must enquire who
are the best guardians of their own conviction that what they
think the interest of the State is to be the rule of their lives. We
must watch them from their youth upwards, and make them
perform actions in which they are most likely to forget or to be
deceived, and he who remembers and is not deceived is to be
selected, and he who fails in the trial is to be rejected. That will
be the way?
Yes.
And there should also be toils and pains and conflicts pre-
scribed for them, in which they will be made to give further
proof of the same qualities.
Very right, he replied.
And then, I said, we must try them with enchantments—that
is the third sort of test—and see what will be their behaviour:
like those who take colts amid noise and tumult to see if they
are of a timid nature, so must we take our youth amid terrors
of some kind, and again pass them into pleasures, and prove
them more thoroughly than gold is proved in the furnace, that
we may discover whether they are armed against all enchant-
ments, and of a noble bearing always, good guardians of them-
selves and of the music which they have learned, and retaining
under all circumstances a rhythmical and harmonious nature,
such as will be most serviceable to the individual and to the
State. And he who at every age, as boy and youth and in ma-
ture life, has come out of the trial victorious and pure, shall be
appointed a ruler and guardian of the State; he shall be hon-
oured in life and death, and shall receive sepulture and other
memorials of honour, the greatest that we have to give. But

334
him who fails, we must reject. I am inclined to think that this is
the sort of way in which our rulers and guardians should be
chosen and appointed. I speak generally, and not with any pre-
tension to exactness.
And, speaking generally, I agree with you, he said.
And perhaps the word 'guardian' in the fullest sense ought to
be applied to this higher class only who preserve us against
foreign enemies and maintain peace among our citizens at
home, that the one may not have the will, or the others the
power, to harm us. The young men whom we before called
guardians may be more properly designated auxiliaries and
supporters of the principles of the rulers.
I agree with you, he said.
How then may we devise one of those needful falsehoods of
which we lately spoke—just one royal lie which may deceive
the rulers, if that be possible, and at any rate the rest of the
city?
What sort of lie? he said.
Nothing new, I replied; only an old Phoenician tale (Laws) of
what has often occurred before now in other places, (as the po-
ets say, and have made the world believe,) though not in our
time, and I do not know whether such an event could ever hap-
pen again, or could now even be made probable, if it did.
How your words seem to hesitate on your lips!
You will not wonder, I replied, at my hesitation when you
have heard.
Speak, he said, and fear not.
Well then, I will speak, although I really know not how to
look you in the face, or in what words to utter the audacious
fiction, which I propose to communicate gradually, first to the
rulers, then to the soldiers, and lastly to the people. They are
to be told that their youth was a dream, and the education and
training which they received from us, an appearance only; in
reality during all that time they were being formed and fed in
the womb of the earth, where they themselves and their arms
and appurtenances were manufactured; when they were com-
pleted, the earth, their mother, sent them up; and so, their
country being their mother and also their nurse, they are
bound to advise for her good, and to defend her against

335
attacks, and her citizens they are to regard as children of the
earth and their own brothers.
You had good reason, he said, to be ashamed of the lie which
you were going to tell.
True, I replied, but there is more coming; I have only told
you half. Citizens, we shall say to them in our tale, you are
brothers, yet God has framed you differently. Some of you have
the power of command, and in the composition of these he has
mingled gold, wherefore also they have the greatest honour;
others he has made of silver, to be auxiliaries; others again
who are to be husbandmen and craftsmen he has composed of
brass and iron; and the species will generally be preserved in
the children. But as all are of the same original stock, a golden
parent will sometimes have a silver son, or a silver parent a
golden son. And God proclaims as a first principle to the rulers,
and above all else, that there is nothing which they should so
anxiously guard, or of which they are to be such good guardi-
ans, as of the purity of the race. They should observe what ele-
ments mingle in their offspring; for if the son of a golden or sil-
ver parent has an admixture of brass and iron, then nature or-
ders a transposition of ranks, and the eye of the ruler must not
be pitiful towards the child because he has to descend in the
scale and become a husbandman or artisan, just as there may
be sons of artisans who having an admixture of gold or silver in
them are raised to honour, and become guardians or auxiliar-
ies. For an oracle says that when a man of brass or iron guards
the State, it will be destroyed. Such is the tale; is there any
possibility of making our citizens believe in it?
Not in the present generation, he replied; there is no way of
accomplishing this; but their sons may be made to believe in
the tale, and their sons' sons, and posterity after them.
I see the difficulty, I replied; yet the fostering of such a belief
will make them care more for the city and for one another.
Enough, however, of the fiction, which may now fly abroad
upon the wings of rumour, while we arm our earth-born her-
oes, and lead them forth under the command of their rulers.
Let them look round and select a spot whence they can best
suppress insurrection, if any prove refractory within, and also
defend themselves against enemies, who like wolves may come
down on the fold from without; there let them encamp, and

336
when they have encamped, let them sacrifice to the proper
Gods and prepare their dwellings.
Just so, he said.
And their dwellings must be such as will shield them against
the cold of winter and the heat of summer.
I suppose that you mean houses, he replied.
Yes, I said; but they must be the houses of soldiers, and not
of shop-keepers.
What is the difference? he said.
That I will endeavour to explain, I replied. To keep watch-
dogs, who, from want of discipline or hunger, or some evil
habit or other, would turn upon the sheep and worry them, and
behave not like dogs but wolves, would be a foul and mon-
strous thing in a shepherd?
Truly monstrous, he said.
And therefore every care must be taken that our auxiliaries,
being stronger than our citizens, may not grow to be too much
for them and become savage tyrants instead of friends and
allies?
Yes, great care should be taken.
And would not a really good education furnish the best
safeguard?
But they are well-educated already, he replied.
I cannot be so confident, my dear Glaucon, I said; I am much
more certain that they ought to be, and that true education,
whatever that may be, will have the greatest tendency to civil-
ize and humanize them in their relations to one another, and to
those who are under their protection.
Very true, he replied.
And not only their education, but their habitations, and all
that belongs to them, should be such as will neither impair
their virtue as guardians, nor tempt them to prey upon the oth-
er citizens. Any man of sense must acknowledge that.
He must.
Then now let us consider what will be their way of life, if they
are to realize our idea of them. In the first place, none of them
should have any property of his own beyond what is absolutely
necessary; neither should they have a private house or store
closed against any one who has a mind to enter; their provi-
sions should be only such as are required by trained warriors,

337
who are men of temperance and courage; they should agree to
receive from the citizens a fixed rate of pay, enough to meet
the expenses of the year and no more; and they will go to mess
and live together like soldiers in a camp. Gold and silver we
will tell them that they have from God; the diviner metal is
within them, and they have therefore no need of the dross
which is current among men, and ought not to pollute the di-
vine by any such earthly admixture; for that commoner metal
has been the source of many unholy deeds, but their own is un-
defiled. And they alone of all the citizens may not touch or
handle silver or gold, or be under the same roof with them, or
wear them, or drink from them. And this will be their salvation,
and they will be the saviours of the State. But should they ever
acquire homes or lands or moneys of their own, they will be-
come housekeepers and husbandmen instead of guardians, en-
emies and tyrants instead of allies of the other citizens; hating
and being hated, plotting and being plotted against, they will
pass their whole life in much greater terror of internal than of
external enemies, and the hour of ruin, both to themselves and
to the rest of the State, will be at hand. For all which reasons
may we not say that thus shall our State be ordered, and that
these shall be the regulations appointed by us for guardians
concerning their houses and all other matters?
Yes, said Glaucon.

338
Part 4

339
Here Adeimantus interposed a question: How would you an-
swer, Socrates, said he, if a person were to say that you are
making these people miserable, and that they are the cause of
their own unhappiness; the city in fact belongs to them, but
they are none the better for it; whereas other men acquire
lands, and build large and handsome houses, and have
everything handsome about them, offering sacrifices to the
gods on their own account, and practising hospitality;
moreover, as you were saying just now, they have gold and sil-
ver, and all that is usual among the favourites of fortune; but
our poor citizens are no better than mercenaries who are
quartered in the city and are always mounting guard?
Yes, I said; and you may add that they are only fed, and not
paid in addition to their food, like other men; and therefore
they cannot, if they would, take a journey of pleasure; they
have no money to spend on a mistress or any other luxurious
fancy, which, as the world goes, is thought to be happiness;
and many other accusations of the same nature might be
added.
But, said he, let us suppose all this to be included in the
charge.
You mean to ask, I said, what will be our answer?
Yes.
If we proceed along the old path, my belief, I said, is that we
shall find the answer. And our answer will be that, even as they
are, our guardians may very likely be the happiest of men; but
that our aim in founding the State was not the disproportionate
happiness of any one class, but the greatest happiness of the
whole; we thought that in a State which is ordered with a view
to the good of the whole we should be most likely to find
justice, and in the ill-ordered State injustice: and, having found
them, we might then decide which of the two is the happier. At
present, I take it, we are fashioning the happy State, not piece-
meal, or with a view of making a few happy citizens, but as a
whole; and by-and-by we will proceed to view the opposite kind
of State. Suppose that we were painting a statue, and some
one came up to us and said, Why do you not put the most beau-
tiful colours on the most beautiful parts of the body—the eyes
ought to be purple, but you have made them black—to him we
might fairly answer, Sir, you would not surely have us beautify

340
the eyes to such a degree that they are no longer eyes; con-
sider rather whether, by giving this and the other features
their due proportion, we make the whole beautiful. And so I
say to you, do not compel us to assign to the guardians a sort
of happiness which will make them anything but guardians; for
we too can clothe our husbandmen in royal apparel, and set
crowns of gold on their heads, and bid them till the ground as
much as they like, and no more. Our potters also might be al-
lowed to repose on couches, and feast by the fireside, passing
round the winecup, while their wheel is conveniently at hand,
and working at pottery only as much as they like; in this way
we might make every class happy—and then, as you imagine,
the whole State would be happy. But do not put this idea into
our heads; for, if we listen to you, the husbandman will be no
longer a husbandman, the potter will cease to be a potter, and
no one will have the character of any distinct class in the State.
Now this is not of much consequence where the corruption of
society, and pretension to be what you are not, is confined to
cobblers; but when the guardians of the laws and of the gov-
ernment are only seeming and not real guardians, then see
how they turn the State upside down; and on the other hand
they alone have the power of giving order and happiness to the
State. We mean our guardians to be true saviours and not the
destroyers of the State, whereas our opponent is thinking of
peasants at a festival, who are enjoying a life of revelry, not of
citizens who are doing their duty to the State. But, if so, we
mean different things, and he is speaking of something which
is not a State. And therefore we must consider whether in ap-
pointing our guardians we would look to their greatest happi-
ness individually, or whether this principle of happiness does
not rather reside in the State as a whole. But if the latter be
the truth, then the guardians and auxiliaries, and all others
equally with them, must be compelled or induced to do their
own work in the best way. And thus the whole State will grow
up in a noble order, and the several classes will receive the
proportion of happiness which nature assigns to them.
I think that you are quite right.
I wonder whether you will agree with another remark which
occurs to me.
What may that be?

341
 There seem to be two causes of the deterioration of the arts.
What are they?
Wealth, I said, and poverty.
How do they act?
The process is as follows: When a potter becomes rich, will
he, think you, any longer take the same pains with his art?
Certainly not.
He will grow more and more indolent and careless?
Very true.
And the result will be that he becomes a worse potter?
Yes; he greatly deteriorates.
But, on the other hand, if he has no money, and cannot
provide himself with tools or instruments, he will not work
equally well himself, nor will he teach his sons or apprentices
to work equally well.
Certainly not.
Then, under the influence either of poverty or of wealth,
workmen and their work are equally liable to degenerate?
That is evident.
Here, then, is a discovery of new evils, I said, against which
the guardians will have to watch, or they will creep into the
city unobserved.
What evils?
Wealth, I said, and poverty; the one is the parent of luxury
and indolence, and the other of meanness and viciousness, and
both of discontent.
That is very true, he replied; but still I should like to know,
Socrates, how our city will be able to go to war, especially
against an enemy who is rich and powerful, if deprived of the
sinews of war.
There would certainly be a difficulty, I replied, in going to
war with one such enemy; but there is no difficulty where there
are two of them.
How so? he asked.
In the first place, I said, if we have to fight, our side will be
trained warriors fighting against an army of rich men.
That is true, he said.
And do you not suppose, Adeimantus, that a single boxer who
was perfect in his art would easily be a match for two stout and
well-to-do gentlemen who were not boxers?

342
 Hardly, if they came upon him at once.
What, now, I said, if he were able to run away and then turn
and strike at the one who first came up? And supposing he
were to do this several times under the heat of a scorching
sun, might he not, being an expert, overturn more than one
stout personage?
Certainly, he said, there would be nothing wonderful in that.
And yet rich men probably have a greater superiority in the
science and practise of boxing than they have in military
qualities.
Likely enough.
Then we may assume that our athletes will be able to fight
with two or three times their own number?
I agree with you, for I think you right.
And suppose that, before engaging, our citizens send an em-
bassy to one of the two cities, telling them what is the truth:
Silver and gold we neither have nor are permitted to have, but
you may; do you therefore come and help us in war, and take
the spoils of the other city: Who, on hearing these words,
would choose to fight against lean wiry dogs, rather than, with
the dogs on their side, against fat and tender sheep?
That is not likely; and yet there might be a danger to the
poor State if the wealth of many States were to be gathered in-
to one.
But how simple of you to use the term State at all of any but
our own!
Why so?
You ought to speak of other States in the plural number; not
one of them is a city, but many cities, as they say in the game.
For indeed any city, however small, is in fact divided into two,
one the city of the poor, the other of the rich; these are at war
with one another; and in either there are many smaller divi-
sions, and you would be altogether beside the mark if you
treated them all as a single State. But if you deal with them as
many, and give the wealth or power or persons of the one to
the others, you will always have a great many friends and not
many enemies. And your State, while the wise order which has
now been prescribed continues to prevail in her, will be the
greatest of States, I do not mean to say in reputation or ap-
pearance, but in deed and truth, though she number not more

343
than a thousand defenders. A single State which is her equal
you will hardly find, either among Hellenes or barbarians,
though many that appear to be as great and many times
greater.
That is most true, he said.
And what, I said, will be the best limit for our rulers to fix
when they are considering the size of the State and the amount
of territory which they are to include, and beyond which they
will not go?
What limit would you propose?
I would allow the State to increase so far as is consistent
with unity; that, I think, is the proper limit.
Very good, he said.
Here then, I said, is another order which will have to be con-
veyed to our guardians: Let our city be accounted neither large
nor small, but one and self-sufficing.
And surely, said he, this is not a very severe order which we
impose upon them.
And the other, said I, of which we were speaking before is
lighter still,—I mean the duty of degrading the offspring of the
guardians when inferior, and of elevating into the rank of
guardians the offspring of the lower classes, when naturally su-
perior. The intention was, that, in the case of the citizens gen-
erally, each individual should be put to the use for which
nature intended him, one to one work, and then every man
would do his own business, and be one and not many; and so
the whole city would be one and not many.
Yes, he said; that is not so difficult.
The regulations which we are prescribing, my good Adei-
mantus, are not, as might be supposed, a number of great prin-
ciples, but trifles all, if care be taken, as the saying is, of the
one great thing,—a thing, however, which I would rather call,
not great, but sufficient for our purpose.
What may that be? he asked.
Education, I said, and nurture: If our citizens are well edu-
cated, and grow into sensible men, they will easily see their
way through all these, as well as other matters which I omit;
such, for example, as marriage, the possession of women and
the procreation of children, which will all follow the general

344
principle that friends have all things in common, as the pro-
verb says.
That will be the best way of settling them.
Also, I said, the State, if once started well, moves with accu-
mulating force like a wheel. For good nurture and education
implant good constitutions, and these good constitutions taking
root in a good education improve more and more, and this im-
provement affects the breed in man as in other animals.
Very possibly, he said.
Then to sum up: This is the point to which, above all, the at-
tention of our rulers should be directed,—that music and gym-
nastic be preserved in their original form, and no innovation
made. They must do their utmost to maintain them intact. And
when any one says that mankind most regard
'The newest song which the singers have,'
they will be afraid that he may be praising, not new songs,
but a new kind of song; and this ought not to be praised, or
conceived to be the meaning of the poet; for any musical innov-
ation is full of danger to the whole State, and ought to be pro-
hibited. So Damon tells me, and I can quite believe him;—he
says that when modes of music change, the fundamental laws
of the State always change with them.
Yes, said Adeimantus; and you may add my suffrage to
Damon's and your own.
Then, I said, our guardians must lay the foundations of their
fortress in music?
Yes, he said; the lawlessness of which you speak too easily
steals in.
Yes, I replied, in the form of amusement; and at first sight it
appears harmless.
Why, yes, he said, and there is no harm; were it not that little
by little this spirit of licence, finding a home, imperceptibly
penetrates into manners and customs; whence, issuing with
greater force, it invades contracts between man and man, and
from contracts goes on to laws and constitutions, in utter reck-
lessness, ending at last, Socrates, by an overthrow of all rights,
private as well as public.
Is that true? I said.
That is my belief, he replied.

345
 Then, as I was saying, our youth should be trained from the
first in a stricter system, for if amusements become lawless,
and the youths themselves become lawless, they can never
grow up into well-conducted and virtuous citizens.
Very true, he said.
And when they have made a good beginning in play, and by
the help of music have gained the habit of good order, then
this habit of order, in a manner how unlike the lawless play of
the others! will accompany them in all their actions and be a
principle of growth to them, and if there be any fallen places in
the State will raise them up again.
Very true, he said.
Thus educated, they will invent for themselves any lesser
rules which their predecessors have altogether neglected.
What do you mean?
I mean such things as these:—when the young are to be si-
lent before their elders; how they are to show respect to them
by standing and making them sit; what honour is due to par-
ents; what garments or shoes are to be worn; the mode of
dressing the hair; deportment and manners in general. You
would agree with me?
Yes.
But there is, I think, small wisdom in legislating about such
matters,—I doubt if it is ever done; nor are any precise written
enactments about them likely to be lasting.
Impossible.
It would seem, Adeimantus, that the direction in which edu-
cation starts a man, will determine his future life. Does not like
always attract like?
To be sure.
Until some one rare and grand result is reached which may
be good, and may be the reverse of good?
That is not to be denied.
And for this reason, I said, I shall not attempt to legislate fur-
ther about them.
Naturally enough, he replied.
Well, and about the business of the agora, and the ordinary
dealings between man and man, or again about agreements
with artisans; about insult and injury, or the commencement of
actions, and the appointment of juries, what would you say?

346
there may also arise questions about any impositions and exac-
tions of market and harbour dues which may be required, and
in general about the regulations of markets, police, harbours,
and the like. But, oh heavens! shall we condescend to legislate
on any of these particulars?
I think, he said, that there is no need to impose laws about
them on good men; what regulations are necessary they will
find out soon enough for themselves.
Yes, I said, my friend, if God will only preserve to them the
laws which we have given them.
And without divine help, said Adeimantus, they will go on for
ever making and mending their laws and their lives in the hope
of attaining perfection.
You would compare them, I said, to those invalids who, hav-
ing no self-restraint, will not leave off their habits of
intemperance?
Exactly.
Yes, I said; and what a delightful life they lead! they are al-
ways doctoring and increasing and complicating their dis-
orders, and always fancying that they will be cured by any nos-
trum which anybody advises them to try.
Such cases are very common, he said, with invalids of this
sort.
Yes, I replied; and the charming thing is that they deem him
their worst enemy who tells them the truth, which is simply
that, unless they give up eating and drinking and wenching
and idling, neither drug nor cautery nor spell nor amulet nor
any other remedy will avail.
Charming! he replied. I see nothing charming in going into a
passion with a man who tells you what is right.
These gentlemen, I said, do not seem to be in your good
graces.
Assuredly not.
Nor would you praise the behaviour of States which act like
the men whom I was just now describing. For are there not ill-
ordered States in which the citizens are forbidden under pain
of death to alter the constitution; and yet he who most sweetly
courts those who live under this regime and indulges them and
fawns upon them and is skilful in anticipating and gratifying

347
their humours is held to be a great and good statesman—do
not these States resemble the persons whom I was describing?
Yes, he said; the States are as bad as the men; and I am very
far from praising them.
But do you not admire, I said, the coolness and dexterity of
these ready ministers of political corruption?
Yes, he said, I do; but not of all of them, for there are some
whom the applause of the multitude has deluded into the belief
that they are really statesmen, and these are not much to be
admired.
What do you mean? I said; you should have more feeling for
them. When a man cannot measure, and a great many others
who cannot measure declare that he is four cubits high, can he
help believing what they say?
Nay, he said, certainly not in that case.
Well, then, do not be angry with them; for are they not as
good as a play, trying their hand at paltry reforms such as I
was describing; they are always fancying that by legislation
they will make an end of frauds in contracts, and the other ras-
calities which I was mentioning, not knowing that they are in
reality cutting off the heads of a hydra?
Yes, he said; that is just what they are doing.
I conceive, I said, that the true legislator will not trouble
himself with this class of enactments whether concerning laws
or the constitution either in an ill-ordered or in a well-ordered
State; for in the former they are quite useless, and in the latter
there will be no difficulty in devising them; and many of them
will naturally flow out of our previous regulations.
What, then, he said, is still remaining to us of the work of
legislation?
Nothing to us, I replied; but to Apollo, the God of Delphi,
there remains the ordering of the greatest and noblest and
chiefest things of all.
Which are they? he said.
The institution of temples and sacrifices, and the entire ser-
vice of gods, demigods, and heroes; also the ordering of the re-
positories of the dead, and the rites which have to be observed
by him who would propitiate the inhabitants of the world be-
low. These are matters of which we are ignorant ourselves, and
as founders of a city we should be unwise in trusting them to

348
any interpreter but our ancestral deity. He is the god who sits
in the centre, on the navel of the earth, and he is the interpret-
er of religion to all mankind.
You are right, and we will do as you propose.
But where, amid all this, is justice? son of Ariston, tell me
where. Now that our city has been made habitable, light a
candle and search, and get your brother and Polemarchus and
the rest of our friends to help, and let us see where in it we can
discover justice and where injustice, and in what they differ
from one another, and which of them the man who would be
happy should have for his portion, whether seen or unseen by
gods and men.
Nonsense, said Glaucon: did you not promise to search your-
self, saying that for you not to help justice in her need would
be an impiety?
I do not deny that I said so, and as you remind me, I will be
as good as my word; but you must join.
We will, he replied.
Well, then, I hope to make the discovery in this way: I mean
to begin with the assumption that our State, if rightly ordered,
is perfect.
That is most certain.
And being perfect, is therefore wise and valiant and temper-
ate and just.
That is likewise clear.
And whichever of these qualities we find in the State, the one
which is not found will be the residue?
Very good.
If there were four things, and we were searching for one of
them, wherever it might be, the one sought for might be known
to us from the first, and there would be no further trouble; or
we might know the other three first, and then the fourth would
clearly be the one left.
Very true, he said.
And is not a similar method to be pursued about the virtues,
which are also four in number?
Clearly.
First among the virtues found in the State, wisdom comes in-
to view, and in this I detect a certain peculiarity.
What is that?

349
 The State which we have been describing is said to be wise
as being good in counsel?
Very true.
And good counsel is clearly a kind of knowledge, for not by
ignorance, but by knowledge, do men counsel well?
Clearly.
And the kinds of knowledge in a State are many and diverse?
Of course.
There is the knowledge of the carpenter; but is that the sort
of knowledge which gives a city the title of wise and good in
counsel?
Certainly not; that would only give a city the reputation of
skill in carpentering.
Then a city is not to be called wise because possessing a
knowledge which counsels for the best about wooden
implements?
Certainly not.
Nor by reason of a knowledge which advises about brazen
pots, I said, nor as possessing any other similar knowledge?
Not by reason of any of them, he said.
Nor yet by reason of a knowledge which cultivates the earth;
that would give the city the name of agricultural?
Yes.
Well, I said, and is there any knowledge in our recently-foun-
ded State among any of the citizens which advises, not about
any particular thing in the State, but about the whole, and con-
siders how a State can best deal with itself and with other
States?
There certainly is.
And what is this knowledge, and among whom is it found? I
asked.
It is the knowledge of the guardians, he replied, and is found
among those whom we were just now describing as perfect
guardians.
And what is the name which the city derives from the posses-
sion of this sort of knowledge?
The name of good in counsel and truly wise.
And will there be in our city more of these true guardians or
more smiths?
The smiths, he replied, will be far more numerous.

350
 Will not the guardians be the smallest of all the classes who
receive a name from the profession of some kind of
knowledge?
Much the smallest.
And so by reason of the smallest part or class, and of the
knowledge which resides in this presiding and ruling part of it-
self, the whole State, being thus constituted according to
nature, will be wise; and this, which has the only knowledge
worthy to be called wisdom, has been ordained by nature to be
of all classes the least.
Most true.
Thus, then, I said, the nature and place in the State of one of
the four virtues has somehow or other been discovered.
And, in my humble opinion, very satisfactorily discovered, he
replied.
Again, I said, there is no difficulty in seeing the nature of
courage, and in what part that quality resides which gives the
name of courageous to the State.
How do you mean?
Why, I said, every one who calls any State courageous or
cowardly, will be thinking of the part which fights and goes out
to war on the State's behalf.
No one, he replied, would ever think of any other.
The rest of the citizens may be courageous or may be cow-
ardly, but their courage or cowardice will not, as I conceive,
have the effect of making the city either the one or the other.
Certainly not.
The city will be courageous in virtue of a portion of herself
which preserves under all circumstances that opinion about
the nature of things to be feared and not to be feared in which
our legislator educated them; and this is what you term
courage.
I should like to hear what you are saying once more, for I do
not think that I perfectly understand you.
I mean that courage is a kind of salvation.
Salvation of what?
Of the opinion respecting things to be feared, what they are
and of what nature, which the law implants through education;
and I mean by the words 'under all circumstances' to intimate
that in pleasure or in pain, or under the influence of desire or

351
fear, a man preserves, and does not lose this opinion. Shall I
give you an illustration?
If you please.
You know, I said, that dyers, when they want to dye wool for
making the true sea-purple, begin by selecting their white col-
our first; this they prepare and dress with much care and
pains, in order that the white ground may take the purple hue
in full perfection. The dyeing then proceeds; and whatever is
dyed in this manner becomes a fast colour, and no washing
either with lyes or without them can take away the bloom. But,
when the ground has not been duly prepared, you will have no-
ticed how poor is the look either of purple or of any other
colour.
Yes, he said; I know that they have a washed-out and ridicu-
lous appearance.
Then now, I said, you will understand what our object was in
selecting our soldiers, and educating them in music and gym-
nastic; we were contriving influences which would prepare
them to take the dye of the laws in perfection, and the colour
of their opinion about dangers and of every other opinion was
to be indelibly fixed by their nurture and training, not to be
washed away by such potent lyes as pleasure—mightier agent
far in washing the soul than any soda or lye; or by sorrow, fear,
and desire, the mightiest of all other solvents. And this sort of
universal saving power of true opinion in conformity with law
about real and false dangers I call and maintain to be courage,
unless you disagree.
But I agree, he replied; for I suppose that you mean to ex-
clude mere uninstructed courage, such as that of a wild beast
or of a slave—this, in your opinion, is not the courage which
the law ordains, and ought to have another name.
Most certainly.
Then I may infer courage to be such as you describe?
Why, yes, said I, you may, and if you add the words 'of a cit-
izen,' you will not be far wrong;—hereafter, if you like, we will
carry the examination further, but at present we are seeking
not for courage but justice; and for the purpose of our enquiry
we have said enough.
You are right, he replied.

352
 Two virtues remain to be discovered in the State—first, tem-
perance, and then justice which is the end of our search.
Very true.
Now, can we find justice without troubling ourselves about
temperance?
I do not know how that can be accomplished, he said, nor do
I desire that justice should be brought to light and temperance
lost sight of; and therefore I wish that you would do me the fa-
vour of considering temperance first.
Certainly, I replied, I should not be justified in refusing your
request.
Then consider, he said.
Yes, I replied; I will; and as far as I can at present see, the
virtue of temperance has more of the nature of harmony and
symphony than the preceding.
How so? he asked.
Temperance, I replied, is the ordering or controlling of cer-
tain pleasures and desires; this is curiously enough implied in
the saying of 'a man being his own master;' and other traces of
the same notion may be found in language.
No doubt, he said.
There is something ridiculous in the expression 'master of
himself;' for the master is also the servant and the servant the
master; and in all these modes of speaking the same person is
denoted.
Certainly.
The meaning is, I believe, that in the human soul there is a
better and also a worse principle; and when the better has the
worse under control, then a man is said to be master of him-
self; and this is a term of praise: but when, owing to evil educa-
tion or association, the better principle, which is also the smal-
ler, is overwhelmed by the greater mass of the worse—in this
case he is blamed and is called the slave of self and
unprincipled.
Yes, there is reason in that.
And now, I said, look at our newly-created State, and there
you will find one of these two conditions realized; for the State,
as you will acknowledge, may be justly called master of itself, if
the words 'temperance' and 'self-mastery' truly express the
rule of the better part over the worse.

353
 Yes, he said, I see that what you say is true.
Let me further note that the manifold and complex pleasures
and desires and pains are generally found in children and wo-
men and servants, and in the freemen so called who are of the
lowest and more numerous class.
Certainly, he said.
Whereas the simple and moderate desires which follow reas-
on, and are under the guidance of mind and true opinion, are
to be found only in a few, and those the best born and best
educated.
Very true.
These two, as you may perceive, have a place in our State;
and the meaner desires of the many are held down by the virtu-
ous desires and wisdom of the few.
That I perceive, he said.
Then if there be any city which may be described as master
of its own pleasures and desires, and master of itself, ours may
claim such a designation?
Certainly, he replied.
It may also be called temperate, and for the same reasons?
Yes.
And if there be any State in which rulers and subjects will be
agreed as to the question who are to rule, that again will be
our State?
Undoubtedly.
And the citizens being thus agreed among themselves, in
which class will temperance be found—in the rulers or in the
subjects?
In both, as I should imagine, he replied.
Do you observe that we were not far wrong in our guess that
temperance was a sort of harmony?
Why so?
Why, because temperance is unlike courage and wisdom,
each of which resides in a part only, the one making the State
wise and the other valiant; not so temperance, which extends
to the whole, and runs through all the notes of the scale, and
produces a harmony of the weaker and the stronger and the
middle class, whether you suppose them to be stronger or
weaker in wisdom or power or numbers or wealth, or anything
else. Most truly then may we deem temperance to be the

354
agreement of the naturally superior and inferior, as to the right
to rule of either, both in states and individuals.
I entirely agree with you.
And so, I said, we may consider three out of the four virtues
to have been discovered in our State. The last of those qualities
which make a state virtuous must be justice, if we only knew
what that was.
The inference is obvious.
The time then has arrived, Glaucon, when, like huntsmen, we
should surround the cover, and look sharp that justice does not
steal away, and pass out of sight and escape us; for beyond a
doubt she is somewhere in this country: watch therefore and
strive to catch a sight of her, and if you see her first, let me
know.
Would that I could! but you should regard me rather as a fol-
lower who has just eyes enough to see what you show
him—that is about as much as I am good for.
Offer up a prayer with me and follow.
I will, but you must show me the way.
Here is no path, I said, and the wood is dark and perplexing;
still we must push on.
Let us push on.
Here I saw something: Halloo! I said, I begin to perceive a
track, and I believe that the quarry will not escape.
Good news, he said.
Truly, I said, we are stupid fellows.
Why so?
Why, my good sir, at the beginning of our enquiry, ages ago,
there was justice tumbling out at our feet, and we never saw
her; nothing could be more ridiculous. Like people who go
about looking for what they have in their hands—that was the
way with us—we looked not at what we were seeking, but at
what was far off in the distance; and therefore, I suppose, we
missed her.
What do you mean?
I mean to say that in reality for a long time past we have
been talking of justice, and have failed to recognise her.
I grow impatient at the length of your exordium.
Well then, tell me, I said, whether I am right or not: You re-
member the original principle which we were always laying

355
down at the foundation of the State, that one man should prac-
tise one thing only, the thing to which his nature was best ad-
apted;—now justice is this principle or a part of it.
Yes, we often said that one man should do one thing only.
Further, we affirmed that justice was doing one's own busi-
ness, and not being a busybody; we said so again and again,
and many others have said the same to us.
Yes, we said so.
Then to do one's own business in a certain way may be as-
sumed to be justice. Can you tell me whence I derive this
inference?
I cannot, but I should like to be told.
Because I think that this is the only virtue which remains in
the State when the other virtues of temperance and courage
and wisdom are abstracted; and, that this is the ultimate cause
and condition of the existence of all of them, and while remain-
ing in them is also their preservative; and we were saying that
if the three were discovered by us, justice would be the fourth
or remaining one.
That follows of necessity.
If we are asked to determine which of these four qualities by
its presence contributes most to the excellence of the State,
whether the agreement of rulers and subjects, or the preserva-
tion in the soldiers of the opinion which the law ordains about
the true nature of dangers, or wisdom and watchfulness in the
rulers, or whether this other which I am mentioning, and which
is found in children and women, slave and freeman, artisan,
ruler, subject,—the quality, I mean, of every one doing his own
work, and not being a busybody, would claim the palm—the
question is not so easily answered.
Certainly, he replied, there would be a difficulty in saying
which.
Then the power of each individual in the State to do his own
work appears to compete with the other political virtues, wis-
dom, temperance, courage.
Yes, he said.
And the virtue which enters into this competition is justice?
Exactly.

356
 Let us look at the question from another point of view: Are
not the rulers in a State those to whom you would entrust the
office of determining suits at law?
Certainly.
And are suits decided on any other ground but that a man
may neither take what is another's, nor be deprived of what is
his own?
Yes; that is their principle.
Which is a just principle?
Yes.
Then on this view also justice will be admitted to be the hav-
ing and doing what is a man's own, and belongs to him?
Very true.
Think, now, and say whether you agree with me or not. Sup-
pose a carpenter to be doing the business of a cobbler, or a
cobbler of a carpenter; and suppose them to exchange their im-
plements or their duties, or the same person to be doing the
work of both, or whatever be the change; do you think that any
great harm would result to the State?
Not much.
But when the cobbler or any other man whom nature de-
signed to be a trader, having his heart lifted up by wealth or
strength or the number of his followers, or any like advantage,
attempts to force his way into the class of warriors, or a warri-
or into that of legislators and guardians, for which he is unfit-
ted, and either to take the implements or the duties of the oth-
er; or when one man is trader, legislator, and warrior all in
one, then I think you will agree with me in saying that this in-
terchange and this meddling of one with another is the ruin of
the State.
Most true.
Seeing then, I said, that there are three distinct classes, any
meddling of one with another, or the change of one into anoth-
er, is the greatest harm to the State, and may be most justly
termed evil-doing?
Precisely.
And the greatest degree of evil-doing to one's own city would
be termed by you injustice?
Certainly.

357
 This then is injustice; and on the other hand when the trader,
the auxiliary, and the guardian each do their own business,
that is justice, and will make the city just.
I agree with you.
We will not, I said, be over-positive as yet; but if, on trial, this
conception of justice be verified in the individual as well as in
the State, there will be no longer any room for doubt; if it be
not verified, we must have a fresh enquiry. First let us com-
plete the old investigation, which we began, as you remember,
under the impression that, if we could previously examine
justice on the larger scale, there would be less difficulty in dis-
cerning her in the individual. That larger example appeared to
be the State, and accordingly we constructed as good a one as
we could, knowing well that in the good State justice would be
found. Let the discovery which we made be now applied to the
individual—if they agree, we shall be satisfied; or, if there be a
difference in the individual, we will come back to the State and
have another trial of the theory. The friction of the two when
rubbed together may possibly strike a light in which justice will
shine forth, and the vision which is then revealed we will fix in
our souls.
That will be in regular course; let us do as you say.
I proceeded to ask: When two things, a greater and less, are
called by the same name, are they like or unlike in so far as
they are called the same?
Like, he replied.
The just man then, if we regard the idea of justice only, will
be like the just State?
He will.
And a State was thought by us to be just when the three
classes in the State severally did their own business; and also
thought to be temperate and valiant and wise by reason of cer-
tain other affections and qualities of these same classes?
True, he said.
And so of the individual; we may assume that he has the
same three principles in his own soul which are found in the
State; and he may be rightly described in the same terms, be-
cause he is affected in the same manner?
Certainly, he said.

358
 Once more then, O my friend, we have alighted upon an easy
question—whether the soul has these three principles or not?
An easy question! Nay, rather, Socrates, the proverb holds
that hard is the good.
Very true, I said; and I do not think that the method which
we are employing is at all adequate to the accurate solution of
this question; the true method is another and a longer one. Still
we may arrive at a solution not below the level of the previous
enquiry.
May we not be satisfied with that? he said;—under the cir-
cumstances, I am quite content.
I too, I replied, shall be extremely well satisfied.
Then faint not in pursuing the speculation, he said.
Must we not acknowledge, I said, that in each of us there are
the same principles and habits which there are in the State;
and that from the individual they pass into the State?—how
else can they come there? Take the quality of passion or spir-
it;—it would be ridiculous to imagine that this quality, when
found in States, is not derived from the individuals who are
supposed to possess it, e.g. the Thracians, Scythians, and in
general the northern nations; and the same may be said of the
love of knowledge, which is the special characteristic of our
part of the world, or of the love of money, which may, with
equal truth, be attributed to the Phoenicians and Egyptians.
Exactly so, he said.
There is no difficulty in understanding this.
None whatever.
But the question is not quite so easy when we proceed to ask
whether these principles are three or one; whether, that is to
say, we learn with one part of our nature, are angry with an-
other, and with a third part desire the satisfaction of our natur-
al appetites; or whether the whole soul comes into play in each
sort of action—to determine that is the difficulty.
Yes, he said; there lies the difficulty.
Then let us now try and determine whether they are the
same or different.
How can we? he asked.
I replied as follows: The same thing clearly cannot act or be
acted upon in the same part or in relation to the same thing at
the same time, in contrary ways; and therefore whenever this

359
contradiction occurs in things apparently the same, we know
that they are really not the same, but different.
Good.
For example, I said, can the same thing be at rest and in mo-
tion at the same time in the same part?
Impossible.
Still, I said, let us have a more precise statement of terms,
lest we should hereafter fall out by the way. Imagine the case
of a man who is standing and also moving his hands and his
head, and suppose a person to say that one and the same per-
son is in motion and at rest at the same moment—to such a
mode of speech we should object, and should rather say that
one part of him is in motion while another is at rest.
Very true.
And suppose the objector to refine still further, and to draw
the nice distinction that not only parts of tops, but whole tops,
when they spin round with their pegs fixed on the spot, are at
rest and in motion at the same time (and he may say the same
of anything which revolves in the same spot), his objection
would not be admitted by us, because in such cases things are
not at rest and in motion in the same parts of themselves; we
should rather say that they have both an axis and a circumfer-
ence, and that the axis stands still, for there is no deviation
from the perpendicular; and that the circumference goes
round. But if, while revolving, the axis inclines either to the
right or left, forwards or backwards, then in no point of view
can they be at rest.
That is the correct mode of describing them, he replied.
Then none of these objections will confuse us, or incline us to
believe that the same thing at the same time, in the same part
or in relation to the same thing, can act or be acted upon in
contrary ways.
Certainly not, according to my way of thinking.
Yet, I said, that we may not be compelled to examine all such
objections, and prove at length that they are untrue, let us as-
sume their absurdity, and go forward on the understanding
that hereafter, if this assumption turn out to be untrue, all the
consequences which follow shall be withdrawn.
Yes, he said, that will be the best way.

360
 Well, I said, would you not allow that assent and dissent, de-
sire and aversion, attraction and repulsion, are all of them op-
posites, whether they are regarded as active or passive (for
that makes no difference in the fact of their opposition)?
Yes, he said, they are opposites.
Well, I said, and hunger and thirst, and the desires in gener-
al, and again willing and wishing,—all these you would refer to
the classes already mentioned. You would say—would you
not?—that the soul of him who desires is seeking after the ob-
ject of his desire; or that he is drawing to himself the thing
which he wishes to possess: or again, when a person wants
anything to be given him, his mind, longing for the realization
of his desire, intimates his wish to have it by a nod of assent, as
if he had been asked a question?
Very true.
And what would you say of unwillingness and dislike and the
absence of desire; should not these be referred to the opposite
class of repulsion and rejection?
Certainly.
Admitting this to be true of desire generally, let us suppose a
particular class of desires, and out of these we will select hun-
ger and thirst, as they are termed, which are the most obvious
of them?
Let us take that class, he said.
The object of one is food, and of the other drink?
Yes.
And here comes the point: is not thirst the desire which the
soul has of drink, and of drink only; not of drink qualified by
anything else; for example, warm or cold, or much or little, or,
in a word, drink of any particular sort: but if the thirst be ac-
companied by heat, then the desire is of cold drink; or, if ac-
companied by cold, then of warm drink; or, if the thirst be ex-
cessive, then the drink which is desired will be excessive; or, if
not great, the quantity of drink will also be small: but thirst
pure and simple will desire drink pure and simple, which is the
natural satisfaction of thirst, as food is of hunger?
Yes, he said; the simple desire is, as you say, in every case of
the simple object, and the qualified desire of the qualified
object.

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 But here a confusion may arise; and I should wish to guard
against an opponent starting up and saying that no man de-
sires drink only, but good drink, or food only, but good food;
for good is the universal object of desire, and thirst being a de-
sire, will necessarily be thirst after good drink; and the same is
true of every other desire.
Yes, he replied, the opponent might have something to say.
Nevertheless I should still maintain, that of relatives some
have a quality attached to either term of the relation; others
are simple and have their correlatives simple.
I do not know what you mean.
Well, you know of course that the greater is relative to the
less?
Certainly.
And the much greater to the much less?
Yes.
And the sometime greater to the sometime less, and the
greater that is to be to the less that is to be?
Certainly, he said.
And so of more and less, and of other correlative terms, such
as the double and the half, or again, the heavier and the light-
er, the swifter and the slower; and of hot and cold, and of any
other relatives;—is not this true of all of them?
Yes.
And does not the same principle hold in the sciences? The
object of science is knowledge (assuming that to be the true
definition), but the object of a particular science is a particular
kind of knowledge; I mean, for example, that the science of
house-building is a kind of knowledge which is defined and dis-
tinguished from other kinds and is therefore termed
architecture.
Certainly.
Because it has a particular quality which no other has?
Yes.
And it has this particular quality because it has an object of a
particular kind; and this is true of the other arts and sciences?
Yes.
Now, then, if I have made myself clear, you will understand
my original meaning in what I said about relatives. My mean-
ing was, that if one term of a relation is taken alone, the other

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is taken alone; if one term is qualified, the other is also quali-
fied. I do not mean to say that relatives may not be disparate,
or that the science of health is healthy, or of disease necessar-
ily diseased, or that the sciences of good and evil are therefore
good and evil; but only that, when the term science is no
longer used absolutely, but has a qualified object which in this
case is the nature of health and disease, it becomes defined,
and is hence called not merely science, but the science of
medicine.
I quite understand, and I think as you do.
Would you not say that thirst is one of these essentially relat-
ive terms, having clearly a relation—
Yes, thirst is relative to drink.
And a certain kind of thirst is relative to a certain kind of
drink; but thirst taken alone is neither of much nor little, nor of
good nor bad, nor of any particular kind of drink, but of drink
only?
Certainly.
Then the soul of the thirsty one, in so far as he is thirsty, de-
sires only drink; for this he yearns and tries to obtain it?
That is plain.
And if you suppose something which pulls a thirsty soul away
from drink, that must be different from the thirsty principle
which draws him like a beast to drink; for, as we were saying,
the same thing cannot at the same time with the same part of
itself act in contrary ways about the same.
Impossible.
No more than you can say that the hands of the archer push
and pull the bow at the same time, but what you say is that one
hand pushes and the other pulls.
Exactly so, he replied.
And might a man be thirsty, and yet unwilling to drink?
Yes, he said, it constantly happens.
And in such a case what is one to say? Would you not say
that there was something in the soul bidding a man to drink,
and something else forbidding him, which is other and stronger
than the principle which bids him?
I should say so.
And the forbidding principle is derived from reason, and that
which bids and attracts proceeds from passion and disease?

363
 Clearly.
Then we may fairly assume that they are two, and that they
differ from one another; the one with which a man reasons, we
may call the rational principle of the soul, the other, with
which he loves and hungers and thirsts and feels the flutter-
ings of any other desire, may be termed the irrational or appet-
itive, the ally of sundry pleasures and satisfactions?
Yes, he said, we may fairly assume them to be different.
Then let us finally determine that there are two principles ex-
isting in the soul. And what of passion, or spirit? Is it a third, or
akin to one of the preceding?
I should be inclined to say—akin to desire.
Well, I said, there is a story which I remember to have heard,
and in which I put faith. The story is, that Leontius, the son of
Aglaion, coming up one day from the Piraeus, under the north
wall on the outside, observed some dead bodies lying on the
ground at the place of execution. He felt a desire to see them,
and also a dread and abhorrence of them; for a time he
struggled and covered his eyes, but at length the desire got the
better of him; and forcing them open, he ran up to the dead
bodies, saying, Look, ye wretches, take your fill of the fair
sight.
I have heard the story myself, he said.
The moral of the tale is, that anger at times goes to war with
desire, as though they were two distinct things.
Yes; that is the meaning, he said.
And are there not many other cases in which we observe that
when a man's desires violently prevail over his reason, he re-
viles himself, and is angry at the violence within him, and that
in this struggle, which is like the struggle of factions in a State,
his spirit is on the side of his reason;—but for the passionate or
spirited element to take part with the desires when reason de-
cides that she should not be opposed, is a sort of thing which I
believe that you never observed occurring in yourself, nor, as I
should imagine, in any one else?
Certainly not.
Suppose that a man thinks he has done a wrong to another,
the nobler he is the less able is he to feel indignant at any suf-
fering, such as hunger, or cold, or any other pain which the

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injured person may inflict upon him—these he deems to be
just, and, as I say, his anger refuses to be excited by them.
True, he said.
But when he thinks that he is the sufferer of the wrong, then
he boils and chafes, and is on the side of what he believes to be
justice; and because he suffers hunger or cold or other pain he
is only the more determined to persevere and conquer. His
noble spirit will not be quelled until he either slays or is slain;
or until he hears the voice of the shepherd, that is, reason, bid-
ding his dog bark no more.
The illustration is perfect, he replied; and in our State, as we
were saying, the auxiliaries were to be dogs, and to hear the
voice of the rulers, who are their shepherds.
I perceive, I said, that you quite understand me; there is,
however, a further point which I wish you to consider.
What point?
You remember that passion or spirit appeared at first sight to
be a kind of desire, but now we should say quite the contrary;
for in the conflict of the soul spirit is arrayed on the side of the
rational principle.
Most assuredly.
But a further question arises: Is passion different from reas-
on also, or only a kind of reason; in which latter case, instead
of three principles in the soul, there will only be two, the ra-
tional and the concupiscent; or rather, as the State was com-
posed of three classes, traders, auxiliaries, counsellors, so may
there not be in the individual soul a third element which is pas-
sion or spirit, and when not corrupted by bad education is the
natural auxiliary of reason?
Yes, he said, there must be a third.
Yes, I replied, if passion, which has already been shown to be
different from desire, turn out also to be different from reason.
But that is easily proved:—We may observe even in young
children that they are full of spirit almost as soon as they are
born, whereas some of them never seem to attain to the use of
reason, and most of them late enough.
Excellent, I said, and you may see passion equally in brute
animals, which is a further proof of the truth of what you are
saying. And we may once more appeal to the words of Homer,
which have been already quoted by us,

365
 'He smote his breast, and thus rebuked his soul,'
for in this verse Homer has clearly supposed the power
which reasons about the better and worse to be different from
the unreasoning anger which is rebuked by it.
Very true, he said.
And so, after much tossing, we have reached land, and are
fairly agreed that the same principles which exist in the State
exist also in the individual, and that they are three in number.
Exactly.
Must we not then infer that the individual is wise in the same
way, and in virtue of the same quality which makes the State
wise?
Certainly.
Also that the same quality which constitutes courage in the
State constitutes courage in the individual, and that both the
State and the individual bear the same relation to all the other
virtues?
Assuredly.
And the individual will be acknowledged by us to be just in
the same way in which the State is just?
That follows, of course.
We cannot but remember that the justice of the State con-
sisted in each of the three classes doing the work of its own
class?
We are not very likely to have forgotten, he said.
We must recollect that the individual in whom the several
qualities of his nature do their own work will be just, and will
do his own work?
Yes, he said, we must remember that too.
And ought not the rational principle, which is wise, and has
the care of the whole soul, to rule, and the passionate or spir-
ited principle to be the subject and ally?
Certainly.
And, as we were saying, the united influence of music and
gymnastic will bring them into accord, nerving and sustaining
the reason with noble words and lessons, and moderating and
soothing and civilizing the wildness of passion by harmony and
rhythm?
Quite true, he said.

366
 And these two, thus nurtured and educated, and having
learned truly to know their own functions, will rule over the
concupiscent, which in each of us is the largest part of the soul
and by nature most insatiable of gain; over this they will keep
guard, lest, waxing great and strong with the fulness of bodily
pleasures, as they are termed, the concupiscent soul, no longer
confined to her own sphere, should attempt to enslave and rule
those who are not her natural-born subjects, and overturn the
whole life of man?
Very true, he said.
Both together will they not be the best defenders of the
whole soul and the whole body against attacks from without;
the one counselling, and the other fighting under his leader,
and courageously executing his commands and counsels?
True.
And he is to be deemed courageous whose spirit retains in
pleasure and in pain the commands of reason about what he
ought or ought not to fear?
Right, he replied.
And him we call wise who has in him that little part which
rules, and which proclaims these commands; that part too be-
ing supposed to have a knowledge of what is for the interest of
each of the three parts and of the whole?
Assuredly.
And would you not say that he is temperate who has these
same elements in friendly harmony, in whom the one ruling
principle of reason, and the two subject ones of spirit and de-
sire are equally agreed that reason ought to rule, and do not
rebel?
Certainly, he said, that is the true account of temperance
whether in the State or individual.
And surely, I said, we have explained again and again how
and by virtue of what quality a man will be just.
That is very certain.
And is justice dimmer in the individual, and is her form dif-
ferent, or is she the same which we found her to be in the
State?
There is no difference in my opinion, he said.

367
 Because, if any doubt is still lingering in our minds, a few
commonplace instances will satisfy us of the truth of what I am
saying.
What sort of instances do you mean?
If the case is put to us, must we not admit that the just State,
or the man who is trained in the principles of such a State, will
be less likely than the unjust to make away with a deposit of
gold or silver? Would any one deny this?
No one, he replied.
Will the just man or citizen ever be guilty of sacrilege or
theft, or treachery either to his friends or to his country?
Never.
Neither will he ever break faith where there have been oaths
or agreements?
Impossible.
No one will be less likely to commit adultery, or to dishonour
his father and mother, or to fail in his religious duties?
No one.
And the reason is that each part of him is doing its own busi-
ness, whether in ruling or being ruled?
Exactly so.
Are you satisfied then that the quality which makes such men
and such states is justice, or do you hope to discover some
other?
Not I, indeed.
Then our dream has been realized; and the suspicion which
we entertained at the beginning of our work of construction,
that some divine power must have conducted us to a primary
form of justice, has now been verified?
Yes, certainly.
And the division of labour which required the carpenter and
the shoemaker and the rest of the citizens to be doing each his
own business, and not another's, was a shadow of justice, and
for that reason it was of use?
Clearly.
But in reality justice was such as we were describing, being
concerned however, not with the outward man, but with the in-
ward, which is the true self and concernment of man: for the
just man does not permit the several elements within him to in-
terfere with one another, or any of them to do the work of

368
others,—he sets in order his own inner life, and is his own mas-
ter and his own law, and at peace with himself; and when he
has bound together the three principles within him, which may
be compared to the higher, lower, and middle notes of the
scale, and the intermediate intervals—when he has bound all
these together, and is no longer many, but has become one en-
tirely temperate and perfectly adjusted nature, then he pro-
ceeds to act, if he has to act, whether in a matter of property,
or in the treatment of the body, or in some affair of politics or
private business; always thinking and calling that which pre-
serves and co-operates with this harmonious condition, just
and good action, and the knowledge which presides over it,
wisdom, and that which at any time impairs this condition, he
will call unjust action, and the opinion which presides over it
ignorance.
You have said the exact truth, Socrates.
Very good; and if we were to affirm that we had discovered
the just man and the just State, and the nature of justice in
each of them, we should not be telling a falsehood?
Most certainly not.
May we say so, then?
Let us say so.
And now, I said, injustice has to be considered.
Clearly.
Must not injustice be a strife which arises among the three
principles—a meddlesomeness, and interference, and rising up
of a part of the soul against the whole, an assertion of unlawful
authority, which is made by a rebellious subject against a true
prince, of whom he is the natural vassal,—what is all this con-
fusion and delusion but injustice, and intemperance and cow-
ardice and ignorance, and every form of vice?
Exactly so.
And if the nature of justice and injustice be known, then the
meaning of acting unjustly and being unjust, or, again, of act-
ing justly, will also be perfectly clear?
What do you mean? he said.
Why, I said, they are like disease and health; being in the
soul just what disease and health are in the body.
How so? he said.

369
 Why, I said, that which is healthy causes health, and that
which is unhealthy causes disease.
Yes.
And just actions cause justice, and unjust actions cause
injustice?
That is certain.
And the creation of health is the institution of a natural order
and government of one by another in the parts of the body; and
the creation of disease is the production of a state of things at
variance with this natural order?
True.
And is not the creation of justice the institution of a natural
order and government of one by another in the parts of the
soul, and the creation of injustice the production of a state of
things at variance with the natural order?
Exactly so, he said.
Then virtue is the health and beauty and well-being of the
soul, and vice the disease and weakness and deformity of the
same?
True.
And do not good practices lead to virtue, and evil practices to
vice?
Assuredly.
Still our old question of the comparative advantage of justice
and injustice has not been answered: Which is the more profit-
able, to be just and act justly and practise virtue, whether seen
or unseen of gods and men, or to be unjust and act unjustly, if
only unpunished and unreformed?
In my judgment, Socrates, the question has now become ri-
diculous. We know that, when the bodily constitution is gone,
life is no longer endurable, though pampered with all kinds of
meats and drinks, and having all wealth and all power; and
shall we be told that when the very essence of the vital prin-
ciple is undermined and corrupted, life is still worth having to
a man, if only he be allowed to do whatever he likes with the
single exception that he is not to acquire justice and virtue, or
to escape from injustice and vice; assuming them both to be
such as we have described?

370
 Yes, I said, the question is, as you say, ridiculous. Still, as we
are near the spot at which we may see the truth in the clearest
manner with our own eyes, let us not faint by the way.
Certainly not, he replied.
Come up hither, I said, and behold the various forms of vice,
those of them, I mean, which are worth looking at.
I am following you, he replied: proceed.
I said, The argument seems to have reached a height from
which, as from some tower of speculation, a man may look
down and see that virtue is one, but that the forms of vice are
innumerable; there being four special ones which are de-
serving of note.
What do you mean? he said.
I mean, I replied, that there appear to be as many forms of
the soul as there are distinct forms of the State.
How many?
There are five of the State, and five of the soul, I said.
What are they?
The first, I said, is that which we have been describing, and
which may be said to have two names, monarchy and aristo-
cracy, accordingly as rule is exercised by one distinguished
man or by many.
True, he replied.
But I regard the two names as describing one form only; for
whether the government is in the hands of one or many, if the
governors have been trained in the manner which we have sup-
posed, the fundamental laws of the State will be maintained.
That is true, he replied.

371
Part 5

372
Such is the good and true City or State, and the good and true
man is of the same pattern; and if this is right every other is
wrong; and the evil is one which affects not only the ordering
of the State, but also the regulation of the individual soul, and
is exhibited in four forms.
What are they? he said.
I was proceeding to tell the order in which the four evil forms
appeared to me to succeed one another, when Polemarchus,
who was sitting a little way off, just beyond Adeimantus, began
to whisper to him: stretching forth his hand, he took hold of the
upper part of his coat by the shoulder, and drew him towards
him, leaning forward himself so as to be quite close and saying
something in his ear, of which I only caught the words, 'Shall
we let him off, or what shall we do?'
Certainly not, said Adeimantus, raising his voice.
Who is it, I said, whom you are refusing to let off?
You, he said.
I repeated, Why am I especially not to be let off?
Why, he said, we think that you are lazy, and mean to cheat
us out of a whole chapter which is a very important part of the
story; and you fancy that we shall not notice your airy way of
proceeding; as if it were self-evident to everybody, that in the
matter of women and children 'friends have all things in
common.'
And was I not right, Adeimantus?
Yes, he said; but what is right in this particular case, like
everything else, requires to be explained; for community may
be of many kinds. Please, therefore, to say what sort of com-
munity you mean. We have been long expecting that you would
tell us something about the family life of your citizens—how
they will bring children into the world, and rear them when
they have arrived, and, in general, what is the nature of this
community of women and children—for we are of opinion that
the right or wrong management of such matters will have a
great and paramount influence on the State for good or for
evil. And now, since the question is still undetermined, and you
are taking in hand another State, we have resolved, as you
heard, not to let you go until you give an account of all this.
To that resolution, said Glaucon, you may regard me as say-
ing Agreed.

373
 And without more ado, said Thrasymachus, you may consider
us all to be equally agreed.
I said, You know not what you are doing in thus assailing me:
What an argument are you raising about the State! Just as I
thought that I had finished, and was only too glad that I had
laid this question to sleep, and was reflecting how fortunate I
was in your acceptance of what I then said, you ask me to be-
gin again at the very foundation, ignorant of what a hornet's
nest of words you are stirring. Now I foresaw this gathering
trouble, and avoided it.
For what purpose do you conceive that we have come here,
said Thrasymachus,—to look for gold, or to hear discourse?
Yes, but discourse should have a limit.
Yes, Socrates, said Glaucon, and the whole of life is the only
limit which wise men assign to the hearing of such discourses.
But never mind about us; take heart yourself and answer the
question in your own way: What sort of community of women
and children is this which is to prevail among our guardians?
and how shall we manage the period between birth and educa-
tion, which seems to require the greatest care? Tell us how
these things will be.
Yes, my simple friend, but the answer is the reverse of easy;
many more doubts arise about this than about our previous
conclusions. For the practicability of what is said may be
doubted; and looked at in another point of view, whether the
scheme, if ever so practicable, would be for the best, is also
doubtful. Hence I feel a reluctance to approach the subject,
lest our aspiration, my dear friend, should turn out to be a
dream only.
Fear not, he replied, for your audience will not be hard upon
you; they are not sceptical or hostile.
I said: My good friend, I suppose that you mean to encourage
me by these words.
Yes, he said.
Then let me tell you that you are doing just the reverse; the
encouragement which you offer would have been all very well
had I myself believed that I knew what I was talking about: to
declare the truth about matters of high interest which a man
honours and loves among wise men who love him need occa-
sion no fear or faltering in his mind; but to carry on an

374
argument when you are yourself only a hesitating enquirer,
which is my condition, is a dangerous and slippery thing; and
the danger is not that I shall be laughed at (of which the fear
would be childish), but that I shall miss the truth where I have
most need to be sure of my footing, and drag my friends after
me in my fall. And I pray Nemesis not to visit upon me the
words which I am going to utter. For I do indeed believe that to
be an involuntary homicide is a less crime than to be a deceiv-
er about beauty or goodness or justice in the matter of laws.
And that is a risk which I would rather run among enemies
than among friends, and therefore you do well to encourage
me.
Glaucon laughed and said: Well then, Socrates, in case you
and your argument do us any serious injury you shall be acquit-
ted beforehand of the homicide, and shall not be held to be a
deceiver; take courage then and speak.
Well, I said, the law says that when a man is acquitted he is
free from guilt, and what holds at law may hold in argument.
Then why should you mind?
Well, I replied, I suppose that I must retrace my steps and
say what I perhaps ought to have said before in the proper
place. The part of the men has been played out, and now prop-
erly enough comes the turn of the women. Of them I will pro-
ceed to speak, and the more readily since I am invited by you.
For men born and educated like our citizens, the only way, in
my opinion, of arriving at a right conclusion about the posses-
sion and use of women and children is to follow the path on
which we originally started, when we said that the men were to
be the guardians and watchdogs of the herd.
True.
Let us further suppose the birth and education of our women
to be subject to similar or nearly similar regulations; then we
shall see whether the result accords with our design.
What do you mean?
What I mean may be put into the form of a question, I said:
Are dogs divided into hes and shes, or do they both share
equally in hunting and in keeping watch and in the other duties
of dogs? or do we entrust to the males the entire and exclusive
care of the flocks, while we leave the females at home, under

375
the idea that the bearing and suckling their puppies is labour
enough for them?
No, he said, they share alike; the only difference between
them is that the males are stronger and the females weaker.
But can you use different animals for the same purpose, un-
less they are bred and fed in the same way?
You cannot.
Then, if women are to have the same duties as men, they
must have the same nurture and education?
Yes.
The education which was assigned to the men was music and
gymnastic.
Yes.
Then women must be taught music and gymnastic and also
the art of war, which they must practise like the men?
That is the inference, I suppose.
I should rather expect, I said, that several of our proposals, if
they are carried out, being unusual, may appear ridiculous.
No doubt of it.
Yes, and the most ridiculous thing of all will be the sight of
women naked in the palaestra, exercising with the men, espe-
cially when they are no longer young; they certainly will not be
a vision of beauty, any more than the enthusiastic old men who
in spite of wrinkles and ugliness continue to frequent the
gymnasia.
Yes, indeed, he said: according to present notions the pro-
posal would be thought ridiculous.
But then, I said, as we have determined to speak our minds,
we must not fear the jests of the wits which will be directed
against this sort of innovation; how they will talk of women's
attainments both in music and gymnastic, and above all about
their wearing armour and riding upon horseback!
Very true, he replied.
Yet having begun we must go forward to the rough places of
the law; at the same time begging of these gentlemen for once
in their life to be serious. Not long ago, as we shall remind
them, the Hellenes were of the opinion, which is still generally
received among the barbarians, that the sight of a naked man
was ridiculous and improper; and when first the Cretans and

376
then the Lacedaemonians introduced the custom, the wits of
that day might equally have ridiculed the innovation.
No doubt.
But when experience showed that to let all things be un-
covered was far better than to cover them up, and the
ludicrous effect to the outward eye vanished before the better
principle which reason asserted, then the man was perceived
to be a fool who directs the shafts of his ridicule at any other
sight but that of folly and vice, or seriously inclines to weigh
the beautiful by any other standard but that of the good.
Very true, he replied.
First, then, whether the question is to be put in jest or in
earnest, let us come to an understanding about the nature of
woman: Is she capable of sharing either wholly or partially in
the actions of men, or not at all? And is the art of war one of
those arts in which she can or can not share? That will be the
best way of commencing the enquiry, and will probably lead to
the fairest conclusion.
That will be much the best way.
Shall we take the other side first and begin by arguing
against ourselves; in this manner the adversary's position will
not be undefended.
Why not? he said.
Then let us put a speech into the mouths of our opponents.
They will say: 'Socrates and Glaucon, no adversary need con-
vict you, for you yourselves, at the first foundation of the State,
admitted the principle that everybody was to do the one work
suited to his own nature.' And certainly, if I am not mistaken,
such an admission was made by us. 'And do not the natures of
men and women differ very much indeed?' And we shall reply:
Of course they do. Then we shall be asked, 'Whether the tasks
assigned to men and to women should not be different, and
such as are agreeable to their different natures?' Certainly
they should. 'But if so, have you not fallen into a serious incon-
sistency in saying that men and women, whose natures are so
entirely different, ought to perform the same actions?'—What
defence will you make for us, my good Sir, against any one who
offers these objections?

377
 That is not an easy question to answer when asked suddenly;
and I shall and I do beg of you to draw out the case on our
side.
These are the objections, Glaucon, and there are many others
of a like kind, which I foresaw long ago; they made me afraid
and reluctant to take in hand any law about the possession and
nurture of women and children.
By Zeus, he said, the problem to be solved is anything but
easy.
Why yes, I said, but the fact is that when a man is out of his
depth, whether he has fallen into a little swimming bath or into
mid ocean, he has to swim all the same.
Very true.
And must not we swim and try to reach the shore: we will
hope that Arion's dolphin or some other miraculous help may
save us?
I suppose so, he said.
Well then, let us see if any way of escape can be found. We
acknowledged—did we not? that different natures ought to
have different pursuits, and that men's and women's natures
are different. And now what are we saying?—that different
natures ought to have the same pursuits,—this is the inconsist-
ency which is charged upon us.
Precisely.
Verily, Glaucon, I said, glorious is the power of the art of
contradiction!
Why do you say so?
Because I think that many a man falls into the practice
against his will. When he thinks that he is reasoning he is
really disputing, just because he cannot define and divide, and
so know that of which he is speaking; and he will pursue a
merely verbal opposition in the spirit of contention and not of
fair discussion.
Yes, he replied, such is very often the case; but what has that
to do with us and our argument?
A great deal; for there is certainly a danger of our getting un-
intentionally into a verbal opposition.
In what way?
Why we valiantly and pugnaciously insist upon the verbal
truth, that different natures ought to have different pursuits,

378
but we never considered at all what was the meaning of same-
ness or difference of nature, or why we distinguished them
when we assigned different pursuits to different natures and
the same to the same natures.
Why, no, he said, that was never considered by us.
I said: Suppose that by way of illustration we were to ask the
question whether there is not an opposition in nature between
bald men and hairy men; and if this is admitted by us, then, if
bald men are cobblers, we should forbid the hairy men to be
cobblers, and conversely?
That would be a jest, he said.
Yes, I said, a jest; and why? because we never meant when
we constructed the State, that the opposition of natures should
extend to every difference, but only to those differences which
affected the pursuit in which the individual is engaged; we
should have argued, for example, that a physician and one who
is in mind a physician may be said to have the same nature.
True.
Whereas the physician and the carpenter have different
natures?
Certainly.
And if, I said, the male and female sex appear to differ in
their fitness for any art or pursuit, we should say that such pur-
suit or art ought to be assigned to one or the other of them; but
if the difference consists only in women bearing and men be-
getting children, this does not amount to a proof that a woman
differs from a man in respect of the sort of education she
should receive; and we shall therefore continue to maintain
that our guardians and their wives ought to have the same
pursuits.
Very true, he said.
Next, we shall ask our opponent how, in reference to any of
the pursuits or arts of civic life, the nature of a woman differs
from that of a man?
That will be quite fair.
And perhaps he, like yourself, will reply that to give a suffi-
cient answer on the instant is not easy; but after a little reflec-
tion there is no difficulty.
Yes, perhaps.

379
 Suppose then that we invite him to accompany us in the ar-
gument, and then we may hope to show him that there is noth-
ing peculiar in the constitution of women which would affect
them in the administration of the State.
By all means.
Let us say to him: Come now, and we will ask you a ques-
tion:—when you spoke of a nature gifted or not gifted in any re-
spect, did you mean to say that one man will acquire a thing
easily, another with difficulty; a little learning will lead the one
to discover a great deal; whereas the other, after much study
and application, no sooner learns than he forgets; or again, did
you mean, that the one has a body which is a good servant to
his mind, while the body of the other is a hindrance to
him?—would not these be the sort of differences which distin-
guish the man gifted by nature from the one who is ungifted?
No one will deny that.
And can you mention any pursuit of mankind in which the
male sex has not all these gifts and qualities in a higher degree
than the female? Need I waste time in speaking of the art of
weaving, and the management of pancakes and preserves, in
which womankind does really appear to be great, and in which
for her to be beaten by a man is of all things the most absurd?
You are quite right, he replied, in maintaining the general in-
feriority of the female sex: although many women are in many
things superior to many men, yet on the whole what you say is
true.
And if so, my friend, I said, there is no special faculty of ad-
ministration in a state which a woman has because she is a wo-
man, or which a man has by virtue of his sex, but the gifts of
nature are alike diffused in both; all the pursuits of men are
the pursuits of women also, but in all of them a woman is in-
ferior to a man.
Very true.
Then are we to impose all our enactments on men and none
of them on women?
That will never do.
One woman has a gift of healing, another not; one is a musi-
cian, and another has no music in her nature?
Very true.

380
 And one woman has a turn for gymnastic and military exer-
cises, and another is unwarlike and hates gymnastics?
Certainly.
And one woman is a philosopher, and another is an enemy of
philosophy; one has spirit, and another is without spirit?
That is also true.
Then one woman will have the temper of a guardian, and an-
other not. Was not the selection of the male guardians determ-
ined by differences of this sort?
Yes.
Men and women alike possess the qualities which make a
guardian; they differ only in their comparative strength or
weakness.
Obviously.
And those women who have such qualities are to be selected
as the companions and colleagues of men who have similar
qualities and whom they resemble in capacity and in
character?
Very true.
And ought not the same natures to have the same pursuits?
They ought.
Then, as we were saying before, there is nothing unnatural in
assigning music and gymnastic to the wives of the guardi-
ans—to that point we come round again.
Certainly not.
The law which we then enacted was agreeable to nature, and
therefore not an impossibility or mere aspiration; and the con-
trary practice, which prevails at present, is in reality a viola-
tion of nature.
That appears to be true.
We had to consider, first, whether our proposals were pos-
sible, and secondly whether they were the most beneficial?
Yes.
And the possibility has been acknowledged?
Yes.
The very great benefit has next to be established?
Quite so.
You will admit that the same education which makes a man a
good guardian will make a woman a good guardian; for their
original nature is the same?

381
 Yes.
I should like to ask you a question.
What is it?
Would you say that all men are equal in excellence, or is one
man better than another?
The latter.
And in the commonwealth which we were founding do you
conceive the guardians who have been brought up on our mod-
el system to be more perfect men, or the cobblers whose edu-
cation has been cobbling?
What a ridiculous question!
You have answered me, I replied: Well, and may we not fur-
ther say that our guardians are the best of our citizens?
By far the best.
And will not their wives be the best women?
Yes, by far the best.
And can there be anything better for the interests of the
State than that the men and women of a State should be as
good as possible?
There can be nothing better.
And this is what the arts of music and gymnastic, when
present in such manner as we have described, will accomplish?
Certainly.
Then we have made an enactment not only possible but in
the highest degree beneficial to the State?
True.
Then let the wives of our guardians strip, for their virtue will
be their robe, and let them share in the toils of war and the de-
fence of their country; only in the distribution of labours the
lighter are to be assigned to the women, who are the weaker
natures, but in other respects their duties are to be the same.
And as for the man who laughs at naked women exercising
their bodies from the best of motives, in his laughter he is
plucking
'A fruit of unripe wisdom,'
and he himself is ignorant of what he is laughing at, or what
he is about;—for that is, and ever will be, the best of sayings,
That the useful is the noble and the hurtful is the base.
Very true.

382
 Here, then, is one difficulty in our law about women, which
we may say that we have now escaped; the wave has not swal-
lowed us up alive for enacting that the guardians of either sex
should have all their pursuits in common; to the utility and also
to the possibility of this arrangement the consistency of the ar-
gument with itself bears witness.
Yes, that was a mighty wave which you have escaped.
Yes, I said, but a greater is coming; you will not think much
of this when you see the next.
Go on; let me see.
The law, I said, which is the sequel of this and of all that has
preceded, is to the following effect,—'that the wives of our
guardians are to be common, and their children are to be com-
mon, and no parent is to know his own child, nor any child his
parent.'
Yes, he said, that is a much greater wave than the other; and
the possibility as well as the utility of such a law are far more
questionable.
I do not think, I said, that there can be any dispute about the
very great utility of having wives and children in common; the
possibility is quite another matter, and will be very much
disputed.
I think that a good many doubts may be raised about both.
You imply that the two questions must be combined, I
replied. Now I meant that you should admit the utility; and in
this way, as I thought, I should escape from one of them, and
then there would remain only the possibility.
But that little attempt is detected, and therefore you will
please to give a defence of both.
Well, I said, I submit to my fate. Yet grant me a little favour:
let me feast my mind with the dream as day dreamers are in
the habit of feasting themselves when they are walking alone;
for before they have discovered any means of effecting their
wishes—that is a matter which never troubles them—they
would rather not tire themselves by thinking about possibilit-
ies; but assuming that what they desire is already granted to
them, they proceed with their plan, and delight in detailing
what they mean to do when their wish has come true—that is a
way which they have of not doing much good to a capacity
which was never good for much. Now I myself am beginning to

383
lose heart, and I should like, with your permission, to pass over
the question of possibility at present. Assuming therefore the
possibility of the proposal, I shall now proceed to enquire how
the rulers will carry out these arrangements, and I shall
demonstrate that our plan, if executed, will be of the greatest
benefit to the State and to the guardians. First of all, then, if
you have no objection, I will endeavour with your help to con-
sider the advantages of the measure; and hereafter the ques-
tion of possibility.
I have no objection; proceed.
First, I think that if our rulers and their auxiliaries are to be
worthy of the name which they bear, there must be willingness
to obey in the one and the power of command in the other; the
guardians must themselves obey the laws, and they must also
imitate the spirit of them in any details which are entrusted to
their care.
That is right, he said.
You, I said, who are their legislator, having selected the men,
will now select the women and give them to them;—they must
be as far as possible of like natures with them; and they must
live in common houses and meet at common meals. None of
them will have anything specially his or her own; they will be
together, and will be brought up together, and will associate at
gymnastic exercises. And so they will be drawn by a necessity
of their natures to have intercourse with each other—necessity
is not too strong a word, I think?
Yes, he said;—necessity, not geometrical, but another sort of
necessity which lovers know, and which is far more convincing
and constraining to the mass of mankind.
True, I said; and this, Glaucon, like all the rest, must proceed
after an orderly fashion; in a city of the blessed, licentiousness
is an unholy thing which the rulers will forbid.
Yes, he said, and it ought not to be permitted.
Then clearly the next thing will be to make matrimony sacred
in the highest degree, and what is most beneficial will be
deemed sacred?
Exactly.
And how can marriages be made most beneficial?—that is a
question which I put to you, because I see in your house dogs
for hunting, and of the nobler sort of birds not a few. Now, I

384
beseech you, do tell me, have you ever attended to their pair-
ing and breeding?
In what particulars?
Why, in the first place, although they are all of a good sort,
are not some better than others?
True.
And do you breed from them all indifferently, or do you take
care to breed from the best only?
From the best.
And do you take the oldest or the youngest, or only those of
ripe age?
I choose only those of ripe age.
And if care was not taken in the breeding, your dogs and
birds would greatly deteriorate?
Certainly.
And the same of horses and animals in general?
Undoubtedly.
Good heavens! my dear friend, I said, what consummate skill
will our rulers need if the same principle holds of the human
species!
Certainly, the same principle holds; but why does this involve
any particular skill?
Because, I said, our rulers will often have to practise upon
the body corporate with medicines. Now you know that when
patients do not require medicines, but have only to be put un-
der a regimen, the inferior sort of practitioner is deemed to be
good enough; but when medicine has to be given, then the doc-
tor should be more of a man.
That is quite true, he said; but to what are you alluding?
I mean, I replied, that our rulers will find a considerable dose
of falsehood and deceit necessary for the good of their sub-
jects: we were saying that the use of all these things regarded
as medicines might be of advantage.
And we were very right.
And this lawful use of them seems likely to be often needed
in the regulations of marriages and births.
How so?
Why, I said, the principle has been already laid down that the
best of either sex should be united with the best as often, and
the inferior with the inferior, as seldom as possible; and that

385
they should rear the offspring of the one sort of union, but not
of the other, if the flock is to be maintained in first-rate condi-
tion. Now these goings on must be a secret which the rulers
only know, or there will be a further danger of our herd, as the
guardians may be termed, breaking out into rebellion.
Very true.
Had we not better appoint certain festivals at which we will
bring together the brides and bridegrooms, and sacrifices will
be offered and suitable hymeneal songs composed by our po-
ets: the number of weddings is a matter which must be left to
the discretion of the rulers, whose aim will be to preserve the
average of population? There are many other things which they
will have to consider, such as the effects of wars and diseases
and any similar agencies, in order as far as this is possible to
prevent the State from becoming either too large or too small.
Certainly, he replied.
We shall have to invent some ingenious kind of lots which the
less worthy may draw on each occasion of our bringing them
together, and then they will accuse their own ill-luck and not
the rulers.
To be sure, he said.
And I think that our braver and better youth, besides their
other honours and rewards, might have greater facilities of in-
tercourse with women given them; their bravery will be a reas-
on, and such fathers ought to have as many sons as possible.
True.
And the proper officers, whether male or female or both, for
offices are to be held by women as well as by men—
Yes—
The proper officers will take the offspring of the good par-
ents to the pen or fold, and there they will deposit them with
certain nurses who dwell in a separate quarter; but the off-
spring of the inferior, or of the better when they chance to be
deformed, will be put away in some mysterious, unknown
place, as they should be.
Yes, he said, that must be done if the breed of the guardians
is to be kept pure.
They will provide for their nurture, and will bring the moth-
ers to the fold when they are full of milk, taking the greatest
possible care that no mother recognises her own child; and

386
other wet-nurses may be engaged if more are required. Care
will also be taken that the process of suckling shall not be pro-
tracted too long; and the mothers will have no getting up at
night or other trouble, but will hand over all this sort of thing
to the nurses and attendants.
You suppose the wives of our guardians to have a fine easy
time of it when they are having children.
Why, said I, and so they ought. Let us, however, proceed with
our scheme. We were saying that the parents should be in the
prime of life?
Very true.
And what is the prime of life? May it not be defined as a peri-
od of about twenty years in a woman's life, and thirty in a
man's?
Which years do you mean to include?
A woman, I said, at twenty years of age may begin to bear
children to the State, and continue to bear them until forty; a
man may begin at five-and-twenty, when he has passed the
point at which the pulse of life beats quickest, and continue to
beget children until he be fifty-five.
Certainly, he said, both in men and women those years are
the prime of physical as well as of intellectual vigour.
Any one above or below the prescribed ages who takes part
in the public hymeneals shall be said to have done an unholy
and unrighteous thing; the child of which he is the father, if it
steals into life, will have been conceived under auspices very
unlike the sacrifices and prayers, which at each hymeneal
priestesses and priest and the whole city will offer, that the
new generation may be better and more useful than their good
and useful parents, whereas his child will be the offspring of
darkness and strange lust.
Very true, he replied.
And the same law will apply to any one of those within the
prescribed age who forms a connection with any woman in the
prime of life without the sanction of the rulers; for we shall say
that he is raising up a bastard to the State, uncertified and
unconsecrated.
Very true, he replied.
This applies, however, only to those who are within the spe-
cified age: after that we allow them to range at will, except

387
that a man may not marry his daughter or his daughter's
daughter, or his mother or his mother's mother; and women,
on the other hand, are prohibited from marrying their sons or
fathers, or son's son or father's father, and so on in either dir-
ection. And we grant all this, accompanying the permission
with strict orders to prevent any embryo which may come into
being from seeing the light; and if any force a way to the birth,
the parents must understand that the offspring of such an uni-
on cannot be maintained, and arrange accordingly.
That also, he said, is a reasonable proposition. But how will
they know who are fathers and daughters, and so on?
They will never know. The way will be this:—dating from the
day of the hymeneal, the bridegroom who was then married
will call all the male children who are born in the seventh and
tenth month afterwards his sons, and the female children his
daughters, and they will call him father, and he will call their
children his grandchildren, and they will call the elder genera-
tion grandfathers and grandmothers. All who were begotten at
the time when their fathers and mothers came together will be
called their brothers and sisters, and these, as I was saying,
will be forbidden to inter-marry. This, however, is not to be un-
derstood as an absolute prohibition of the marriage of brothers
and sisters; if the lot favours them, and they receive the sanc-
tion of the Pythian oracle, the law will allow them.
Quite right, he replied.
Such is the scheme, Glaucon, according to which the guardi-
ans of our State are to have their wives and families in com-
mon. And now you would have the argument show that this
community is consistent with the rest of our polity, and also
that nothing can be better—would you not?
Yes, certainly.
Shall we try to find a common basis by asking of ourselves
what ought to be the chief aim of the legislator in making laws
and in the organization of a State,—what is the greatest good,
and what is the greatest evil, and then consider whether our
previous description has the stamp of the good or of the evil?
By all means.
Can there be any greater evil than discord and distraction
and plurality where unity ought to reign? or any greater good
than the bond of unity?

388
 There cannot.
And there is unity where there is community of pleasures and
pains—where all the citizens are glad or grieved on the same
occasions of joy and sorrow?
No doubt.
Yes; and where there is no common but only private feeling a
State is disorganized—when you have one half of the world tri-
umphing and the other plunged in grief at the same events
happening to the city or the citizens?
Certainly.
Such differences commonly originate in a disagreement
about the use of the terms 'mine' and 'not mine,' 'his' and 'not
his.'
Exactly so.
And is not that the best-ordered State in which the greatest
number of persons apply the terms 'mine' and 'not mine' in the
same way to the same thing?
Quite true.
Or that again which most nearly approaches to the condition
of the individual—as in the body, when but a finger of one of us
is hurt, the whole frame, drawn towards the soul as a centre
and forming one kingdom under the ruling power therein, feels
the hurt and sympathizes all together with the part affected,
and we say that the man has a pain in his finger; and the same
expression is used about any other part of the body, which has
a sensation of pain at suffering or of pleasure at the alleviation
of suffering.
Very true, he replied; and I agree with you that in the best-
ordered State there is the nearest approach to this common
feeling which you describe.
Then when any one of the citizens experiences any good or
evil, the whole State will make his case their own, and will
either rejoice or sorrow with him?
Yes, he said, that is what will happen in a well-ordered State.
It will now be time, I said, for us to return to our State and
see whether this or some other form is most in accordance
with these fundamental principles.
Very good.
Our State like every other has rulers and subjects?
True.

389
 All of whom will call one another citizens?
Of course.
But is there not another name which people give to their
rulers in other States?
Generally they call them masters, but in democratic States
they simply call them rulers.
And in our State what other name besides that of citizens do
the people give the rulers?
They are called saviours and helpers, he replied.
And what do the rulers call the people?
Their maintainers and foster-fathers.
And what do they call them in other States?
Slaves.
And what do the rulers call one another in other States?
Fellow-rulers.
And what in ours?
Fellow-guardians.
Did you ever know an example in any other State of a ruler
who would speak of one of his colleagues as his friend and of
another as not being his friend?
Yes, very often.
And the friend he regards and describes as one in whom he
has an interest, and the other as a stranger in whom he has no
interest?
Exactly.
But would any of your guardians think or speak of any other
guardian as a stranger?
Certainly he would not; for every one whom they meet will be
regarded by them either as a brother or sister, or father or
mother, or son or daughter, or as the child or parent of those
who are thus connected with him.
Capital, I said; but let me ask you once more: Shall they be a
family in name only; or shall they in all their actions be true to
the name? For example, in the use of the word 'father,' would
the care of a father be implied and the filial reverence and duty
and obedience to him which the law commands; and is the viol-
ator of these duties to be regarded as an impious and unright-
eous person who is not likely to receive much good either at
the hands of God or of man? Are these to be or not to be the
strains which the children will hear repeated in their ears by

390
all the citizens about those who are intimated to them to be
their parents and the rest of their kinsfolk?
These, he said, and none other; for what can be more ridicu-
lous than for them to utter the names of family ties with the
lips only and not to act in the spirit of them?
Then in our city the language of harmony and concord will be
more often heard than in any other. As I was describing before,
when any one is well or ill, the universal word will be 'with me
it is well' or 'it is ill.'
Most true.
And agreeably to this mode of thinking and speaking, were
we not saying that they will have their pleasures and pains in
common?
Yes, and so they will.
And they will have a common interest in the same thing
which they will alike call 'my own,' and having this common in-
terest they will have a common feeling of pleasure and pain?
Yes, far more so than in other States.
And the reason of this, over and above the general constitu-
tion of the State, will be that the guardians will have a com-
munity of women and children?
That will be the chief reason.
And this unity of feeling we admitted to be the greatest good,
as was implied in our own comparison of a well-ordered State
to the relation of the body and the members, when affected by
pleasure or pain?
That we acknowledged, and very rightly.
Then the community of wives and children among our cit-
izens is clearly the source of the greatest good to the State?
Certainly.
And this agrees with the other principle which we were af-
firming,—that the guardians were not to have houses or lands
or any other property; their pay was to be their food, which
they were to receive from the other citizens, and they were to
have no private expenses; for we intended them to preserve
their true character of guardians.
Right, he replied.
Both the community of property and the community of famil-
ies, as I am saying, tend to make them more truly guardians;
they will not tear the city in pieces by differing about 'mine'

391
and 'not mine;' each man dragging any acquisition which he
has made into a separate house of his own, where he has a sep-
arate wife and children and private pleasures and pains; but all
will be affected as far as may be by the same pleasures and
pains because they are all of one opinion about what is near
and dear to them, and therefore they all tend towards a com-
mon end.
Certainly, he replied.
And as they have nothing but their persons which they can
call their own, suits and complaints will have no existence
among them; they will be delivered from all those quarrels of
which money or children or relations are the occasion.
Of course they will.
Neither will trials for assault or insult ever be likely to occur
among them. For that equals should defend themselves against
equals we shall maintain to be honourable and right; we shall
make the protection of the person a matter of necessity.
That is good, he said.
Yes; and there is a further good in the law; viz. that if a man
has a quarrel with another he will satisfy his resentment then
and there, and not proceed to more dangerous lengths.
Certainly.
To the elder shall be assigned the duty of ruling and chas-
tising the younger.
Clearly.
Nor can there be a doubt that the younger will not strike or
do any other violence to an elder, unless the magistrates com-
mand him; nor will he slight him in any way. For there are two
guardians, shame and fear, mighty to prevent him: shame,
which makes men refrain from laying hands on those who are
to them in the relation of parents; fear, that the injured one
will be succoured by the others who are his brothers, sons,
fathers.
That is true, he replied.
Then in every way the laws will help the citizens to keep the
peace with one another?
Yes, there will be no want of peace.
And as the guardians will never quarrel among themselves
there will be no danger of the rest of the city being divided
either against them or against one another.

392
 None whatever.
I hardly like even to mention the little meannesses of which
they will be rid, for they are beneath notice: such, for example,
as the flattery of the rich by the poor, and all the pains and
pangs which men experience in bringing up a family, and in
finding money to buy necessaries for their household, borrow-
ing and then repudiating, getting how they can, and giving the
money into the hands of women and slaves to keep—the many
evils of so many kinds which people suffer in this way are mean
enough and obvious enough, and not worth speaking of.
Yes, he said, a man has no need of eyes in order to perceive
that.
And from all these evils they will be delivered, and their life
will be blessed as the life of Olympic victors and yet more
blessed.
How so?
The Olympic victor, I said, is deemed happy in receiving a
part only of the blessedness which is secured to our citizens,
who have won a more glorious victory and have a more com-
plete maintenance at the public cost. For the victory which
they have won is the salvation of the whole State; and the
crown with which they and their children are crowned is the
fulness of all that life needs; they receive rewards from the
hands of their country while living, and after death have an
honourable burial.
Yes, he said, and glorious rewards they are.
Do you remember, I said, how in the course of the previous
discussion some one who shall be nameless accused us of mak-
ing our guardians unhappy—they had nothing and might have
possessed all things—to whom we replied that, if an occasion
offered, we might perhaps hereafter consider this question, but
that, as at present advised, we would make our guardians truly
guardians, and that we were fashioning the State with a view
to the greatest happiness, not of any particular class, but of the
whole?
Yes, I remember.
And what do you say, now that the life of our protectors is
made out to be far better and nobler than that of Olympic vic-
tors—is the life of shoemakers, or any other artisans, or of hus-
bandmen, to be compared with it?

393
 Certainly not.
At the same time I ought here to repeat what I have said
elsewhere, that if any of our guardians shall try to be happy in
such a manner that he will cease to be a guardian, and is not
content with this safe and harmonious life, which, in our judg-
ment, is of all lives the best, but infatuated by some youthful
conceit of happiness which gets up into his head shall seek to
appropriate the whole state to himself, then he will have to
learn how wisely Hesiod spoke, when he said, 'half is more
than the whole.'
If he were to consult me, I should say to him: Stay where you
are, when you have the offer of such a life.
You agree then, I said, that men and women are to have a
common way of life such as we have described—common edu-
cation, common children; and they are to watch over the cit-
izens in common whether abiding in the city or going out to
war; they are to keep watch together, and to hunt together like
dogs; and always and in all things, as far as they are able, wo-
men are to share with the men? And in so doing they will do
what is best, and will not violate, but preserve the natural rela-
tion of the sexes.
I agree with you, he replied.
The enquiry, I said, has yet to be made, whether such a com-
munity be found possible—as among other animals, so also
among men—and if possible, in what way possible?
You have anticipated the question which I was about to
suggest.
There is no difficulty, I said, in seeing how war will be car-
ried on by them.
How?
Why, of course they will go on expeditions together; and will
take with them any of their children who are strong enough,
that, after the manner of the artisan's child, they may look on
at the work which they will have to do when they are grown
up; and besides looking on they will have to help and be of use
in war, and to wait upon their fathers and mothers. Did you
never observe in the arts how the potters' boys look on and
help, long before they touch the wheel?
Yes, I have.

394
 And shall potters be more careful in educating their children
and in giving them the opportunity of seeing and practising
their duties than our guardians will be?
The idea is ridiculous, he said.
There is also the effect on the parents, with whom, as with
other animals, the presence of their young ones will be the
greatest incentive to valour.
That is quite true, Socrates; and yet if they are defeated,
which may often happen in war, how great the danger is! the
children will be lost as well as their parents, and the State will
never recover.
True, I said; but would you never allow them to run any risk?
I am far from saying that.
Well, but if they are ever to run a risk should they not do so
on some occasion when, if they escape disaster, they will be
the better for it?
Clearly.
Whether the future soldiers do or do not see war in the days
of their youth is a very important matter, for the sake of which
some risk may fairly be incurred.
Yes, very important.
This then must be our first step,—to make our children spec-
tators of war; but we must also contrive that they shall be se-
cured against danger; then all will be well.
True.
Their parents may be supposed not to be blind to the risks of
war, but to know, as far as human foresight can, what expedi-
tions are safe and what dangerous?
That may be assumed.
And they will take them on the safe expeditions and be cau-
tious about the dangerous ones?
True.
And they will place them under the command of experienced
veterans who will be their leaders and teachers?
Very properly.
Still, the dangers of war cannot be always foreseen; there is
a good deal of chance about them?
True.

395
 Then against such chances the children must be at once fur-
nished with wings, in order that in the hour of need they may
fly away and escape.
What do you mean? he said.
I mean that we must mount them on horses in their earliest
youth, and when they have learnt to ride, take them on horse-
back to see war: the horses must not be spirited and warlike,
but the most tractable and yet the swiftest that can be had. In
this way they will get an excellent view of what is hereafter to
be their own business; and if there is danger they have only to
follow their elder leaders and escape.
I believe that you are right, he said.
Next, as to war; what are to be the relations of your soldiers
to one another and to their enemies? I should be inclined to
propose that the soldier who leaves his rank or throws away
his arms, or is guilty of any other act of cowardice, should be
degraded into the rank of a husbandman or artisan. What do
you think?
By all means, I should say.
And he who allows himself to be taken prisoner may as well
be made a present of to his enemies; he is their lawful prey,
and let them do what they like with him.
Certainly.
But the hero who has distinguished himself, what shall be
done to him? In the first place, he shall receive honour in the
army from his youthful comrades; every one of them in succes-
sion shall crown him. What do you say?
I approve.
And what do you say to his receiving the right hand of
fellowship?
To that too, I agree.
But you will hardly agree to my next proposal.
What is your proposal?
That he should kiss and be kissed by them.
Most certainly, and I should be disposed to go further, and
say: Let no one whom he has a mind to kiss refuse to be kissed
by him while the expedition lasts. So that if there be a lover in
the army, whether his love be youth or maiden, he may be
more eager to win the prize of valour.

396
 Capital, I said. That the brave man is to have more wives
than others has been already determined: and he is to have
first choices in such matters more than others, in order that he
may have as many children as possible?
Agreed.
Again, there is another manner in which, according to
Homer, brave youths should be honoured; for he tells how
Ajax, after he had distinguished himself in battle, was rewar-
ded with long chines, which seems to be a compliment appro-
priate to a hero in the flower of his age, being not only a trib-
ute of honour but also a very strengthening thing.
Most true, he said.
Then in this, I said, Homer shall be our teacher; and we too,
at sacrifices and on the like occasions, will honour the brave
according to the measure of their valour, whether men or wo-
men, with hymns and those other distinctions which we were
mentioning; also with
'seats of precedence, and meats and full cups;'
and in honouring them, we shall be at the same time training
them.
That, he replied, is excellent.
Yes, I said; and when a man dies gloriously in war shall we
not say, in the first place, that he is of the golden race?
To be sure.
Nay, have we not the authority of Hesiod for affirming that
when they are dead
'They are holy angels upon the earth, authors of good, avert-
ers of evil, the guardians of speech-gifted men'?
Yes; and we accept his authority.
We must learn of the god how we are to order the sepulture
of divine and heroic personages, and what is to be their special
distinction; and we must do as he bids?
By all means.
And in ages to come we will reverence them and kneel before
their sepulchres as at the graves of heroes. And not only they
but any who are deemed pre-eminently good, whether they die
from age, or in any other way, shall be admitted to the same
honours.
That is very right, he said.

397
 Next, how shall our soldiers treat their enemies? What about
this?
In what respect do you mean?
First of all, in regard to slavery? Do you think it right that
Hellenes should enslave Hellenic States, or allow others to en-
slave them, if they can help? Should not their custom be to
spare them, considering the danger which there is that the
whole race may one day fall under the yoke of the barbarians?
To spare them is infinitely better.
Then no Hellene should be owned by them as a slave; that is
a rule which they will observe and advise the other Hellenes to
observe.
Certainly, he said; they will in this way be united against the
barbarians and will keep their hands off one another.
Next as to the slain; ought the conquerors, I said, to take
anything but their armour? Does not the practice of despoiling
an enemy afford an excuse for not facing the battle? Cowards
skulk about the dead, pretending that they are fulfilling a duty,
and many an army before now has been lost from this love of
plunder.
Very true.
And is there not illiberality and avarice in robbing a corpse,
and also a degree of meanness and womanishness in making
an enemy of the dead body when the real enemy has flown
away and left only his fighting gear behind him,—is not this
rather like a dog who cannot get at his assailant, quarrelling
with the stones which strike him instead?
Very like a dog, he said.
Then we must abstain from spoiling the dead or hindering
their burial?
Yes, he replied, we most certainly must.
Neither shall we offer up arms at the temples of the gods,
least of all the arms of Hellenes, if we care to maintain good
feeling with other Hellenes; and, indeed, we have reason to
fear that the offering of spoils taken from kinsmen may be a
pollution unless commanded by the god himself?
Very true.
Again, as to the devastation of Hellenic territory or the burn-
ing of houses, what is to be the practice?
May I have the pleasure, he said, of hearing your opinion?

398
 Both should be forbidden, in my judgment; I would take the
annual produce and no more. Shall I tell you why?
Pray do.
Why, you see, there is a difference in the names 'discord' and
'war,' and I imagine that there is also a difference in their
natures; the one is expressive of what is internal and domestic,
the other of what is external and foreign; and the first of the
two is termed discord, and only the second, war.
That is a very proper distinction, he replied.
And may I not observe with equal propriety that the Hellenic
race is all united together by ties of blood and friendship, and
alien and strange to the barbarians?
Very good, he said.
And therefore when Hellenes fight with barbarians and bar-
barians with Hellenes, they will be described by us as being at
war when they fight, and by nature enemies, and this kind of
antagonism should be called war; but when Hellenes fight with
one another we shall say that Hellas is then in a state of dis-
order and discord, they being by nature friends; and such
enmity is to be called discord.
I agree.
Consider then, I said, when that which we have acknow-
ledged to be discord occurs, and a city is divided, if both
parties destroy the lands and burn the houses of one another,
how wicked does the strife appear! No true lover of his country
would bring himself to tear in pieces his own nurse and moth-
er: There might be reason in the conqueror depriving the
conquered of their harvest, but still they would have the idea of
peace in their hearts and would not mean to go on fighting for
ever.
Yes, he said, that is a better temper than the other.
And will not the city, which you are founding, be an Hellenic
city?
It ought to be, he replied.
Then will not the citizens be good and civilized?
Yes, very civilized.
And will they not be lovers of Hellas, and think of Hellas as
their own land, and share in the common temples?
Most certainly.

399
 And any difference which arises among them will be re-
garded by them as discord only—a quarrel among friends,
which is not to be called a war?
Certainly not.
Then they will quarrel as those who intend some day to be
reconciled?
Certainly.
They will use friendly correction, but will not enslave or des-
troy their opponents; they will be correctors, not enemies?
Just so.
And as they are Hellenes themselves they will not devastate
Hellas, nor will they burn houses, nor ever suppose that the
whole population of a city—men, women, and children—are
equally their enemies, for they know that the guilt of war is al-
ways confined to a few persons and that the many are their
friends. And for all these reasons they will be unwilling to
waste their lands and rase their houses; their enmity to them
will only last until the many innocent sufferers have compelled
the guilty few to give satisfaction?
I agree, he said, that our citizens should thus deal with their
Hellenic enemies; and with barbarians as the Hellenes now
deal with one another.
Then let us enact this law also for our guardians:—that they
are neither to devastate the lands of Hellenes nor to burn their
houses.
Agreed; and we may agree also in thinking that these, like all
our previous enactments, are very good.
But still I must say, Socrates, that if you are allowed to go on
in this way you will entirely forget the other question which at
the commencement of this discussion you thrust aside:—Is
such an order of things possible, and how, if at all? For I am
quite ready to acknowledge that the plan which you propose, if
only feasible, would do all sorts of good to the State. I will add,
what you have omitted, that your citizens will be the bravest of
warriors, and will never leave their ranks, for they will all know
one another, and each will call the other father, brother, son;
and if you suppose the women to join their armies, whether in
the same rank or in the rear, either as a terror to the enemy, or
as auxiliaries in case of need, I know that they will then be ab-
solutely invincible; and there are many domestic advantages

400
which might also be mentioned and which I also fully acknow-
ledge: but, as I admit all these advantages and as many more
as you please, if only this State of yours were to come into ex-
istence, we need say no more about them; assuming then the
existence of the State, let us now turn to the question of pos-
sibility and ways and means—the rest may be left.
If I loiter for a moment, you instantly make a raid upon me, I
said, and have no mercy; I have hardly escaped the first and
second waves, and you seem not to be aware that you are now
bringing upon me the third, which is the greatest and heaviest.
When you have seen and heard the third wave, I think you will
be more considerate and will acknowledge that some fear and
hesitation was natural respecting a proposal so extraordinary
as that which I have now to state and investigate.
The more appeals of this sort which you make, he said, the
more determined are we that you shall tell us how such a State
is possible: speak out and at once.
Let me begin by reminding you that we found our way hither
in the search after justice and injustice.
True, he replied; but what of that?
I was only going to ask whether, if we have discovered them,
we are to require that the just man should in nothing fail of ab-
solute justice; or may we be satisfied with an approximation,
and the attainment in him of a higher degree of justice than is
to be found in other men?
The approximation will be enough.
We were enquiring into the nature of absolute justice and in-
to the character of the perfectly just, and into injustice and the
perfectly unjust, that we might have an ideal. We were to look
at these in order that we might judge of our own happiness and
unhappiness according to the standard which they exhibited
and the degree in which we resembled them, but not with any
view of showing that they could exist in fact.
True, he said.
Would a painter be any the worse because, after having de-
lineated with consummate art an ideal of a perfectly beautiful
man, he was unable to show that any such man could ever have
existed?
He would be none the worse.
Well, and were we not creating an ideal of a perfect State?

401
 To be sure.
And is our theory a worse theory because we are unable to
prove the possibility of a city being ordered in the manner
described?
Surely not, he replied.
That is the truth, I said. But if, at your request, I am to try
and show how and under what conditions the possibility is
highest, I must ask you, having this in view, to repeat your
former admissions.
What admissions?
I want to know whether ideals are ever fully realized in lan-
guage? Does not the word express more than the fact, and
must not the actual, whatever a man may think, always, in the
nature of things, fall short of the truth? What do you say?
I agree.
Then you must not insist on my proving that the actual State
will in every respect coincide with the ideal: if we are only able
to discover how a city may be governed nearly as we proposed,
you will admit that we have discovered the possibility which
you demand; and will be contented. I am sure that I should be
contented—will not you?
Yes, I will.
Let me next endeavour to show what is that fault in States
which is the cause of their present maladministration, and
what is the least change which will enable a State to pass into
the truer form; and let the change, if possible, be of one thing
only, or, if not, of two; at any rate, let the changes be as few
and slight as possible.
Certainly, he replied.
I think, I said, that there might be a reform of the State if
only one change were made, which is not a slight or easy
though still a possible one.
What is it? he said.
Now then, I said, I go to meet that which I liken to the
greatest of the waves; yet shall the word be spoken, even
though the wave break and drown me in laughter and dishon-
our; and do you mark my words.
Proceed.
I said: 'Until philosophers are kings, or the kings and princes
of this world have the spirit and power of philosophy, and

402
political greatness and wisdom meet in one, and those com-
moner natures who pursue either to the exclusion of the other
are compelled to stand aside, cities will never have rest from
their evils,—nor the human race, as I believe,—and then only
will this our State have a possibility of life and behold the light
of day.' Such was the thought, my dear Glaucon, which I would
fain have uttered if it had not seemed too extravagant; for to
be convinced that in no other State can there be happiness
private or public is indeed a hard thing.
Socrates, what do you mean? I would have you consider that
the word which you have uttered is one at which numerous
persons, and very respectable persons too, in a figure pulling
off their coats all in a moment, and seizing any weapon that
comes to hand, will run at you might and main, before you
know where you are, intending to do heaven knows what; and
if you don't prepare an answer, and put yourself in motion, you
will be 'pared by their fine wits,' and no mistake.
You got me into the scrape, I said.
And I was quite right; however, I will do all I can to get you
out of it; but I can only give you good-will and good advice,
and, perhaps, I may be able to fit answers to your questions
better than another—that is all. And now, having such an auxil-
iary, you must do your best to show the unbelievers that you
are right.
I ought to try, I said, since you offer me such invaluable as-
sistance. And I think that, if there is to be a chance of our es-
caping, we must explain to them whom we mean when we say
that philosophers are to rule in the State; then we shall be able
to defend ourselves: There will be discovered to be some
natures who ought to study philosophy and to be leaders in the
State; and others who are not born to be philosophers, and are
meant to be followers rather than leaders.
Then now for a definition, he said.
Follow me, I said, and I hope that I may in some way or other
be able to give you a satisfactory explanation.
Proceed.
I dare say that you remember, and therefore I need not re-
mind you, that a lover, if he is worthy of the name, ought to
show his love, not to some one part of that which he loves, but
to the whole.

403
 I really do not understand, and therefore beg of you to assist
my memory.
Another person, I said, might fairly reply as you do; but a
man of pleasure like yourself ought to know that all who are in
the flower of youth do somehow or other raise a pang or emo-
tion in a lover's breast, and are thought by him to be worthy of
his affectionate regards. Is not this a way which you have with
the fair: one has a snub nose, and you praise his charming
face; the hook-nose of another has, you say, a royal look; while
he who is neither snub nor hooked has the grace of regularity:
the dark visage is manly, the fair are children of the gods; and
as to the sweet 'honey pale,' as they are called, what is the very
name but the invention of a lover who talks in diminutives, and
is not averse to paleness if appearing on the cheek of youth? In
a word, there is no excuse which you will not make, and noth-
ing which you will not say, in order not to lose a single flower
that blooms in the spring-time of youth.
If you make me an authority in matters of love, for the sake
of the argument, I assent.
And what do you say of lovers of wine? Do you not see them
doing the same? They are glad of any pretext of drinking any
wine.
Very good.
And the same is true of ambitious men; if they cannot com-
mand an army, they are willing to command a file; and if they
cannot be honoured by really great and important persons,
they are glad to be honoured by lesser and meaner
people,—but honour of some kind they must have.
Exactly.
Once more let me ask: Does he who desires any class of
goods, desire the whole class or a part only?
The whole.
And may we not say of the philosopher that he is a lover, not
of a part of wisdom only, but of the whole?
Yes, of the whole.
And he who dislikes learning, especially in youth, when he
has no power of judging what is good and what is not, such an
one we maintain not to be a philosopher or a lover of know-
ledge, just as he who refuses his food is not hungry, and may
be said to have a bad appetite and not a good one?

404
 Very true, he said.
Whereas he who has a taste for every sort of knowledge and
who is curious to learn and is never satisfied, may be justly
termed a philosopher? Am I not right?
Glaucon said: If curiosity makes a philosopher, you will find
many a strange being will have a title to the name. All the lov-
ers of sights have a delight in learning, and must therefore be
included. Musical amateurs, too, are a folk strangely out of
place among philosophers, for they are the last persons in the
world who would come to anything like a philosophical discus-
sion, if they could help, while they run about at the Dionysiac
festivals as if they had let out their ears to hear every chorus;
whether the performance is in town or country—that makes no
difference—they are there. Now are we to maintain that all
these and any who have similar tastes, as well as the profess-
ors of quite minor arts, are philosophers?
Certainly not, I replied; they are only an imitation.
He said: Who then are the true philosophers?
Those, I said, who are lovers of the vision of truth.
That is also good, he said; but I should like to know what you
mean?
To another, I replied, I might have a difficulty in explaining;
but I am sure that you will admit a proposition which I am
about to make.
What is the proposition?
That since beauty is the opposite of ugliness, they are two?
Certainly.
And inasmuch as they are two, each of them is one?
True again.
And of just and unjust, good and evil, and of every other
class, the same remark holds: taken singly, each of them is
one; but from the various combinations of them with actions
and things and with one another, they are seen in all sorts of
lights and appear many?
Very true.
And this is the distinction which I draw between the sight-
loving, art-loving, practical class and those of whom I am
speaking, and who are alone worthy of the name of
philosophers.
How do you distinguish them? he said.

405
 The lovers of sounds and sights, I replied, are, as I conceive,
fond of fine tones and colours and forms and all the artificial
products that are made out of them, but their mind is incap-
able of seeing or loving absolute beauty.
True, he replied.
Few are they who are able to attain to the sight of this.
Very true.
And he who, having a sense of beautiful things has no sense
of absolute beauty, or who, if another lead him to a knowledge
of that beauty is unable to follow—of such an one I ask, Is he
awake or in a dream only? Reflect: is not the dreamer, sleeping
or waking, one who likens dissimilar things, who puts the copy
in the place of the real object?
I should certainly say that such an one was dreaming.
But take the case of the other, who recognises the existence
of absolute beauty and is able to distinguish the idea from the
objects which participate in the idea, neither putting the ob-
jects in the place of the idea nor the idea in the place of the ob-
jects—is he a dreamer, or is he awake?
He is wide awake.
And may we not say that the mind of the one who knows has
knowledge, and that the mind of the other, who opines only,
has opinion?
Certainly.
But suppose that the latter should quarrel with us and dis-
pute our statement, can we administer any soothing cordial or
advice to him, without revealing to him that there is sad dis-
order in his wits?
We must certainly offer him some good advice, he replied.
Come, then, and let us think of something to say to him. Shall
we begin by assuring him that he is welcome to any knowledge
which he may have, and that we are rejoiced at his having it?
But we should like to ask him a question: Does he who has
knowledge know something or nothing? (You must answer for
him.)
I answer that he knows something.
Something that is or is not?
Something that is; for how can that which is not ever be
known?

406
 And are we assured, after looking at the matter from many
points of view, that absolute being is or may be absolutely
known, but that the utterly non-existent is utterly unknown?
Nothing can be more certain.
Good. But if there be anything which is of such a nature as to
be and not to be, that will have a place intermediate between
pure being and the absolute negation of being?
Yes, between them.
And, as knowledge corresponded to being and ignorance of
necessity to not-being, for that intermediate between being
and not-being there has to be discovered a corresponding in-
termediate between ignorance and knowledge, if there be
such?
Certainly.
Do we admit the existence of opinion?
Undoubtedly.
As being the same with knowledge, or another faculty?
Another faculty.
Then opinion and knowledge have to do with different kinds
of matter corresponding to this difference of faculties?
Yes.
And knowledge is relative to being and knows being. But be-
fore I proceed further I will make a division.
What division?
I will begin by placing faculties in a class by themselves: they
are powers in us, and in all other things, by which we do as we
do. Sight and hearing, for example, I should call faculties. Have
I clearly explained the class which I mean?
Yes, I quite understand.
Then let me tell you my view about them. I do not see them,
and therefore the distinctions of figure, colour, and the like,
which enable me to discern the differences of some things, do
not apply to them. In speaking of a faculty I think only of its
sphere and its result; and that which has the same sphere and
the same result I call the same faculty, but that which has an-
other sphere and another result I call different. Would that be
your way of speaking?
Yes.

407
 And will you be so very good as to answer one more ques-
tion? Would you say that knowledge is a faculty, or in what
class would you place it?
Certainly knowledge is a faculty, and the mightiest of all
faculties.
And is opinion also a faculty?
Certainly, he said; for opinion is that with which we are able
to form an opinion.
And yet you were acknowledging a little while ago that know-
ledge is not the same as opinion?
Why, yes, he said: how can any reasonable being ever identi-
fy that which is infallible with that which errs?
An excellent answer, proving, I said, that we are quite con-
scious of a distinction between them.
Yes.
Then knowledge and opinion having distinct powers have
also distinct spheres or subject-matters?
That is certain.
Being is the sphere or subject-matter of knowledge, and
knowledge is to know the nature of being?
Yes.
And opinion is to have an opinion?
Yes.
And do we know what we opine? or is the subject-matter of
opinion the same as the subject-matter of knowledge?
Nay, he replied, that has been already disproven; if differ-
ence in faculty implies difference in the sphere or subject-mat-
ter, and if, as we were saying, opinion and knowledge are dis-
tinct faculties, then the sphere of knowledge and of opinion
cannot be the same.
Then if being is the subject-matter of knowledge, something
else must be the subject-matter of opinion?
Yes, something else.
Well then, is not-being the subject-matter of opinion? or,
rather, how can there be an opinion at all about not-being? Re-
flect: when a man has an opinion, has he not an opinion about
something? Can he have an opinion which is an opinion about
nothing?
Impossible.
He who has an opinion has an opinion about some one thing?

408
 Yes.
And not-being is not one thing but, properly speaking,
nothing?
True.
Of not-being, ignorance was assumed to be the necessary
correlative; of being, knowledge?
True, he said.
Then opinion is not concerned either with being or with not-
being?
Not with either.
And can therefore neither be ignorance nor knowledge?
That seems to be true.
But is opinion to be sought without and beyond either of
them, in a greater clearness than knowledge, or in a greater
darkness than ignorance?
In neither.
Then I suppose that opinion appears to you to be darker than
knowledge, but lighter than ignorance?
Both; and in no small degree.
And also to be within and between them?
Yes.
Then you would infer that opinion is intermediate?
No question.
But were we not saying before, that if anything appeared to
be of a sort which is and is not at the same time, that sort of
thing would appear also to lie in the interval between pure be-
ing and absolute not-being; and that the corresponding faculty
is neither knowledge nor ignorance, but will be found in the in-
terval between them?
True.
And in that interval there has now been discovered
something which we call opinion?
There has.
Then what remains to be discovered is the object which par-
takes equally of the nature of being and not-being, and cannot
rightly be termed either, pure and simple; this unknown term,
when discovered, we may truly call the subject of opinion, and
assign each to their proper faculty,—the extremes to the fac-
ulties of the extremes and the mean to the faculty of the mean.
True.

409
 This being premised, I would ask the gentleman who is of
opinion that there is no absolute or unchangeable idea of
beauty—in whose opinion the beautiful is the manifold—he, I
say, your lover of beautiful sights, who cannot bear to be told
that the beautiful is one, and the just is one, or that anything is
one—to him I would appeal, saying, Will you be so very kind,
sir, as to tell us whether, of all these beautiful things, there is
one which will not be found ugly; or of the just, which will not
be found unjust; or of the holy, which will not also be unholy?
No, he replied; the beautiful will in some point of view be
found ugly; and the same is true of the rest.
And may not the many which are doubles be also
halves?—doubles, that is, of one thing, and halves of another?
Quite true.
And things great and small, heavy and light, as they are
termed, will not be denoted by these any more than by the op-
posite names?
True; both these and the opposite names will always attach
to all of them.
And can any one of those many things which are called by
particular names be said to be this rather than not to be this?
He replied: They are like the punning riddles which are
asked at feasts or the children's puzzle about the eunuch aim-
ing at the bat, with what he hit him, as they say in the puzzle,
and upon what the bat was sitting. The individual objects of
which I am speaking are also a riddle, and have a double
sense: nor can you fix them in your mind, either as being or
not-being, or both, or neither.
Then what will you do with them? I said. Can they have a bet-
ter place than between being and not-being? For they are
clearly not in greater darkness or negation than not-being, or
more full of light and existence than being.
That is quite true, he said.
Thus then we seem to have discovered that the many ideas
which the multitude entertain about the beautiful and about all
other things are tossing about in some region which is half-way
between pure being and pure not-being?
We have.
Yes; and we had before agreed that anything of this kind
which we might find was to be described as matter of opinion,

410
and not as matter of knowledge; being the intermediate flux
which is caught and detained by the intermediate faculty.
Quite true.
Then those who see the many beautiful, and who yet neither
see absolute beauty, nor can follow any guide who points the
way thither; who see the many just, and not absolute justice,
and the like,—such persons may be said to have opinion but
not knowledge?
That is certain.
But those who see the absolute and eternal and immutable
may be said to know, and not to have opinion only?
Neither can that be denied.
The one love and embrace the subjects of knowledge, the
other those of opinion? The latter are the same, as I dare say
you will remember, who listened to sweet sounds and gazed
upon fair colours, but would not tolerate the existence of abso-
lute beauty.
Yes, I remember.
Shall we then be guilty of any impropriety in calling them
lovers of opinion rather than lovers of wisdom, and will they be
very angry with us for thus describing them?
I shall tell them not to be angry; no man should be angry at
what is true.
But those who love the truth in each thing are to be called
lovers of wisdom and not lovers of opinion.
Assuredly.

411
Part 6

412
And thus, Glaucon, after the argument has gone a weary way,
the true and the false philosophers have at length appeared in
view.
I do not think, he said, that the way could have been
shortened.
I suppose not, I said; and yet I believe that we might have
had a better view of both of them if the discussion could have
been confined to this one subject and if there were not many
other questions awaiting us, which he who desires to see in
what respect the life of the just differs from that of the unjust
must consider.
And what is the next question? he asked.
Surely, I said, the one which follows next in order. Inasmuch
as philosophers only are able to grasp the eternal and un-
changeable, and those who wander in the region of the many
and variable are not philosophers, I must ask you which of the
two classes should be the rulers of our State?
And how can we rightly answer that question?
Whichever of the two are best able to guard the laws and in-
stitutions of our State—let them be our guardians.
Very good.
Neither, I said, can there be any question that the guardian
who is to keep anything should have eyes rather than no eyes?
There can be no question of that.
And are not those who are verily and indeed wanting in the
knowledge of the true being of each thing, and who have in
their souls no clear pattern, and are unable as with a painter's
eye to look at the absolute truth and to that original to repair,
and having perfect vision of the other world to order the laws
about beauty, goodness, justice in this, if not already ordered,
and to guard and preserve the order of them—are not such
persons, I ask, simply blind?
Truly, he replied, they are much in that condition.
And shall they be our guardians when there are others who,
besides being their equals in experience and falling short of
them in no particular of virtue, also know the very truth of
each thing?
There can be no reason, he said, for rejecting those who have
this greatest of all great qualities; they must always have the
first place unless they fail in some other respect.

413
 Suppose then, I said, that we determine how far they can
unite this and the other excellences.
By all means.
In the first place, as we began by observing, the nature of the
philosopher has to be ascertained. We must come to an under-
standing about him, and, when we have done so, then, if I am
not mistaken, we shall also acknowledge that such an union of
qualities is possible, and that those in whom they are united,
and those only, should be rulers in the State.
What do you mean?
Let us suppose that philosophical minds always love know-
ledge of a sort which shows them the eternal nature not vary-
ing from generation and corruption.
Agreed.
And further, I said, let us agree that they are lovers of all
true being; there is no part whether greater or less, or more or
less honourable, which they are willing to renounce; as we said
before of the lover and the man of ambition.
True.
And if they are to be what we were describing, is there not
another quality which they should also possess?
What quality?
Truthfulness: they will never intentionally receive into their
mind falsehood, which is their detestation, and they will love
the truth.
Yes, that may be safely affirmed of them.
'May be,' my friend, I replied, is not the word; say rather
'must be affirmed:' for he whose nature is amorous of anything
cannot help loving all that belongs or is akin to the object of his
affections.
Right, he said.
And is there anything more akin to wisdom than truth?
How can there be?
Can the same nature be a lover of wisdom and a lover of
falsehood?
Never.
The true lover of learning then must from his earliest youth,
as far as in him lies, desire all truth?
Assuredly.

414
 But then again, as we know by experience, he whose desires
are strong in one direction will have them weaker in others;
they will be like a stream which has been drawn off into anoth-
er channel.
True.
He whose desires are drawn towards knowledge in every
form will be absorbed in the pleasures of the soul, and will
hardly feel bodily pleasure—I mean, if he be a true philosopher
and not a sham one.
That is most certain.
Such an one is sure to be temperate and the reverse of covet-
ous; for the motives which make another man desirous of hav-
ing and spending, have no place in his character.
Very true.
Another criterion of the philosophical nature has also to be
considered.
What is that?
There should be no secret corner of illiberality; nothing can
be more antagonistic than meanness to a soul which is ever
longing after the whole of things both divine and human.
Most true, he replied.
Then how can he who has magnificence of mind and is the
spectator of all time and all existence, think much of human
life?
He cannot.
Or can such an one account death fearful?
No indeed.
Then the cowardly and mean nature has no part in true
philosophy?
Certainly not.
Or again: can he who is harmoniously constituted, who is not
covetous or mean, or a boaster, or a coward—can he, I say,
ever be unjust or hard in his dealings?
Impossible.
Then you will soon observe whether a man is just and gentle,
or rude and unsociable; these are the signs which distinguish
even in youth the philosophical nature from the
unphilosophical.
True.
There is another point which should be remarked.

415
 What point?
Whether he has or has not a pleasure in learning; for no one
will love that which gives him pain, and in which after much
toil he makes little progress.
Certainly not.
And again, if he is forgetful and retains nothing of what he
learns, will he not be an empty vessel?
That is certain.
Labouring in vain, he must end in hating himself and his
fruitless occupation? Yes.
Then a soul which forgets cannot be ranked among genuine
philosophic natures; we must insist that the philosopher should
have a good memory?
Certainly.
And once more, the inharmonious and unseemly nature can
only tend to disproportion?
Undoubtedly.
And do you consider truth to be akin to proportion or to
disproportion?
To proportion.
Then, besides other qualities, we must try to find a naturally
well-proportioned and gracious mind, which will move spontan-
eously towards the true being of everything.
Certainly.
Well, and do not all these qualities, which we have been enu-
merating, go together, and are they not, in a manner, neces-
sary to a soul, which is to have a full and perfect participation
of being?
They are absolutely necessary, he replied.
And must not that be a blameless study which he only can
pursue who has the gift of a good memory, and is quick to
learn,—noble, gracious, the friend of truth, justice, courage,
temperance, who are his kindred?
The god of jealousy himself, he said, could find no fault with
such a study.
And to men like him, I said, when perfected by years and
education, and to these only you will entrust the State.
Here Adeimantus interposed and said: To these statements,
Socrates, no one can offer a reply; but when you talk in this
way, a strange feeling passes over the minds of your hearers:

416
They fancy that they are led astray a little at each step in the
argument, owing to their own want of skill in asking and an-
swering questions; these littles accumulate, and at the end of
the discussion they are found to have sustained a mighty over-
throw and all their former notions appear to be turned upside
down. And as unskilful players of draughts are at last shut up
by their more skilful adversaries and have no piece to move, so
they too find themselves shut up at last; for they have nothing
to say in this new game of which words are the counters; and
yet all the time they are in the right. The observation is sugges-
ted to me by what is now occurring. For any one of us might
say, that although in words he is not able to meet you at each
step of the argument, he sees as a fact that the votaries of
philosophy, when they carry on the study, not only in youth as
a part of education, but as the pursuit of their maturer years,
most of them become strange monsters, not to say utter
rogues, and that those who may be considered the best of them
are made useless to the world by the very study which you
extol.
Well, and do you think that those who say so are wrong?
I cannot tell, he replied; but I should like to know what is
your opinion.
Hear my answer; I am of opinion that they are quite right.
Then how can you be justified in saying that cities will not
cease from evil until philosophers rule in them, when philo-
sophers are acknowledged by us to be of no use to them?
You ask a question, I said, to which a reply can only be given
in a parable.
Yes, Socrates; and that is a way of speaking to which you are
not at all accustomed, I suppose.
I perceive, I said, that you are vastly amused at having
plunged me into such a hopeless discussion; but now hear the
parable, and then you will be still more amused at the meagre-
ness of my imagination: for the manner in which the best men
are treated in their own States is so grievous that no single
thing on earth is comparable to it; and therefore, if I am to
plead their cause, I must have recourse to fiction, and put to-
gether a figure made up of many things, like the fabulous uni-
ons of goats and stags which are found in pictures. Imagine
then a fleet or a ship in which there is a captain who is taller

417
and stronger than any of the crew, but he is a little deaf and
has a similar infirmity in sight, and his knowledge of navigation
is not much better. The sailors are quarrelling with one anoth-
er about the steering—every one is of opinion that he has a
right to steer, though he has never learned the art of naviga-
tion and cannot tell who taught him or when he learned, and
will further assert that it cannot be taught, and they are ready
to cut in pieces any one who says the contrary. They throng
about the captain, begging and praying him to commit the
helm to them; and if at any time they do not prevail, but others
are preferred to them, they kill the others or throw them over-
board, and having first chained up the noble captain's senses
with drink or some narcotic drug, they mutiny and take posses-
sion of the ship and make free with the stores; thus, eating and
drinking, they proceed on their voyage in such manner as
might be expected of them. Him who is their partisan and clev-
erly aids them in their plot for getting the ship out of the
captain's hands into their own whether by force or persuasion,
they compliment with the name of sailor, pilot, able seaman,
and abuse the other sort of man, whom they call a good-for-
nothing; but that the true pilot must pay attention to the year
and seasons and sky and stars and winds, and whatever else
belongs to his art, if he intends to be really qualified for the
command of a ship, and that he must and will be the steerer,
whether other people like or not—the possibility of this union
of authority with the steerer's art has never seriously entered
into their thoughts or been made part of their calling. Now in
vessels which are in a state of mutiny and by sailors who are
mutineers, how will the true pilot be regarded? Will he not be
called by them a prater, a star-gazer, a good-for-nothing?
Of course, said Adeimantus.
Then you will hardly need, I said, to hear the interpretation
of the figure, which describes the true philosopher in his rela-
tion to the State; for you understand already.
Certainly.
Then suppose you now take this parable to the gentleman
who is surprised at finding that philosophers have no honour in
their cities; explain it to him and try to convince him that their
having honour would be far more extraordinary.
I will.

418
 Say to him, that, in deeming the best votaries of philosophy
to be useless to the rest of the world, he is right; but also tell
him to attribute their uselessness to the fault of those who will
not use them, and not to themselves. The pilot should not
humbly beg the sailors to be commanded by him—that is not
the order of nature; neither are 'the wise to go to the doors of
the rich'—the ingenious author of this saying told a lie—but the
truth is, that, when a man is ill, whether he be rich or poor, to
the physician he must go, and he who wants to be governed, to
him who is able to govern. The ruler who is good for anything
ought not to beg his subjects to be ruled by him; although the
present governors of mankind are of a different stamp; they
may be justly compared to the mutinous sailors, and the true
helmsmen to those who are called by them good-for-nothings
and star-gazers.
Precisely so, he said.
For these reasons, and among men like these, philosophy,
the noblest pursuit of all, is not likely to be much esteemed by
those of the opposite faction; not that the greatest and most
lasting injury is done to her by her opponents, but by her own
professing followers, the same of whom you suppose the ac-
cuser to say, that the greater number of them are arrant
rogues, and the best are useless; in which opinion I agreed.
Yes.
And the reason why the good are useless has now been
explained?
True.
Then shall we proceed to show that the corruption of the ma-
jority is also unavoidable, and that this is not to be laid to the
charge of philosophy any more than the other?
By all means.
And let us ask and answer in turn, first going back to the de-
scription of the gentle and noble nature. Truth, as you will re-
member, was his leader, whom he followed always and in all
things; failing in this, he was an impostor, and had no part or
lot in true philosophy.
Yes, that was said.
Well, and is not this one quality, to mention no others,
greatly at variance with present notions of him?
Certainly, he said.

419
 And have we not a right to say in his defence, that the true
lover of knowledge is always striving after being—that is his
nature; he will not rest in the multiplicity of individuals which
is an appearance only, but will go on—the keen edge will not
be blunted, nor the force of his desire abate until he have at-
tained the knowledge of the true nature of every essence by a
sympathetic and kindred power in the soul, and by that power
drawing near and mingling and becoming incorporate with
very being, having begotten mind and truth, he will have know-
ledge and will live and grow truly, and then, and not till then,
will he cease from his travail.
Nothing, he said, can be more just than such a description of
him.
And will the love of a lie be any part of a philosopher's
nature? Will he not utterly hate a lie?
He will.
And when truth is the captain, we cannot suspect any evil of
the band which he leads?
Impossible.
Justice and health of mind will be of the company, and tem-
perance will follow after?
True, he replied.
Neither is there any reason why I should again set in array
the philosopher's virtues, as you will doubtless remember that
courage, magnificence, apprehension, memory, were his natur-
al gifts. And you objected that, although no one could deny
what I then said, still, if you leave words and look at facts, the
persons who are thus described are some of them manifestly
useless, and the greater number utterly depraved; we were
then led to enquire into the grounds of these accusations, and
have now arrived at the point of asking why are the majority
bad, which question of necessity brought us back to the exam-
ination and definition of the true philosopher.
Exactly.
And we have next to consider the corruptions of the philo-
sophic nature, why so many are spoiled and so few escape
spoiling—I am speaking of those who were said to be useless
but not wicked—and, when we have done with them, we will
speak of the imitators of philosophy, what manner of men are
they who aspire after a profession which is above them and of

420
which they are unworthy, and then, by their manifold inconsist-
encies, bring upon philosophy, and upon all philosophers, that
universal reprobation of which we speak.
What are these corruptions? he said.
I will see if I can explain them to you. Every one will admit
that a nature having in perfection all the qualities which we re-
quired in a philosopher, is a rare plant which is seldom seen
among men.
Rare indeed.
And what numberless and powerful causes tend to destroy
these rare natures!
What causes?
In the first place there are their own virtues, their courage,
temperance, and the rest of them, every one of which praise-
worthy qualities (and this is a most singular circumstance) des-
troys and distracts from philosophy the soul which is the pos-
sessor of them.
That is very singular, he replied.
Then there are all the ordinary goods of life—beauty, wealth,
strength, rank, and great connections in the State—you under-
stand the sort of things—these also have a corrupting and dis-
tracting effect.
I understand; but I should like to know more precisely what
you mean about them.
Grasp the truth as a whole, I said, and in the right way; you
will then have no difficulty in apprehending the preceding re-
marks, and they will no longer appear strange to you.
And how am I to do so? he asked.
Why, I said, we know that all germs or seeds, whether veget-
able or animal, when they fail to meet with proper nutriment or
climate or soil, in proportion to their vigour, are all the more
sensitive to the want of a suitable environment, for evil is a
greater enemy to what is good than to what is not.
Very true.
There is reason in supposing that the finest natures, when
under alien conditions, receive more injury than the inferior,
because the contrast is greater.
Certainly.
And may we not say, Adeimantus, that the most gifted minds,
when they are ill-educated, become pre-eminently bad? Do not

421
great crimes and the spirit of pure evil spring out of a fulness
of nature ruined by education rather than from any inferiority,
whereas weak natures are scarcely capable of any very great
good or very great evil?
There I think that you are right.
And our philosopher follows the same analogy—he is like a
plant which, having proper nurture, must necessarily grow and
mature into all virtue, but, if sown and planted in an alien soil,
becomes the most noxious of all weeds, unless he be preserved
by some divine power. Do you really think, as people so often
say, that our youth are corrupted by Sophists, or that private
teachers of the art corrupt them in any degree worth speaking
of? Are not the public who say these things the greatest of all
Sophists? And do they not educate to perfection young and old,
men and women alike, and fashion them after their own
hearts?
When is this accomplished? he said.
When they meet together, and the world sits down at an as-
sembly, or in a court of law, or a theatre, or a camp, or in any
other popular resort, and there is a great uproar, and they
praise some things which are being said or done, and blame
other things, equally exaggerating both, shouting and clapping
their hands, and the echo of the rocks and the place in which
they are assembled redoubles the sound of the praise or
blame—at such a time will not a young man's heart, as they
say, leap within him? Will any private training enable him to
stand firm against the overwhelming flood of popular opinion?
or will he be carried away by the stream? Will he not have the
notions of good and evil which the public in general have—he
will do as they do, and as they are, such will he be?
Yes, Socrates; necessity will compel him.
And yet, I said, there is a still greater necessity, which has
not been mentioned.
What is that?
The gentle force of attainder or confiscation or death, which,
as you are aware, these new Sophists and educators, who are
the public, apply when their words are powerless.
Indeed they do; and in right good earnest.
Now what opinion of any other Sophist, or of any private per-
son, can be expected to overcome in such an unequal contest?

422
 None, he replied.
No, indeed, I said, even to make the attempt is a great piece
of folly; there neither is, nor has been, nor is ever likely to be,
any different type of character which has had no other training
in virtue but that which is supplied by public opinion—I speak,
my friend, of human virtue only; what is more than human, as
the proverb says, is not included: for I would not have you ig-
norant that, in the present evil state of governments, whatever
is saved and comes to good is saved by the power of God, as
we may truly say.
I quite assent, he replied.
Then let me crave your assent also to a further observation.
What are you going to say?
Why, that all those mercenary individuals, whom the many
call Sophists and whom they deem to be their adversaries, do,
in fact, teach nothing but the opinion of the many, that is to
say, the opinions of their assemblies; and this is their wisdom. I
might compare them to a man who should study the tempers
and desires of a mighty strong beast who is fed by him—he
would learn how to approach and handle him, also at what
times and from what causes he is dangerous or the reverse,
and what is the meaning of his several cries, and by what
sounds, when another utters them, he is soothed or infuriated;
and you may suppose further, that when, by continually attend-
ing upon him, he has become perfect in all this, he calls his
knowledge wisdom, and makes of it a system or art, which he
proceeds to teach, although he has no real notion of what he
means by the principles or passions of which he is speaking,
but calls this honourable and that dishonourable, or good or
evil, or just or unjust, all in accordance with the tastes and
tempers of the great brute. Good he pronounces to be that in
which the beast delights and evil to be that which he dislikes;
and he can give no other account of them except that the just
and noble are the necessary, having never himself seen, and
having no power of explaining to others the nature of either, or
the difference between them, which is immense. By heaven,
would not such an one be a rare educator?
Indeed he would.
And in what way does he who thinks that wisdom is the dis-
cernment of the tempers and tastes of the motley multitude,

423
whether in painting or music, or, finally, in politics, differ from
him whom I have been describing? For when a man consorts
with the many, and exhibits to them his poem or other work of
art or the service which he has done the State, making them
his judges when he is not obliged, the so-called necessity of
Diomede will oblige him to produce whatever they praise. And
yet the reasons are utterly ludicrous which they give in con-
firmation of their own notions about the honourable and good.
Did you ever hear any of them which were not?
No, nor am I likely to hear.
You recognise the truth of what I have been saying? Then let
me ask you to consider further whether the world will ever be
induced to believe in the existence of absolute beauty rather
than of the many beautiful, or of the absolute in each kind
rather than of the many in each kind?
Certainly not.
Then the world cannot possibly be a philosopher?
Impossible.
And therefore philosophers must inevitably fall under the
censure of the world?
They must.
And of individuals who consort with the mob and seek to
please them?
That is evident.
Then, do you see any way in which the philosopher can be
preserved in his calling to the end? and remember what we
were saying of him, that he was to have quickness and memory
and courage and magnificence—these were admitted by us to
be the true philosopher's gifts.
Yes.
Will not such an one from his early childhood be in all things
first among all, especially if his bodily endowments are like his
mental ones?
Certainly, he said.
And his friends and fellow-citizens will want to use him as he
gets older for their own purposes?
No question.
Falling at his feet, they will make requests to him and do him
honour and flatter him, because they want to get into their
hands now, the power which he will one day possess.

424
 That often happens, he said.
And what will a man such as he is be likely to do under such
circumstances, especially if he be a citizen of a great city, rich
and noble, and a tall proper youth? Will he not be full of bound-
less aspirations, and fancy himself able to manage the affairs
of Hellenes and of barbarians, and having got such notions into
his head will he not dilate and elevate himself in the fulness of
vain pomp and senseless pride?
To be sure he will.
Now, when he is in this state of mind, if some one gently
comes to him and tells him that he is a fool and must get un-
derstanding, which can only be got by slaving for it, do you
think that, under such adverse circumstances, he will be easily
induced to listen?
Far otherwise.
And even if there be some one who through inherent good-
ness or natural reasonableness has had his eyes opened a little
and is humbled and taken captive by philosophy, how will his
friends behave when they think that they are likely to lose the
advantage which they were hoping to reap from his compan-
ionship? Will they not do and say anything to prevent him from
yielding to his better nature and to render his teacher power-
less, using to this end private intrigues as well as public
prosecutions?
There can be no doubt of it.
And how can one who is thus circumstanced ever become a
philosopher?
Impossible.
Then were we not right in saying that even the very qualities
which make a man a philosopher may, if he be ill-educated, di-
vert him from philosophy, no less than riches and their accom-
paniments and the other so-called goods of life?
We were quite right.
Thus, my excellent friend, is brought about all that ruin and
failure which I have been describing of the natures best adap-
ted to the best of all pursuits; they are natures which we main-
tain to be rare at any time; this being the class out of which
come the men who are the authors of the greatest evil to
States and individuals; and also of the greatest good when the

425
tide carries them in that direction; but a small man never was
the doer of any great thing either to individuals or to States.
That is most true, he said.
And so philosophy is left desolate, with her marriage rite in-
complete: for her own have fallen away and forsaken her, and
while they are leading a false and unbecoming life, other un-
worthy persons, seeing that she has no kinsmen to be her pro-
tectors, enter in and dishonour her; and fasten upon her the re-
proaches which, as you say, her reprovers utter, who affirm of
her votaries that some are good for nothing, and that the
greater number deserve the severest punishment.
That is certainly what people say.
Yes; and what else would you expect, I said, when you think
of the puny creatures who, seeing this land open to them—a
land well stocked with fair names and showy titles—like prison-
ers running out of prison into a sanctuary, take a leap out of
their trades into philosophy; those who do so being probably
the cleverest hands at their own miserable crafts? For, al-
though philosophy be in this evil case, still there remains a dig-
nity about her which is not to be found in the arts. And many
are thus attracted by her whose natures are imperfect and
whose souls are maimed and disfigured by their meannesses,
as their bodies are by their trades and crafts. Is not this
unavoidable?
Yes.
Are they not exactly like a bald little tinker who has just got
out of durance and come into a fortune; he takes a bath and
puts on a new coat, and is decked out as a bridegroom going to
marry his master's daughter, who is left poor and desolate?
A most exact parallel.
What will be the issue of such marriages? Will they not be
vile and bastard?
There can be no question of it.
And when persons who are unworthy of education approach
philosophy and make an alliance with her who is in a rank
above them what sort of ideas and opinions are likely to be
generated? Will they not be sophisms captivating to the ear,
having nothing in them genuine, or worthy of or akin to true
wisdom?
No doubt, he said.

426
 Then, Adeimantus, I said, the worthy disciples of philosophy
will be but a small remnant: perchance some noble and well-
educated person, detained by exile in her service, who in the
absence of corrupting influences remains devoted to her; or
some lofty soul born in a mean city, the politics of which he
contemns and neglects; and there may be a gifted few who
leave the arts, which they justly despise, and come to her;—or
peradventure there are some who are restrained by our friend
Theages' bridle; for everything in the life of Theages conspired
to divert him from philosophy; but ill-health kept him away
from politics. My own case of the internal sign is hardly worth
mentioning, for rarely, if ever, has such a monitor been given
to any other man. Those who belong to this small class have
tasted how sweet and blessed a possession philosophy is, and
have also seen enough of the madness of the multitude; and
they know that no politician is honest, nor is there any champi-
on of justice at whose side they may fight and be saved. Such
an one may be compared to a man who has fallen among wild
beasts—he will not join in the wickedness of his fellows, but
neither is he able singly to resist all their fierce natures, and
therefore seeing that he would be of no use to the State or to
his friends, and reflecting that he would have to throw away
his life without doing any good either to himself or others, he
holds his peace, and goes his own way. He is like one who, in
the storm of dust and sleet which the driving wind hurries
along, retires under the shelter of a wall; and seeing the rest of
mankind full of wickedness, he is content, if only he can live his
own life and be pure from evil or unrighteousness, and depart
in peace and good-will, with bright hopes.
Yes, he said, and he will have done a great work before he
departs.
A great work—yes; but not the greatest, unless he find a
State suitable to him; for in a State which is suitable to him, he
will have a larger growth and be the saviour of his country, as
well as of himself.
The causes why philosophy is in such an evil name have now
been sufficiently explained: the injustice of the charges against
her has been shown—is there anything more which you wish to
say?

427
 Nothing more on that subject, he replied; but I should like to
know which of the governments now existing is in your opinion
the one adapted to her.
Not any of them, I said; and that is precisely the accusation
which I bring against them—not one of them is worthy of the
philosophic nature, and hence that nature is warped and es-
tranged;—as the exotic seed which is sown in a foreign land
becomes denaturalized, and is wont to be overpowered and to
lose itself in the new soil, even so this growth of philosophy, in-
stead of persisting, degenerates and receives another charac-
ter. But if philosophy ever finds in the State that perfection
which she herself is, then will be seen that she is in truth di-
vine, and that all other things, whether natures of men or insti-
tutions, are but human;—and now, I know, that you are going
to ask, What that State is:
No, he said; there you are wrong, for I was going to ask an-
other question—whether it is the State of which we are the
founders and inventors, or some other?
Yes, I replied, ours in most respects; but you may remember
my saying before, that some living authority would always be
required in the State having the same idea of the constitution
which guided you when as legislator you were laying down the
laws.
That was said, he replied.
Yes, but not in a satisfactory manner; you frightened us by
interposing objections, which certainly showed that the discus-
sion would be long and difficult; and what still remains is the
reverse of easy.
What is there remaining?
The question how the study of philosophy may be so ordered
as not to be the ruin of the State: All great attempts are atten-
ded with risk; 'hard is the good,' as men say.
Still, he said, let the point be cleared up, and the enquiry will
then be complete.
I shall not be hindered, I said, by any want of will, but, if at
all, by a want of power: my zeal you may see for yourselves;
and please to remark in what I am about to say how boldly and
unhesitatingly I declare that States should pursue philosophy,
not as they do now, but in a different spirit.
In what manner?

428
 At present, I said, the students of philosophy are quite
young; beginning when they are hardly past childhood, they
devote only the time saved from moneymaking and housekeep-
ing to such pursuits; and even those of them who are reputed
to have most of the philosophic spirit, when they come within
sight of the great difficulty of the subject, I mean dialectic,
take themselves off. In after life when invited by some one else,
they may, perhaps, go and hear a lecture, and about this they
make much ado, for philosophy is not considered by them to be
their proper business: at last, when they grow old, in most
cases they are extinguished more truly than Heracleitus' sun,
inasmuch as they never light up again. (Heraclitus said that the
sun was extinguished every evening and relighted every
morning.)
But what ought to be their course?
Just the opposite. In childhood and youth their study, and
what philosophy they learn, should be suited to their tender
years: during this period while they are growing up towards
manhood, the chief and special care should be given to their
bodies that they may have them to use in the service of philo-
sophy; as life advances and the intellect begins to mature, let
them increase the gymnastics of the soul; but when the
strength of our citizens fails and is past civil and military du-
ties, then let them range at will and engage in no serious la-
bour, as we intend them to live happily here, and to crown this
life with a similar happiness in another.
How truly in earnest you are, Socrates! he said; I am sure of
that; and yet most of your hearers, if I am not mistaken, are
likely to be still more earnest in their opposition to you, and
will never be convinced; Thrasymachus least of all.
Do not make a quarrel, I said, between Thrasymachus and
me, who have recently become friends, although, indeed, we
were never enemies; for I shall go on striving to the utmost un-
til I either convert him and other men, or do something which
may profit them against the day when they live again, and hold
the like discourse in another state of existence.
You are speaking of a time which is not very near.
Rather, I replied, of a time which is as nothing in comparison
with eternity. Nevertheless, I do not wonder that the many re-
fuse to believe; for they have never seen that of which we are

429
now speaking realized; they have seen only a conventional im-
itation of philosophy, consisting of words artificially brought to-
gether, not like these of ours having a natural unity. But a hu-
man being who in word and work is perfectly moulded, as far
as he can be, into the proportion and likeness of virtue—such a
man ruling in a city which bears the same image, they have
never yet seen, neither one nor many of them—do you think
that they ever did?
No indeed.
No, my friend, and they have seldom, if ever, heard free and
noble sentiments; such as men utter when they are earnestly
and by every means in their power seeking after truth for the
sake of knowledge, while they look coldly on the subtleties of
controversy, of which the end is opinion and strife, whether
they meet with them in the courts of law or in society.
They are strangers, he said, to the words of which you speak.
And this was what we foresaw, and this was the reason why
truth forced us to admit, not without fear and hesitation, that
neither cities nor States nor individuals will ever attain perfec-
tion until the small class of philosophers whom we termed use-
less but not corrupt are providentially compelled, whether they
will or not, to take care of the State, and until a like necessity
be laid on the State to obey them; or until kings, or if not kings,
the sons of kings or princes, are divinely inspired with a true
love of true philosophy. That either or both of these alternat-
ives are impossible, I see no reason to affirm: if they were so,
we might indeed be justly ridiculed as dreamers and visionar-
ies. Am I not right?
Quite right.
If then, in the countless ages of the past, or at the present
hour in some foreign clime which is far away and beyond our
ken, the perfected philosopher is or has been or hereafter shall
be compelled by a superior power to have the charge of the
State, we are ready to assert to the death, that this our consti-
tution has been, and is—yea, and will be whenever the Muse of
Philosophy is queen. There is no impossibility in all this; that
there is a difficulty, we acknowledge ourselves.
My opinion agrees with yours, he said.
But do you mean to say that this is not the opinion of the
multitude?

430
 I should imagine not, he replied.
O my friend, I said, do not attack the multitude: they will
change their minds, if, not in an aggressive spirit, but gently
and with the view of soothing them and removing their dislike
of over-education, you show them your philosophers as they
really are and describe as you were just now doing their char-
acter and profession, and then mankind will see that he of
whom you are speaking is not such as they supposed—if they
view him in this new light, they will surely change their notion
of him, and answer in another strain. Who can be at enmity
with one who loves them, who that is himself gentle and free
from envy will be jealous of one in whom there is no jealousy?
Nay, let me answer for you, that in a few this harsh temper
may be found but not in the majority of mankind.
I quite agree with you, he said.
And do you not also think, as I do, that the harsh feeling
which the many entertain towards philosophy originates in the
pretenders, who rush in uninvited, and are always abusing
them, and finding fault with them, who make persons instead
of things the theme of their conversation? and nothing can be
more unbecoming in philosophers than this.
It is most unbecoming.
For he, Adeimantus, whose mind is fixed upon true being,
has surely no time to look down upon the affairs of earth, or to
be filled with malice and envy, contending against men; his eye
is ever directed towards things fixed and immutable, which he
sees neither injuring nor injured by one another, but all in or-
der moving according to reason; these he imitates, and to
these he will, as far as he can, conform himself. Can a man
help imitating that with which he holds reverential converse?
Impossible.
And the philosopher holding converse with the divine order,
becomes orderly and divine, as far as the nature of man allows;
but like every one else, he will suffer from detraction.
Of course.
And if a necessity be laid upon him of fashioning, not only
himself, but human nature generally, whether in States or indi-
viduals, into that which he beholds elsewhere, will he, think
you, be an unskilful artificer of justice, temperance, and every
civil virtue?

431
 Anything but unskilful.
And if the world perceives that what we are saying about him
is the truth, will they be angry with philosophy? Will they dis-
believe us, when we tell them that no State can be happy
which is not designed by artists who imitate the heavenly
pattern?
They will not be angry if they understand, he said. But how
will they draw out the plan of which you are speaking?
They will begin by taking the State and the manners of men,
from which, as from a tablet, they will rub out the picture, and
leave a clean surface. This is no easy task. But whether easy or
not, herein will lie the difference between them and every oth-
er legislator,—they will have nothing to do either with individu-
al or State, and will inscribe no laws, until they have either
found, or themselves made, a clean surface.
They will be very right, he said.
Having effected this, they will proceed to trace an outline of
the constitution?
No doubt.
And when they are filling in the work, as I conceive, they will
often turn their eyes upwards and downwards: I mean that
they will first look at absolute justice and beauty and temper-
ance, and again at the human copy; and will mingle and temper
the various elements of life into the image of a man; and this
they will conceive according to that other image, which, when
existing among men, Homer calls the form and likeness of God.
Very true, he said.
And one feature they will erase, and another they will put in,
until they have made the ways of men, as far as possible,
agreeable to the ways of God?
Indeed, he said, in no way could they make a fairer picture.
And now, I said, are we beginning to persuade those whom
you described as rushing at us with might and main, that the
painter of constitutions is such an one as we are praising; at
whom they were so very indignant because to his hands we
committed the State; and are they growing a little calmer at
what they have just heard?
Much calmer, if there is any sense in them.
Why, where can they still find any ground for objection? Will
they doubt that the philosopher is a lover of truth and being?

432
 They would not be so unreasonable.
Or that his nature, being such as we have delineated, is akin
to the highest good?
Neither can they doubt this.
But again, will they tell us that such a nature, placed under
favourable circumstances, will not be perfectly good and wise
if any ever was? Or will they prefer those whom we have
rejected?
Surely not.
Then will they still be angry at our saying, that, until philo-
sophers bear rule, States and individuals will have no rest from
evil, nor will this our imaginary State ever be realized?
I think that they will be less angry.
Shall we assume that they are not only less angry but quite
gentle, and that they have been converted and for very shame,
if for no other reason, cannot refuse to come to terms?
By all means, he said.
Then let us suppose that the reconciliation has been effected.
Will any one deny the other point, that there may be sons of
kings or princes who are by nature philosophers?
Surely no man, he said.
And when they have come into being will any one say that
they must of necessity be destroyed; that they can hardly be
saved is not denied even by us; but that in the whole course of
ages no single one of them can escape—who will venture to af-
firm this?
Who indeed!
But, said I, one is enough; let there be one man who has a
city obedient to his will, and he might bring into existence the
ideal polity about which the world is so incredulous.
Yes, one is enough.
The ruler may impose the laws and institutions which we
have been describing, and the citizens may possibly be willing
to obey them?
Certainly.
And that others should approve, of what we approve, is no
miracle or impossibility?
I think not.
But we have sufficiently shown, in what has preceded, that
all this, if only possible, is assuredly for the best.

433
 We have.
And now we say not only that our laws, if they could be en-
acted, would be for the best, but also that the enactment of
them, though difficult, is not impossible.
Very good.
And so with pain and toil we have reached the end of one
subject, but more remains to be discussed;—how and by what
studies and pursuits will the saviours of the constitution be cre-
ated, and at what ages are they to apply themselves to their
several studies?
Certainly.
I omitted the troublesome business of the possession of wo-
men, and the procreation of children, and the appointment of
the rulers, because I knew that the perfect State would be eyed
with jealousy and was difficult of attainment; but that piece of
cleverness was not of much service to me, for I had to discuss
them all the same. The women and children are now disposed
of, but the other question of the rulers must be investigated
from the very beginning. We were saying, as you will remem-
ber, that they were to be lovers of their country, tried by the
test of pleasures and pains, and neither in hardships, nor in
dangers, nor at any other critical moment were to lose their
patriotism—he was to be rejected who failed, but he who al-
ways came forth pure, like gold tried in the refiner's fire, was
to be made a ruler, and to receive honours and rewards in life
and after death. This was the sort of thing which was being
said, and then the argument turned aside and veiled her face;
not liking to stir the question which has now arisen.
I perfectly remember, he said.
Yes, my friend, I said, and I then shrank from hazarding the
bold word; but now let me dare to say—that the perfect guardi-
an must be a philosopher.
Yes, he said, let that be affirmed.
And do not suppose that there will be many of them; for the
gifts which were deemed by us to be essential rarely grow to-
gether; they are mostly found in shreds and patches.
What do you mean? he said.
You are aware, I replied, that quick intelligence, memory,
sagacity, cleverness, and similar qualities, do not often grow
together, and that persons who possess them and are at the

434
same time high-spirited and magnanimous are not so consti-
tuted by nature as to live orderly and in a peaceful and settled
manner; they are driven any way by their impulses, and all sol-
id principle goes out of them.
Very true, he said.
On the other hand, those steadfast natures which can better
be depended upon, which in a battle are impregnable to fear
and immovable, are equally immovable when there is anything
to be learned; they are always in a torpid state, and are apt to
yawn and go to sleep over any intellectual toil.
Quite true.
And yet we were saying that both qualities were necessary in
those to whom the higher education is to be imparted, and who
are to share in any office or command.
Certainly, he said.
And will they be a class which is rarely found?
Yes, indeed.
Then the aspirant must not only be tested in those labours
and dangers and pleasures which we mentioned before, but
there is another kind of probation which we did not men-
tion—he must be exercised also in many kinds of knowledge, to
see whether the soul will be able to endure the highest of all,
or will faint under them, as in any other studies and exercises.
Yes, he said, you are quite right in testing him. But what do
you mean by the highest of all knowledge?
You may remember, I said, that we divided the soul into
three parts; and distinguished the several natures of justice,
temperance, courage, and wisdom?
Indeed, he said, if I had forgotten, I should not deserve to
hear more.
And do you remember the word of caution which preceded
the discussion of them?
To what do you refer?
We were saying, if I am not mistaken, that he who wanted to
see them in their perfect beauty must take a longer and more
circuitous way, at the end of which they would appear; but that
we could add on a popular exposition of them on a level with
the discussion which had preceded. And you replied that such
an exposition would be enough for you, and so the enquiry was

435
continued in what to me seemed to be a very inaccurate man-
ner; whether you were satisfied or not, it is for you to say.
Yes, he said, I thought and the others thought that you gave
us a fair measure of truth.
But, my friend, I said, a measure of such things which in any
degree falls short of the whole truth is not fair measure; for
nothing imperfect is the measure of anything, although persons
are too apt to be contented and think that they need search no
further.
Not an uncommon case when people are indolent.
Yes, I said; and there cannot be any worse fault in a guardian
of the State and of the laws.
True.
The guardian then, I said, must be required to take the
longer circuit, and toil at learning as well as at gymnastics, or
he will never reach the highest knowledge of all which, as we
were just now saying, is his proper calling.
What, he said, is there a knowledge still higher than
this—higher than justice and the other virtues?
Yes, I said, there is. And of the virtues too we must behold
not the outline merely, as at present—nothing short of the most
finished picture should satisfy us. When little things are elabor-
ated with an infinity of pains, in order that they may appear in
their full beauty and utmost clearness, how ridiculous that we
should not think the highest truths worthy of attaining the
highest accuracy!
A right noble thought; but do you suppose that we shall re-
frain from asking you what is this highest knowledge?
Nay, I said, ask if you will; but I am certain that you have
heard the answer many times, and now you either do not un-
derstand me or, as I rather think, you are disposed to be
troublesome; for you have often been told that the idea of good
is the highest knowledge, and that all other things become use-
ful and advantageous only by their use of this. You can hardly
be ignorant that of this I was about to speak, concerning
which, as you have often heard me say, we know so little; and,
without which, any other knowledge or possession of any kind
will profit us nothing. Do you think that the possession of all
other things is of any value if we do not possess the good? or

436
the knowledge of all other things if we have no knowledge of
beauty and goodness?
Assuredly not.
You are further aware that most people affirm pleasure to be
the good, but the finer sort of wits say it is knowledge?
Yes.
And you are aware too that the latter cannot explain what
they mean by knowledge, but are obliged after all to say know-
ledge of the good?
How ridiculous!
Yes, I said, that they should begin by reproaching us with our
ignorance of the good, and then presume our knowledge of
it—for the good they define to be knowledge of the good, just
as if we understood them when they use the term 'good'—this
is of course ridiculous.
Most true, he said.
And those who make pleasure their good are in equal per-
plexity; for they are compelled to admit that there are bad
pleasures as well as good.
Certainly.
And therefore to acknowledge that bad and good are the
same?
True.
There can be no doubt about the numerous difficulties in
which this question is involved.
There can be none.
Further, do we not see that many are willing to do or to have
or to seem to be what is just and honourable without the real-
ity; but no one is satisfied with the appearance of good—the
reality is what they seek; in the case of the good, appearance is
despised by every one.
Very true, he said.
Of this then, which every soul of man pursues and makes the
end of all his actions, having a presentiment that there is such
an end, and yet hesitating because neither knowing the nature
nor having the same assurance of this as of other things, and
therefore losing whatever good there is in other things,—of a
principle such and so great as this ought the best men in our
State, to whom everything is entrusted, to be in the darkness
of ignorance?

437
 Certainly not, he said.
I am sure, I said, that he who does not know how the beauti-
ful and the just are likewise good will be but a sorry guardian
of them; and I suspect that no one who is ignorant of the good
will have a true knowledge of them.
That, he said, is a shrewd suspicion of yours.
And if we only have a guardian who has this knowledge our
State will be perfectly ordered?
Of course, he replied; but I wish that you would tell me
whether you conceive this supreme principle of the good to be
knowledge or pleasure, or different from either?
Aye, I said, I knew all along that a fastidious gentleman like
you would not be contented with the thoughts of other people
about these matters.
True, Socrates; but I must say that one who like you has
passed a lifetime in the study of philosophy should not be al-
ways repeating the opinions of others, and never telling his
own.
Well, but has any one a right to say positively what he does
not know?
Not, he said, with the assurance of positive certainty; he has
no right to do that: but he may say what he thinks, as a matter
of opinion.
And do you not know, I said, that all mere opinions are bad,
and the best of them blind? You would not deny that those who
have any true notion without intelligence are only like blind
men who feel their way along the road?
Very true.
And do you wish to behold what is blind and crooked and
base, when others will tell you of brightness and beauty?
Still, I must implore you, Socrates, said Glaucon, not to turn
away just as you are reaching the goal; if you will only give
such an explanation of the good as you have already given of
justice and temperance and the other virtues, we shall be
satisfied.
Yes, my friend, and I shall be at least equally satisfied, but I
cannot help fearing that I shall fail, and that my indiscreet zeal
will bring ridicule upon me. No, sweet sirs, let us not at
present ask what is the actual nature of the good, for to reach
what is now in my thoughts would be an effort too great for

438
me. But of the child of the good who is likest him, I would fain
speak, if I could be sure that you wished to hear—otherwise,
not.
By all means, he said, tell us about the child, and you shall
remain in our debt for the account of the parent.
I do indeed wish, I replied, that I could pay, and you receive,
the account of the parent, and not, as now, of the offspring
only; take, however, this latter by way of interest, and at the
same time have a care that I do not render a false account, al-
though I have no intention of deceiving you.
Yes, we will take all the care that we can: proceed.
Yes, I said, but I must first come to an understanding with
you, and remind you of what I have mentioned in the course of
this discussion, and at many other times.
What?
The old story, that there is a many beautiful and a many
good, and so of other things which we describe and define; to
all of them the term 'many' is applied.
True, he said.
And there is an absolute beauty and an absolute good, and of
other things to which the term 'many' is applied there is an ab-
solute; for they may be brought under a single idea, which is
called the essence of each.
Very true.
The many, as we say, are seen but not known, and the ideas
are known but not seen.
Exactly.
And what is the organ with which we see the visible things?
The sight, he said.
And with the hearing, I said, we hear, and with the other
senses perceive the other objects of sense?
True.
But have you remarked that sight is by far the most costly
and complex piece of workmanship which the artificer of the
senses ever contrived?
No, I never have, he said.
Then reflect; has the ear or voice need of any third or addi-
tional nature in order that the one may be able to hear and the
other to be heard?
Nothing of the sort.

439
 No, indeed, I replied; and the same is true of most, if not all,
the other senses—you would not say that any of them requires
such an addition?
Certainly not.
But you see that without the addition of some other nature
there is no seeing or being seen?
How do you mean?
Sight being, as I conceive, in the eyes, and he who has eyes
wanting to see; colour being also present in them, still unless
there be a third nature specially adapted to the purpose, the
owner of the eyes will see nothing and the colours will be
invisible.
Of what nature are you speaking?
Of that which you term light, I replied.
True, he said.
Noble, then, is the bond which links together sight and visib-
ility, and great beyond other bonds by no small difference of
nature; for light is their bond, and light is no ignoble thing?
Nay, he said, the reverse of ignoble.
And which, I said, of the gods in heaven would you say was
the lord of this element? Whose is that light which makes the
eye to see perfectly and the visible to appear?
You mean the sun, as you and all mankind say.
May not the relation of sight to this deity be described as
follows?
How?
Neither sight nor the eye in which sight resides is the sun?
No.
Yet of all the organs of sense the eye is the most like the sun?
By far the most like.
And the power which the eye possesses is a sort of effluence
which is dispensed from the sun?
Exactly.
Then the sun is not sight, but the author of sight who is re-
cognised by sight?
True, he said.
And this is he whom I call the child of the good, whom the
good begat in his own likeness, to be in the visible world, in re-
lation to sight and the things of sight, what the good is in the
intellectual world in relation to mind and the things of mind:

440
 Will you be a little more explicit? he said.
Why, you know, I said, that the eyes, when a person directs
them towards objects on which the light of day is no longer
shining, but the moon and stars only, see dimly, and are nearly
blind; they seem to have no clearness of vision in them?
Very true.
But when they are directed towards objects on which the sun
shines, they see clearly and there is sight in them?
Certainly.
And the soul is like the eye: when resting upon that on which
truth and being shine, the soul perceives and understands, and
is radiant with intelligence; but when turned towards the twi-
light of becoming and perishing, then she has opinion only, and
goes blinking about, and is first of one opinion and then of an-
other, and seems to have no intelligence?
Just so.
Now, that which imparts truth to the known and the power of
knowing to the knower is what I would have you term the idea
of good, and this you will deem to be the cause of science, and
of truth in so far as the latter becomes the subject of know-
ledge; beautiful too, as are both truth and knowledge, you will
be right in esteeming this other nature as more beautiful than
either; and, as in the previous instance, light and sight may be
truly said to be like the sun, and yet not to be the sun, so in
this other sphere, science and truth may be deemed to be like
the good, but not the good; the good has a place of honour yet
higher.
What a wonder of beauty that must be, he said, which is the
author of science and truth, and yet surpasses them in beauty;
for you surely cannot mean to say that pleasure is the good?
God forbid, I replied; but may I ask you to consider the image
in another point of view?
In what point of view?
You would say, would you not, that the sun is not only the au-
thor of visibility in all visible things, but of generation and
nourishment and growth, though he himself is not generation?
Certainly.
In like manner the good may be said to be not only the au-
thor of knowledge to all things known, but of their being and

441
essence, and yet the good is not essence, but far exceeds es-
sence in dignity and power.
Glaucon said, with a ludicrous earnestness: By the light of
heaven, how amazing!
Yes, I said, and the exaggeration may be set down to you; for
you made me utter my fancies.
And pray continue to utter them; at any rate let us hear if
there is anything more to be said about the similitude of the
sun.
Yes, I said, there is a great deal more.
Then omit nothing, however slight.
I will do my best, I said; but I should think that a great deal
will have to be omitted.
I hope not, he said.
You have to imagine, then, that there are two ruling powers,
and that one of them is set over the intellectual world, the oth-
er over the visible. I do not say heaven, lest you should fancy
that I am playing upon the name ('ourhanoz, orhatoz'). May I
suppose that you have this distinction of the visible and intelli-
gible fixed in your mind?
I have.
Now take a line which has been cut into two unequal parts,
and divide each of them again in the same proportion, and sup-
pose the two main divisions to answer, one to the visible and
the other to the intelligible, and then compare the subdivisions
in respect of their clearness and want of clearness, and you
will find that the first section in the sphere of the visible con-
sists of images. And by images I mean, in the first place, shad-
ows, and in the second place, reflections in water and in solid,
smooth and polished bodies and the like: Do you understand?
Yes, I understand.
Imagine, now, the other section, of which this is only the re-
semblance, to include the animals which we see, and
everything that grows or is made.
Very good.
Would you not admit that both the sections of this division
have different degrees of truth, and that the copy is to the ori-
ginal as the sphere of opinion is to the sphere of knowledge?
Most undoubtedly.

442
 Next proceed to consider the manner in which the sphere of
the intellectual is to be divided.
In what manner?
Thus:—There are two subdivisions, in the lower of which the
soul uses the figures given by the former division as images;
the enquiry can only be hypothetical, and instead of going up-
wards to a principle descends to the other end; in the higher of
the two, the soul passes out of hypotheses, and goes up to a
principle which is above hypotheses, making no use of images
as in the former case, but proceeding only in and through the
ideas themselves.
I do not quite understand your meaning, he said.
Then I will try again; you will understand me better when I
have made some preliminary remarks. You are aware that stu-
dents of geometry, arithmetic, and the kindred sciences as-
sume the odd and the even and the figures and three kinds of
angles and the like in their several branches of science; these
are their hypotheses, which they and every body are supposed
to know, and therefore they do not deign to give any account of
them either to themselves or others; but they begin with them,
and go on until they arrive at last, and in a consistent manner,
at their conclusion?
Yes, he said, I know.
And do you not know also that although they make use of the
visible forms and reason about them, they are thinking not of
these, but of the ideals which they resemble; not of the figures
which they draw, but of the absolute square and the absolute
diameter, and so on—the forms which they draw or make, and
which have shadows and reflections in water of their own, are
converted by them into images, but they are really seeking to
behold the things themselves, which can only be seen with the
eye of the mind?
That is true.
And of this kind I spoke as the intelligible, although in the
search after it the soul is compelled to use hypotheses; not as-
cending to a first principle, because she is unable to rise above
the region of hypothesis, but employing the objects of which
the shadows below are resemblances in their turn as images,
they having in relation to the shadows and reflections of them
a greater distinctness, and therefore a higher value.

443
 I understand, he said, that you are speaking of the province
of geometry and the sister arts.
And when I speak of the other division of the intelligible, you
will understand me to speak of that other sort of knowledge
which reason herself attains by the power of dialectic, using
the hypotheses not as first principles, but only as hypo-
theses—that is to say, as steps and points of departure into a
world which is above hypotheses, in order that she may soar
beyond them to the first principle of the whole; and clinging to
this and then to that which depends on this, by successive
steps she descends again without the aid of any sensible ob-
ject, from ideas, through ideas, and in ideas she ends.
I understand you, he replied; not perfectly, for you seem to
me to be describing a task which is really tremendous; but, at
any rate, I understand you to say that knowledge and being,
which the science of dialectic contemplates, are clearer than
the notions of the arts, as they are termed, which proceed from
hypotheses only: these are also contemplated by the under-
standing, and not by the senses: yet, because they start from
hypotheses and do not ascend to a principle, those who con-
template them appear to you not to exercise the higher reason
upon them, although when a first principle is added to them
they are cognizable by the higher reason. And the habit which
is concerned with geometry and the cognate sciences I sup-
pose that you would term understanding and not reason, as be-
ing intermediate between opinion and reason.
You have quite conceived my meaning, I said; and now, cor-
responding to these four divisions, let there be four faculties in
the soul—reason answering to the highest, understanding to
the second, faith (or conviction) to the third, and perception of
shadows to the last—and let there be a scale of them, and let
us suppose that the several faculties have clearness in the
same degree that their objects have truth.
I understand, he replied, and give my assent, and accept
your arrangement.

444
Part 7

445
And now, I said, let me show in a figure how far our nature is
enlightened or unenlightened:—Behold! human beings living in
a underground den, which has a mouth open towards the light
and reaching all along the den; here they have been from their
childhood, and have their legs and necks chained so that they
cannot move, and can only see before them, being prevented
by the chains from turning round their heads. Above and be-
hind them a fire is blazing at a distance, and between the fire
and the prisoners there is a raised way; and you will see, if you
look, a low wall built along the way, like the screen which mari-
onette players have in front of them, over which they show the
puppets.
I see.
And do you see, I said, men passing along the wall carrying
all sorts of vessels, and statues and figures of animals made of
wood and stone and various materials, which appear over the
wall? Some of them are talking, others silent.
You have shown me a strange image, and they are strange
prisoners.
Like ourselves, I replied; and they see only their own shad-
ows, or the shadows of one another, which the fire throws on
the opposite wall of the cave?
True, he said; how could they see anything but the shadows
if they were never allowed to move their heads?
And of the objects which are being carried in like manner
they would only see the shadows?
Yes, he said.
And if they were able to converse with one another, would
they not suppose that they were naming what was actually be-
fore them?
Very true.
And suppose further that the prison had an echo which came
from the other side, would they not be sure to fancy when one
of the passers-by spoke that the voice which they heard came
from the passing shadow?
No question, he replied.
To them, I said, the truth would be literally nothing but the
shadows of the images.
That is certain.

446
 And now look again, and see what will naturally follow if the
prisoners are released and disabused of their error. At first,
when any of them is liberated and compelled suddenly to stand
up and turn his neck round and walk and look towards the
light, he will suffer sharp pains; the glare will distress him, and
he will be unable to see the realities of which in his former
state he had seen the shadows; and then conceive some one
saying to him, that what he saw before was an illusion, but that
now, when he is approaching nearer to being and his eye is
turned towards more real existence, he has a clearer vis-
ion,—what will be his reply? And you may further imagine that
his instructor is pointing to the objects as they pass and requir-
ing him to name them,—will he not be perplexed? Will he not
fancy that the shadows which he formerly saw are truer than
the objects which are now shown to him?
Far truer.
And if he is compelled to look straight at the light, will he not
have a pain in his eyes which will make him turn away to take
refuge in the objects of vision which he can see, and which he
will conceive to be in reality clearer than the things which are
now being shown to him?
True, he said.
And suppose once more, that he is reluctantly dragged up a
steep and rugged ascent, and held fast until he is forced into
the presence of the sun himself, is he not likely to be pained
and irritated? When he approaches the light his eyes will be
dazzled, and he will not be able to see anything at all of what
are now called realities.
Not all in a moment, he said.
He will require to grow accustomed to the sight of the upper
world. And first he will see the shadows best, next the reflec-
tions of men and other objects in the water, and then the ob-
jects themselves; then he will gaze upon the light of the moon
and the stars and the spangled heaven; and he will see the sky
and the stars by night better than the sun or the light of the
sun by day?
Certainly.
Last of all he will be able to see the sun, and not mere reflec-
tions of him in the water, but he will see him in his own proper
place, and not in another; and he will contemplate him as he is.

447
 Certainly.
He will then proceed to argue that this is he who gives the
season and the years, and is the guardian of all that is in the
visible world, and in a certain way the cause of all things which
he and his fellows have been accustomed to behold?
Clearly, he said, he would first see the sun and then reason
about him.
And when he remembered his old habitation, and the wisdom
of the den and his fellow-prisoners, do you not suppose that he
would felicitate himself on the change, and pity them?
Certainly, he would.
And if they were in the habit of conferring honours among
themselves on those who were quickest to observe the passing
shadows and to remark which of them went before, and which
followed after, and which were together; and who were there-
fore best able to draw conclusions as to the future, do you
think that he would care for such honours and glories, or envy
the possessors of them? Would he not say with Homer,
'Better to be the poor servant of a poor master,'
and to endure anything, rather than think as they do and live
after their manner?
Yes, he said, I think that he would rather suffer anything
than entertain these false notions and live in this miserable
manner.
Imagine once more, I said, such an one coming suddenly out
of the sun to be replaced in his old situation; would he not be
certain to have his eyes full of darkness?
To be sure, he said.
And if there were a contest, and he had to compete in meas-
uring the shadows with the prisoners who had never moved out
of the den, while his sight was still weak, and before his eyes
had become steady (and the time which would be needed to ac-
quire this new habit of sight might be very considerable),
would he not be ridiculous? Men would say of him that up he
went and down he came without his eyes; and that it was bet-
ter not even to think of ascending; and if any one tried to loose
another and lead him up to the light, let them only catch the of-
fender, and they would put him to death.
No question, he said.

448
 This entire allegory, I said, you may now append, dear Glauc-
on, to the previous argument; the prison-house is the world of
sight, the light of the fire is the sun, and you will not misappre-
hend me if you interpret the journey upwards to be the ascent
of the soul into the intellectual world according to my poor be-
lief, which, at your desire, I have expressed—whether rightly
or wrongly God knows. But, whether true or false, my opinion
is that in the world of knowledge the idea of good appears last
of all, and is seen only with an effort; and, when seen, is also
inferred to be the universal author of all things beautiful and
right, parent of light and of the lord of light in this visible
world, and the immediate source of reason and truth in the in-
tellectual; and that this is the power upon which he who would
act rationally either in public or private life must have his eye
fixed.
I agree, he said, as far as I am able to understand you.
Moreover, I said, you must not wonder that those who attain
to this beatific vision are unwilling to descend to human af-
fairs; for their souls are ever hastening into the upper world
where they desire to dwell; which desire of theirs is very natur-
al, if our allegory may be trusted.
Yes, very natural.
And is there anything surprising in one who passes from di-
vine contemplations to the evil state of man, misbehaving him-
self in a ridiculous manner; if, while his eyes are blinking and
before he has become accustomed to the surrounding dark-
ness, he is compelled to fight in courts of law, or in other
places, about the images or the shadows of images of justice,
and is endeavouring to meet the conceptions of those who have
never yet seen absolute justice?
Anything but surprising, he replied.
Any one who has common sense will remember that the be-
wilderments of the eyes are of two kinds, and arise from two
causes, either from coming out of the light or from going into
the light, which is true of the mind's eye, quite as much as of
the bodily eye; and he who remembers this when he sees any
one whose vision is perplexed and weak, will not be too ready
to laugh; he will first ask whether that soul of man has come
out of the brighter life, and is unable to see because unaccus-
tomed to the dark, or having turned from darkness to the day

449
is dazzled by excess of light. And he will count the one happy in
his condition and state of being, and he will pity the other; or,
if he have a mind to laugh at the soul which comes from below
into the light, there will be more reason in this than in the
laugh which greets him who returns from above out of the light
into the den.
That, he said, is a very just distinction.
But then, if I am right, certain professors of education must
be wrong when they say that they can put a knowledge into the
soul which was not there before, like sight into blind eyes.
They undoubtedly say this, he replied.
Whereas, our argument shows that the power and capacity of
learning exists in the soul already; and that just as the eye was
unable to turn from darkness to light without the whole body,
so too the instrument of knowledge can only by the movement
of the whole soul be turned from the world of becoming into
that of being, and learn by degrees to endure the sight of be-
ing, and of the brightest and best of being, or in other words,
of the good.
Very true.
And must there not be some art which will effect conversion
in the easiest and quickest manner; not implanting the faculty
of sight, for that exists already, but has been turned in the
wrong direction, and is looking away from the truth?
Yes, he said, such an art may be presumed.
And whereas the other so-called virtues of the soul seem to
be akin to bodily qualities, for even when they are not origin-
ally innate they can be implanted later by habit and exercise,
the virtue of wisdom more than anything else contains a divine
element which always remains, and by this conversion is
rendered useful and profitable; or, on the other hand, hurtful
and useless. Did you never observe the narrow intelligence
flashing from the keen eye of a clever rogue—how eager he is,
how clearly his paltry soul sees the way to his end; he is the re-
verse of blind, but his keen eye-sight is forced into the service
of evil, and he is mischievous in proportion to his cleverness?
Very true, he said.
But what if there had been a circumcision of such natures in
the days of their youth; and they had been severed from those
sensual pleasures, such as eating and drinking, which, like

450
leaden weights, were attached to them at their birth, and
which drag them down and turn the vision of their souls upon
the things that are below—if, I say, they had been released
from these impediments and turned in the opposite direction,
the very same faculty in them would have seen the truth as
keenly as they see what their eyes are turned to now.
Very likely.
Yes, I said; and there is another thing which is likely, or
rather a necessary inference from what has preceded, that
neither the uneducated and uninformed of the truth, nor yet
those who never make an end of their education, will be able
ministers of State; not the former, because they have no single
aim of duty which is the rule of all their actions, private as well
as public; nor the latter, because they will not act at all except
upon compulsion, fancying that they are already dwelling apart
in the islands of the blest.
Very true, he replied.
Then, I said, the business of us who are the founders of the
State will be to compel the best minds to attain that knowledge
which we have already shown to be the greatest of all—they
must continue to ascend until they arrive at the good; but
when they have ascended and seen enough we must not allow
them to do as they do now.
What do you mean?
I mean that they remain in the upper world: but this must not
be allowed; they must be made to descend again among the
prisoners in the den, and partake of their labours and honours,
whether they are worth having or not.
But is not this unjust? he said; ought we to give them a worse
life, when they might have a better?
You have again forgotten, my friend, I said, the intention of
the legislator, who did not aim at making any one class in the
State happy above the rest; the happiness was to be in the
whole State, and he held the citizens together by persuasion
and necessity, making them benefactors of the State, and
therefore benefactors of one another; to this end he created
them, not to please themselves, but to be his instruments in
binding up the State.
True, he said, I had forgotten.

451
 Observe, Glaucon, that there will be no injustice in compel-
ling our philosophers to have a care and providence of others;
we shall explain to them that in other States, men of their class
are not obliged to share in the toils of politics: and this is reas-
onable, for they grow up at their own sweet will, and the gov-
ernment would rather not have them. Being self-taught, they
cannot be expected to show any gratitude for a culture which
they have never received. But we have brought you into the
world to be rulers of the hive, kings of yourselves and of the
other citizens, and have educated you far better and more per-
fectly than they have been educated, and you are better able to
share in the double duty. Wherefore each of you, when his turn
comes, must go down to the general underground abode, and
get the habit of seeing in the dark. When you have acquired
the habit, you will see ten thousand times better than the in-
habitants of the den, and you will know what the several im-
ages are, and what they represent, because you have seen the
beautiful and just and good in their truth. And thus our State,
which is also yours, will be a reality, and not a dream only, and
will be administered in a spirit unlike that of other States, in
which men fight with one another about shadows only and are
distracted in the struggle for power, which in their eyes is a
great good. Whereas the truth is that the State in which the
rulers are most reluctant to govern is always the best and most
quietly governed, and the State in which they are most eager,
the worst.
Quite true, he replied.
And will our pupils, when they hear this, refuse to take their
turn at the toils of State, when they are allowed to spend the
greater part of their time with one another in the heavenly
light?
Impossible, he answered; for they are just men, and the com-
mands which we impose upon them are just; there can be no
doubt that every one of them will take office as a stern neces-
sity, and not after the fashion of our present rulers of State.
Yes, my friend, I said; and there lies the point. You must con-
trive for your future rulers another and a better life than that
of a ruler, and then you may have a well-ordered State; for only
in the State which offers this, will they rule who are truly rich,
not in silver and gold, but in virtue and wisdom, which are the

452
true blessings of life. Whereas if they go to the administration
of public affairs, poor and hungering after their own private
advantage, thinking that hence they are to snatch the chief
good, order there can never be; for they will be fighting about
office, and the civil and domestic broils which thus arise will be
the ruin of the rulers themselves and of the whole State.
Most true, he replied.
And the only life which looks down upon the life of political
ambition is that of true philosophy. Do you know of any other?
Indeed, I do not, he said.
And those who govern ought not to be lovers of the task?
For, if they are, there will be rival lovers, and they will fight.
No question.
Who then are those whom we shall compel to be guardians?
Surely they will be the men who are wisest about affairs of
State, and by whom the State is best administered, and who at
the same time have other honours and another and a better life
than that of politics?
They are the men, and I will choose them, he replied.
And now shall we consider in what way such guardians will
be produced, and how they are to be brought from darkness to
light,—as some are said to have ascended from the world be-
low to the gods?
By all means, he replied.
The process, I said, is not the turning over of an oyster-shell
(In allusion to a game in which two parties fled or pursued ac-
cording as an oyster-shell which was thrown into the air fell
with the dark or light side uppermost.), but the turning round
of a soul passing from a day which is little better than night to
the true day of being, that is, the ascent from below, which we
affirm to be true philosophy?
Quite so.
And should we not enquire what sort of knowledge has the
power of effecting such a change?
Certainly.
What sort of knowledge is there which would draw the soul
from becoming to being? And another consideration has just
occurred to me: You will remember that our young men are to
be warrior athletes?
Yes, that was said.

453
 Then this new kind of knowledge must have an additional
quality?
What quality?
Usefulness in war.
Yes, if possible.
There were two parts in our former scheme of education,
were there not?
Just so.
There was gymnastic which presided over the growth and de-
cay of the body, and may therefore be regarded as having to do
with generation and corruption?
True.
Then that is not the knowledge which we are seeking to
discover?
No.
But what do you say of music, which also entered to a certain
extent into our former scheme?
Music, he said, as you will remember, was the counterpart of
gymnastic, and trained the guardians by the influences of
habit, by harmony making them harmonious, by rhythm rhyth-
mical, but not giving them science; and the words, whether
fabulous or possibly true, had kindred elements of rhythm and
harmony in them. But in music there was nothing which tended
to that good which you are now seeking.
You are most accurate, I said, in your recollection; in music
there certainly was nothing of the kind. But what branch of
knowledge is there, my dear Glaucon, which is of the desired
nature; since all the useful arts were reckoned mean by us?
Undoubtedly; and yet if music and gymnastic are excluded,
and the arts are also excluded, what remains?
Well, I said, there may be nothing left of our special subjects;
and then we shall have to take something which is not special,
but of universal application.
What may that be?
A something which all arts and sciences and intelligences
use in common, and which every one first has to learn among
the elements of education.
What is that?

454
 The little matter of distinguishing one, two, and three—in a
word, number and calculation:—do not all arts and sciences ne-
cessarily partake of them?
Yes.
Then the art of war partakes of them?
To be sure.
Then Palamedes, whenever he appears in tragedy, proves
Agamemnon ridiculously unfit to be a general. Did you never
remark how he declares that he had invented number, and had
numbered the ships and set in array the ranks of the army at
Troy; which implies that they had never been numbered be-
fore, and Agamemnon must be supposed literally to have been
incapable of counting his own feet—how could he if he was ig-
norant of number? And if that is true, what sort of general
must he have been?
I should say a very strange one, if this was as you say.
Can we deny that a warrior should have a knowledge of
arithmetic?
Certainly he should, if he is to have the smallest understand-
ing of military tactics, or indeed, I should rather say, if he is to
be a man at all.
I should like to know whether you have the same notion
which I have of this study?
What is your notion?
It appears to me to be a study of the kind which we are seek-
ing, and which leads naturally to reflection, but never to have
been rightly used; for the true use of it is simply to draw the
soul towards being.
Will you explain your meaning? he said.
I will try, I said; and I wish you would share the enquiry with
me, and say 'yes' or 'no' when I attempt to distinguish in my
own mind what branches of knowledge have this attracting
power, in order that we may have clearer proof that arithmetic
is, as I suspect, one of them.
Explain, he said.
I mean to say that objects of sense are of two kinds; some of
them do not invite thought because the sense is an adequate
judge of them; while in the case of other objects sense is so un-
trustworthy that further enquiry is imperatively demanded.

455
 You are clearly referring, he said, to the manner in which the
senses are imposed upon by distance, and by painting in light
and shade.
No, I said, that is not at all my meaning.
Then what is your meaning?
When speaking of uninviting objects, I mean those which do
not pass from one sensation to the opposite; inviting objects
are those which do; in this latter case the sense coming upon
the object, whether at a distance or near, gives no more vivid
idea of anything in particular than of its opposite. An illustra-
tion will make my meaning clearer:—here are three fingers—a
little finger, a second finger, and a middle finger.
Very good.
You may suppose that they are seen quite close: And here
comes the point.
What is it?
Each of them equally appears a finger, whether seen in the
middle or at the extremity, whether white or black, or thick or
thin—it makes no difference; a finger is a finger all the same.
In these cases a man is not compelled to ask of thought the
question what is a finger? for the sight never intimates to the
mind that a finger is other than a finger.
True.
And therefore, I said, as we might expect, there is nothing
here which invites or excites intelligence.
There is not, he said.
But is this equally true of the greatness and smallness of the
fingers? Can sight adequately perceive them? and is no differ-
ence made by the circumstance that one of the fingers is in the
middle and another at the extremity? And in like manner does
the touch adequately perceive the qualities of thickness or
thinness, of softness or hardness? And so of the other senses;
do they give perfect intimations of such matters? Is not their
mode of operation on this wise—the sense which is concerned
with the quality of hardness is necessarily concerned also with
the quality of softness, and only intimates to the soul that the
same thing is felt to be both hard and soft?
You are quite right, he said.
And must not the soul be perplexed at this intimation which
the sense gives of a hard which is also soft? What, again, is the

456
meaning of light and heavy, if that which is light is also heavy,
and that which is heavy, light?
Yes, he said, these intimations which the soul receives are
very curious and require to be explained.
Yes, I said, and in these perplexities the soul naturally sum-
mons to her aid calculation and intelligence, that she may see
whether the several objects announced to her are one or two.
True.
And if they turn out to be two, is not each of them one and
different?
Certainly.
And if each is one, and both are two, she will conceive the
two as in a state of division, for if there were undivided they
could only be conceived of as one?
True.
The eye certainly did see both small and great, but only in a
confused manner; they were not distinguished.
Yes.
Whereas the thinking mind, intending to light up the chaos,
was compelled to reverse the process, and look at small and
great as separate and not confused.
Very true.
Was not this the beginning of the enquiry 'What is great?'
and 'What is small?'
Exactly so.
And thus arose the distinction of the visible and the
intelligible.
Most true.
This was what I meant when I spoke of impressions which in-
vited the intellect, or the reverse—those which are simultan-
eous with opposite impressions, invite thought; those which
are not simultaneous do not.
I understand, he said, and agree with you.
And to which class do unity and number belong?
I do not know, he replied.
Think a little and you will see that what has preceded will
supply the answer; for if simple unity could be adequately per-
ceived by the sight or by any other sense, then, as we were
saying in the case of the finger, there would be nothing to at-
tract towards being; but when there is some contradiction

457
always present, and one is the reverse of one and involves the
conception of plurality, then thought begins to be aroused
within us, and the soul perplexed and wanting to arrive at a de-
cision asks 'What is absolute unity?' This is the way in which
the study of the one has a power of drawing and converting the
mind to the contemplation of true being.
And surely, he said, this occurs notably in the case of one; for
we see the same thing to be both one and infinite in multitude?
Yes, I said; and this being true of one must be equally true of
all number?
Certainly.
And all arithmetic and calculation have to do with number?
Yes.
And they appear to lead the mind towards truth?
Yes, in a very remarkable manner.
Then this is knowledge of the kind for which we are seeking,
having a double use, military and philosophical; for the man of
war must learn the art of number or he will not know how to
array his troops, and the philosopher also, because he has to
rise out of the sea of change and lay hold of true being, and
therefore he must be an arithmetician.
That is true.
And our guardian is both warrior and philosopher?
Certainly.
Then this is a kind of knowledge which legislation may fitly
prescribe; and we must endeavour to persuade those who are
to be the principal men of our State to go and learn arithmetic,
not as amateurs, but they must carry on the study until they
see the nature of numbers with the mind only; nor again, like
merchants or retail-traders, with a view to buying or selling,
but for the sake of their military use, and of the soul herself;
and because this will be the easiest way for her to pass from
becoming to truth and being.
That is excellent, he said.
Yes, I said, and now having spoken of it, I must add how
charming the science is! and in how many ways it conduces to
our desired end, if pursued in the spirit of a philosopher, and
not of a shopkeeper!
How do you mean?

458
 I mean, as I was saying, that arithmetic has a very great and
elevating effect, compelling the soul to reason about abstract
number, and rebelling against the introduction of visible or
tangible objects into the argument. You know how steadily the
masters of the art repel and ridicule any one who attempts to
divide absolute unity when he is calculating, and if you divide,
they multiply (Meaning either (1) that they integrate the num-
ber because they deny the possibility of fractions; or (2) that
division is regarded by them as a process of multiplication, for
the fractions of one continue to be units.), taking care that one
shall continue one and not become lost in fractions.
That is very true.
Now, suppose a person were to say to them: O my friends,
what are these wonderful numbers about which you are reas-
oning, in which, as you say, there is a unity such as you de-
mand, and each unit is equal, invariable, indivisible,—what
would they answer?
They would answer, as I should conceive, that they were
speaking of those numbers which can only be realized in
thought.
Then you see that this knowledge may be truly called neces-
sary, necessitating as it clearly does the use of the pure intelli-
gence in the attainment of pure truth?
Yes; that is a marked characteristic of it.
And have you further observed, that those who have a natur-
al talent for calculation are generally quick at every other kind
of knowledge; and even the dull, if they have had an arithmet-
ical training, although they may derive no other advantage
from it, always become much quicker than they would other-
wise have been.
Very true, he said.
And indeed, you will not easily find a more difficult study,
and not many as difficult.
You will not.
And, for all these reasons, arithmetic is a kind of knowledge
in which the best natures should be trained, and which must
not be given up.
I agree.

459
 Let this then be made one of our subjects of education. And
next, shall we enquire whether the kindred science also con-
cerns us?
You mean geometry?
Exactly so.
Clearly, he said, we are concerned with that part of geometry
which relates to war; for in pitching a camp, or taking up a po-
sition, or closing or extending the lines of an army, or any oth-
er military manoeuvre, whether in actual battle or on a march,
it will make all the difference whether a general is or is not a
geometrician.
Yes, I said, but for that purpose a very little of either geo-
metry or calculation will be enough; the question relates rather
to the greater and more advanced part of geometry—whether
that tends in any degree to make more easy the vision of the
idea of good; and thither, as I was saying, all things tend which
compel the soul to turn her gaze towards that place, where is
the full perfection of being, which she ought, by all means, to
behold.
True, he said.
Then if geometry compels us to view being, it concerns us; if
becoming only, it does not concern us?
Yes, that is what we assert.
Yet anybody who has the least acquaintance with geometry
will not deny that such a conception of the science is in flat
contradiction to the ordinary language of geometricians.
How so?
They have in view practice only, and are always speaking, in
a narrow and ridiculous manner, of squaring and extending
and applying and the like—they confuse the necessities of geo-
metry with those of daily life; whereas knowledge is the real
object of the whole science.
Certainly, he said.
Then must not a further admission be made?
What admission?
That the knowledge at which geometry aims is knowledge of
the eternal, and not of aught perishing and transient.
That, he replied, may be readily allowed, and is true.

460
 Then, my noble friend, geometry will draw the soul towards
truth, and create the spirit of philosophy, and raise up that
which is now unhappily allowed to fall down.
Nothing will be more likely to have such an effect.
Then nothing should be more sternly laid down than that the
inhabitants of your fair city should by all means learn geo-
metry. Moreover the science has indirect effects, which are not
small.
Of what kind? he said.
There are the military advantages of which you spoke, I said;
and in all departments of knowledge, as experience proves, any
one who has studied geometry is infinitely quicker of appre-
hension than one who has not.
Yes indeed, he said, there is an infinite difference between
them.
Then shall we propose this as a second branch of knowledge
which our youth will study?
Let us do so, he replied.
And suppose we make astronomy the third—what do you
say?
I am strongly inclined to it, he said; the observation of the
seasons and of months and years is as essential to the general
as it is to the farmer or sailor.
I am amused, I said, at your fear of the world, which makes
you guard against the appearance of insisting upon useless
studies; and I quite admit the difficulty of believing that in
every man there is an eye of the soul which, when by other
pursuits lost and dimmed, is by these purified and re-illumined;
and is more precious far than ten thousand bodily eyes, for by
it alone is truth seen. Now there are two classes of persons:
one class of those who will agree with you and will take your
words as a revelation; another class to whom they will be ut-
terly unmeaning, and who will naturally deem them to be idle
tales, for they see no sort of profit which is to be obtained from
them. And therefore you had better decide at once with which
of the two you are proposing to argue. You will very likely say
with neither, and that your chief aim in carrying on the argu-
ment is your own improvement; at the same time you do not
grudge to others any benefit which they may receive.

461
 I think that I should prefer to carry on the argument mainly
on my own behalf.
Then take a step backward, for we have gone wrong in the
order of the sciences.
What was the mistake? he said.
After plane geometry, I said, we proceeded at once to solids
in revolution, instead of taking solids in themselves; whereas
after the second dimension the third, which is concerned with
cubes and dimensions of depth, ought to have followed.
That is true, Socrates; but so little seems to be known as yet
about these subjects.
Why, yes, I said, and for two reasons:—in the first place, no
government patronises them; this leads to a want of energy in
the pursuit of them, and they are difficult; in the second place,
students cannot learn them unless they have a director. But
then a director can hardly be found, and even if he could, as
matters now stand, the students, who are very conceited,
would not attend to him. That, however, would be otherwise if
the whole State became the director of these studies and gave
honour to them; then disciples would want to come, and there
would be continuous and earnest search, and discoveries
would be made; since even now, disregarded as they are by the
world, and maimed of their fair proportions, and although none
of their votaries can tell the use of them, still these studies
force their way by their natural charm, and very likely, if they
had the help of the State, they would some day emerge into
light.
Yes, he said, there is a remarkable charm in them. But I do
not clearly understand the change in the order. First you
began with a geometry of plane surfaces?
Yes, I said.
And you placed astronomy next, and then you made a step
backward?
Yes, and I have delayed you by my hurry; the ludicrous state
of solid geometry, which, in natural order, should have fol-
lowed, made me pass over this branch and go on to astronomy,
or motion of solids.
True, he said.

462
 Then assuming that the science now omitted would come in-
to existence if encouraged by the State, let us go on to astro-
nomy, which will be fourth.
The right order, he replied. And now, Socrates, as you re-
buked the vulgar manner in which I praised astronomy before,
my praise shall be given in your own spirit. For every one, as I
think, must see that astronomy compels the soul to look up-
wards and leads us from this world to another.
Every one but myself, I said; to every one else this may be
clear, but not to me.
And what then would you say?
I should rather say that those who elevate astronomy into
philosophy appear to me to make us look downwards and not
upwards.
What do you mean? he asked.
You, I replied, have in your mind a truly sublime conception
of our knowledge of the things above. And I dare say that if a
person were to throw his head back and study the fretted ceil-
ing, you would still think that his mind was the percipient, and
not his eyes. And you are very likely right, and I may be a sim-
pleton: but, in my opinion, that knowledge only which is of be-
ing and of the unseen can make the soul look upwards, and
whether a man gapes at the heavens or blinks on the ground,
seeking to learn some particular of sense, I would deny that he
can learn, for nothing of that sort is matter of science; his soul
is looking downwards, not upwards, whether his way to know-
ledge is by water or by land, whether he floats, or only lies on
his back.
I acknowledge, he said, the justice of your rebuke. Still, I
should like to ascertain how astronomy can be learned in any
manner more conducive to that knowledge of which we are
speaking?
I will tell you, I said: The starry heaven which we behold is
wrought upon a visible ground, and therefore, although the
fairest and most perfect of visible things, must necessarily be
deemed inferior far to the true motions of absolute swiftness
and absolute slowness, which are relative to each other, and
carry with them that which is contained in them, in the true
number and in every true figure. Now, these are to be appre-
hended by reason and intelligence, but not by sight.

463
 True, he replied.
The spangled heavens should be used as a pattern and with a
view to that higher knowledge; their beauty is like the beauty
of figures or pictures excellently wrought by the hand of
Daedalus, or some other great artist, which we may chance to
behold; any geometrician who saw them would appreciate the
exquisiteness of their workmanship, but he would never dream
of thinking that in them he could find the true equal or the true
double, or the truth of any other proportion.
No, he replied, such an idea would be ridiculous.
And will not a true astronomer have the same feeling when
he looks at the movements of the stars? Will he not think that
heaven and the things in heaven are framed by the Creator of
them in the most perfect manner? But he will never imagine
that the proportions of night and day, or of both to the month,
or of the month to the year, or of the stars to these and to one
another, and any other things that are material and visible can
also be eternal and subject to no deviation—that would be ab-
surd; and it is equally absurd to take so much pains in investig-
ating their exact truth.
I quite agree, though I never thought of this before.
Then, I said, in astronomy, as in geometry, we should employ
problems, and let the heavens alone if we would approach the
subject in the right way and so make the natural gift of reason
to be of any real use.
That, he said, is a work infinitely beyond our present
astronomers.
Yes, I said; and there are many other things which must also
have a similar extension given to them, if our legislation is to
be of any value. But can you tell me of any other suitable
study?
No, he said, not without thinking.
Motion, I said, has many forms, and not one only; two of
them are obvious enough even to wits no better than ours; and
there are others, as I imagine, which may be left to wiser
persons.
But where are the two?
There is a second, I said, which is the counterpart of the one
already named.
And what may that be?

464
 The second, I said, would seem relatively to the ears to be
what the first is to the eyes; for I conceive that as the eyes are
designed to look up at the stars, so are the ears to hear harmo-
nious motions; and these are sister sciences—as the
Pythagoreans say, and we, Glaucon, agree with them?
Yes, he replied.
But this, I said, is a laborious study, and therefore we had
better go and learn of them; and they will tell us whether there
are any other applications of these sciences. At the same time,
we must not lose sight of our own higher object.
What is that?
There is a perfection which all knowledge ought to reach,
and which our pupils ought also to attain, and not to fall short
of, as I was saying that they did in astronomy. For in the sci-
ence of harmony, as you probably know, the same thing hap-
pens. The teachers of harmony compare the sounds and con-
sonances which are heard only, and their labour, like that of
the astronomers, is in vain.
Yes, by heaven! he said; and 'tis as good as a play to hear
them talking about their condensed notes, as they call them;
they put their ears close alongside of the strings like persons
catching a sound from their neighbour's wall—one set of them
declaring that they distinguish an intermediate note and have
found the least interval which should be the unit of measure-
ment; the others insisting that the two sounds have passed into
the same—either party setting their ears before their
understanding.
You mean, I said, those gentlemen who tease and torture the
strings and rack them on the pegs of the instrument: I might
carry on the metaphor and speak after their manner of the
blows which the plectrum gives, and make accusations against
the strings, both of backwardness and forwardness to sound;
but this would be tedious, and therefore I will only say that
these are not the men, and that I am referring to the
Pythagoreans, of whom I was just now proposing to enquire
about harmony. For they too are in error, like the astronomers;
they investigate the numbers of the harmonies which are
heard, but they never attain to problems—that is to say, they
never reach the natural harmonies of number, or reflect why
some numbers are harmonious and others not.

465
 That, he said, is a thing of more than mortal knowledge.
A thing, I replied, which I would rather call useful; that is, if
sought after with a view to the beautiful and good; but if pur-
sued in any other spirit, useless.
Very true, he said.
Now, when all these studies reach the point of inter-commu-
nion and connection with one another, and come to be con-
sidered in their mutual affinities, then, I think, but not till then,
will the pursuit of them have a value for our objects; otherwise
there is no profit in them.
I suspect so; but you are speaking, Socrates, of a vast work.
What do you mean? I said; the prelude or what? Do you not
know that all this is but the prelude to the actual strain which
we have to learn? For you surely would not regard the skilled
mathematician as a dialectician?
Assuredly not, he said; I have hardly ever known a mathem-
atician who was capable of reasoning.
But do you imagine that men who are unable to give and take
a reason will have the knowledge which we require of them?
Neither can this be supposed.
And so, Glaucon, I said, we have at last arrived at the hymn
of dialectic. This is that strain which is of the intellect only, but
which the faculty of sight will nevertheless be found to imitate;
for sight, as you may remember, was imagined by us after a
while to behold the real animals and stars, and last of all the
sun himself. And so with dialectic; when a person starts on the
discovery of the absolute by the light of reason only, and
without any assistance of sense, and perseveres until by pure
intelligence he arrives at the perception of the absolute good,
he at last finds himself at the end of the intellectual world, as
in the case of sight at the end of the visible.
Exactly, he said.
Then this is the progress which you call dialectic?
True.
But the release of the prisoners from chains, and their trans-
lation from the shadows to the images and to the light, and the
ascent from the underground den to the sun, while in his pres-
ence they are vainly trying to look on animals and plants and
the light of the sun, but are able to perceive even with their
weak eyes the images in the water (which are divine), and are

466
the shadows of true existence (not shadows of images cast by a
light of fire, which compared with the sun is only an im-
age)—this power of elevating the highest principle in the soul
to the contemplation of that which is best in existence, with
which we may compare the raising of that faculty which is the
very light of the body to the sight of that which is brightest in
the material and visible world—this power is given, as I was
saying, by all that study and pursuit of the arts which has been
described.
I agree in what you are saying, he replied, which may be
hard to believe, yet, from another point of view, is harder still
to deny. This, however, is not a theme to be treated of in
passing only, but will have to be discussed again and again.
And so, whether our conclusion be true or false, let us assume
all this, and proceed at once from the prelude or preamble to
the chief strain (A play upon the Greek word, which means
both 'law' and 'strain.'), and describe that in like manner. Say,
then, what is the nature and what are the divisions of dialectic,
and what are the paths which lead thither; for these paths will
also lead to our final rest.
Dear Glaucon, I said, you will not be able to follow me here,
though I would do my best, and you should behold not an im-
age only but the absolute truth, according to my notion. Wheth-
er what I told you would or would not have been a reality I can-
not venture to say; but you would have seen something like
reality; of that I am confident.
Doubtless, he replied.
But I must also remind you, that the power of dialectic alone
can reveal this, and only to one who is a disciple of the previ-
ous sciences.
Of that assertion you may be as confident as of the last.
And assuredly no one will argue that there is any other meth-
od of comprehending by any regular process all true existence
or of ascertaining what each thing is in its own nature; for the
arts in general are concerned with the desires or opinions of
men, or are cultivated with a view to production and construc-
tion, or for the preservation of such productions and construc-
tions; and as to the mathematical sciences which, as we were
saying, have some apprehension of true being—geometry and
the like—they only dream about being, but never can they

467
behold the waking reality so long as they leave the hypotheses
which they use unexamined, and are unable to give an account
of them. For when a man knows not his own first principle, and
when the conclusion and intermediate steps are also construc-
ted out of he knows not what, how can he imagine that such a
fabric of convention can ever become science?
Impossible, he said.
Then dialectic, and dialectic alone, goes directly to the first
principle and is the only science which does away with hypo-
theses in order to make her ground secure; the eye of the soul,
which is literally buried in an outlandish slough, is by her
gentle aid lifted upwards; and she uses as handmaids and help-
ers in the work of conversion, the sciences which we have been
discussing. Custom terms them sciences, but they ought to
have some other name, implying greater clearness than opin-
ion and less clearness than science: and this, in our previous
sketch, was called understanding. But why should we dispute
about names when we have realities of such importance to
consider?
Why indeed, he said, when any name will do which expresses
the thought of the mind with clearness?
At any rate, we are satisfied, as before, to have four divi-
sions; two for intellect and two for opinion, and to call the first
division science, the second understanding, the third belief,
and the fourth perception of shadows, opinion being concerned
with becoming, and intellect with being; and so to make a
proportion:—
As being is to becoming, so is pure intellect to opinion. And
as intellect is to opinion, so is science to belief, and under-
standing to the perception of shadows.
But let us defer the further correlation and subdivision of the
subjects of opinion and of intellect, for it will be a long enquiry,
many times longer than this has been.
As far as I understand, he said, I agree.
And do you also agree, I said, in describing the dialectician
as one who attains a conception of the essence of each thing?
And he who does not possess and is therefore unable to impart
this conception, in whatever degree he fails, may in that de-
gree also be said to fail in intelligence? Will you admit so
much?

468
 Yes, he said; how can I deny it?
And you would say the same of the conception of the good?
Until the person is able to abstract and define rationally the
idea of good, and unless he can run the gauntlet of all objec-
tions, and is ready to disprove them, not by appeals to opinion,
but to absolute truth, never faltering at any step of the argu-
ment—unless he can do all this, you would say that he knows
neither the idea of good nor any other good; he apprehends
only a shadow, if anything at all, which is given by opinion and
not by science;—dreaming and slumbering in this life, before
he is well awake here, he arrives at the world below, and has
his final quietus.
In all that I should most certainly agree with you.
And surely you would not have the children of your ideal
State, whom you are nurturing and educating—if the ideal ever
becomes a reality—you would not allow the future rulers to be
like posts (Literally 'lines,' probably the starting-point of a
race-course.), having no reason in them, and yet to be set in
authority over the highest matters?
Certainly not.
Then you will make a law that they shall have such an educa-
tion as will enable them to attain the greatest skill in asking
and answering questions?
Yes, he said, you and I together will make it.
Dialectic, then, as you will agree, is the coping-stone of the
sciences, and is set over them; no other science can be placed
higher—the nature of knowledge can no further go?
I agree, he said.
But to whom we are to assign these studies, and in what way
they are to be assigned, are questions which remain to be
considered.
Yes, clearly.
You remember, I said, how the rulers were chosen before?
Certainly, he said.
The same natures must still be chosen, and the preference
again given to the surest and the bravest, and, if possible, to
the fairest; and, having noble and generous tempers, they
should also have the natural gifts which will facilitate their
education.
And what are these?

469
 Such gifts as keenness and ready powers of acquisition; for
the mind more often faints from the severity of study than from
the severity of gymnastics: the toil is more entirely the mind's
own, and is not shared with the body.
Very true, he replied.
Further, he of whom we are in search should have a good
memory, and be an unwearied solid man who is a lover of la-
bour in any line; or he will never be able to endure the great
amount of bodily exercise and to go through all the intellectual
discipline and study which we require of him.
Certainly, he said; he must have natural gifts.
The mistake at present is, that those who study philosophy
have no vocation, and this, as I was before saying, is the reason
why she has fallen into disrepute: her true sons should take
her by the hand and not bastards.
What do you mean?
In the first place, her votary should not have a lame or halt-
ing industry—I mean, that he should not be half industrious
and half idle: as, for example, when a man is a lover of gym-
nastic and hunting, and all other bodily exercises, but a hater
rather than a lover of the labour of learning or listening or en-
quiring. Or the occupation to which he devotes himself may be
of an opposite kind, and he may have the other sort of
lameness.
Certainly, he said.
And as to truth, I said, is not a soul equally to be deemed halt
and lame which hates voluntary falsehood and is extremely in-
dignant at herself and others when they tell lies, but is patient
of involuntary falsehood, and does not mind wallowing like a
swinish beast in the mire of ignorance, and has no shame at
being detected?
To be sure.
And, again, in respect of temperance, courage, magnificence,
and every other virtue, should we not carefully distinguish
between the true son and the bastard? for where there is no
discernment of such qualities states and individuals uncon-
sciously err; and the state makes a ruler, and the individual a
friend, of one who, being defective in some part of virtue, is in
a figure lame or a bastard.
That is very true, he said.

470
 All these things, then, will have to be carefully considered by
us; and if only those whom we introduce to this vast system of
education and training are sound in body and mind, justice her-
self will have nothing to say against us, and we shall be the sa-
viours of the constitution and of the State; but, if our pupils are
men of another stamp, the reverse will happen, and we shall
pour a still greater flood of ridicule on philosophy than she has
to endure at present.
That would not be creditable.
Certainly not, I said; and yet perhaps, in thus turning jest in-
to earnest I am equally ridiculous.
In what respect?
I had forgotten, I said, that we were not serious, and spoke
with too much excitement. For when I saw philosophy so un-
deservedly trampled under foot of men I could not help feeling
a sort of indignation at the authors of her disgrace: and my an-
ger made me too vehement.
Indeed! I was listening, and did not think so.
But I, who am the speaker, felt that I was. And now let me re-
mind you that, although in our former selection we chose old
men, we must not do so in this. Solon was under a delusion
when he said that a man when he grows old may learn many
things—for he can no more learn much than he can run much;
youth is the time for any extraordinary toil.
Of course.
And, therefore, calculation and geometry and all the other
elements of instruction, which are a preparation for dialectic,
should be presented to the mind in childhood; not, however,
under any notion of forcing our system of education.
Why not?
Because a freeman ought not to be a slave in the acquisition
of knowledge of any kind. Bodily exercise, when compulsory,
does no harm to the body; but knowledge which is acquired un-
der compulsion obtains no hold on the mind.
Very true.
Then, my good friend, I said, do not use compulsion, but let
early education be a sort of amusement; you will then be better
able to find out the natural bent.
That is a very rational notion, he said.

471
 Do you remember that the children, too, were to be taken to
see the battle on horseback; and that if there were no danger
they were to be brought close up and, like young hounds, have
a taste of blood given them?
Yes, I remember.
The same practice may be followed, I said, in all these
things—labours, lessons, dangers—and he who is most at home
in all of them ought to be enrolled in a select number.
At what age?
At the age when the necessary gymnastics are over: the peri-
od whether of two or three years which passes in this sort of
training is useless for any other purpose; for sleep and exercise
are unpropitious to learning; and the trial of who is first in
gymnastic exercises is one of the most important tests to which
our youth are subjected.
Certainly, he replied.
After that time those who are selected from the class of
twenty years old will be promoted to higher honour, and the
sciences which they learned without any order in their early
education will now be brought together, and they will be able
to see the natural relationship of them to one another and to
true being.
Yes, he said, that is the only kind of knowledge which takes
lasting root.
Yes, I said; and the capacity for such knowledge is the great
criterion of dialectical talent: the comprehensive mind is al-
ways the dialectical.
I agree with you, he said.
These, I said, are the points which you must consider; and
those who have most of this comprehension, and who are most
steadfast in their learning, and in their military and other ap-
pointed duties, when they have arrived at the age of thirty
have to be chosen by you out of the select class, and elevated
to higher honour; and you will have to prove them by the help
of dialectic, in order to learn which of them is able to give up
the use of sight and the other senses, and in company with
truth to attain absolute being: And here, my friend, great cau-
tion is required.
Why great caution?

472
 Do you not remark, I said, how great is the evil which dia-
lectic has introduced?
What evil? he said.
The students of the art are filled with lawlessness.
Quite true, he said.
Do you think that there is anything so very unnatural or inex-
cusable in their case? or will you make allowance for them?
In what way make allowance?
I want you, I said, by way of parallel, to imagine a suppositi-
tious son who is brought up in great wealth; he is one of a
great and numerous family, and has many flatterers. When he
grows up to manhood, he learns that his alleged are not his
real parents; but who the real are he is unable to discover. Can
you guess how he will be likely to behave towards his flatterers
and his supposed parents, first of all during the period when he
is ignorant of the false relation, and then again when he
knows? Or shall I guess for you?
If you please.
Then I should say, that while he is ignorant of the truth he
will be likely to honour his father and his mother and his sup-
posed relations more than the flatterers; he will be less in-
clined to neglect them when in need, or to do or say anything
against them; and he will be less willing to disobey them in any
important matter.
He will.
But when he has made the discovery, I should imagine that
he would diminish his honour and regard for them, and would
become more devoted to the flatterers; their influence over
him would greatly increase; he would now live after their ways,
and openly associate with them, and, unless he were of an un-
usually good disposition, he would trouble himself no more
about his supposed parents or other relations.
Well, all that is very probable. But how is the image applic-
able to the disciples of philosophy?
In this way: you know that there are certain principles about
justice and honour, which were taught us in childhood, and un-
der their parental authority we have been brought up, obeying
and honouring them.
That is true.

473
 There are also opposite maxims and habits of pleasure which
flatter and attract the soul, but do not influence those of us
who have any sense of right, and they continue to obey and
honour the maxims of their fathers.
True.
Now, when a man is in this state, and the questioning spirit
asks what is fair or honourable, and he answers as the legislat-
or has taught him, and then arguments many and diverse re-
fute his words, until he is driven into believing that nothing is
honourable any more than dishonourable, or just and good any
more than the reverse, and so of all the notions which he most
valued, do you think that he will still honour and obey them as
before?
Impossible.
And when he ceases to think them honourable and natural as
heretofore, and he fails to discover the true, can he be expec-
ted to pursue any life other than that which flatters his
desires?
He cannot.
And from being a keeper of the law he is converted into a
breaker of it?
Unquestionably.
Now all this is very natural in students of philosophy such as
I have described, and also, as I was just now saying, most
excusable.
Yes, he said; and, I may add, pitiable.
Therefore, that your feelings may not be moved to pity about
our citizens who are now thirty years of age, every care must
be taken in introducing them to dialectic.
Certainly.
There is a danger lest they should taste the dear delight too
early; for youngsters, as you may have observed, when they
first get the taste in their mouths, argue for amusement, and
are always contradicting and refuting others in imitation of
those who refute them; like puppy-dogs, they rejoice in pulling
and tearing at all who come near them.
Yes, he said, there is nothing which they like better.
And when they have made many conquests and received de-
feats at the hands of many, they violently and speedily get into
a way of not believing anything which they believed before,

474
and hence, not only they, but philosophy and all that relates to
it is apt to have a bad name with the rest of the world.
Too true, he said.
But when a man begins to get older, he will no longer be
guilty of such insanity; he will imitate the dialectician who is
seeking for truth, and not the eristic, who is contradicting for
the sake of amusement; and the greater moderation of his
character will increase instead of diminishing the honour of the
pursuit.
Very true, he said.
And did we not make special provision for this, when we said
that the disciples of philosophy were to be orderly and stead-
fast, not, as now, any chance aspirant or intruder?
Very true.
Suppose, I said, the study of philosophy to take the place of
gymnastics and to be continued diligently and earnestly and
exclusively for twice the number of years which were passed in
bodily exercise—will that be enough?
Would you say six or four years? he asked.
Say five years, I replied; at the end of the time they must be
sent down again into the den and compelled to hold any milit-
ary or other office which young men are qualified to hold: in
this way they will get their experience of life, and there will be
an opportunity of trying whether, when they are drawn all
manner of ways by temptation, they will stand firm or flinch.
And how long is this stage of their lives to last?
Fifteen years, I answered; and when they have reached fifty
years of age, then let those who still survive and have distin-
guished themselves in every action of their lives and in every
branch of knowledge come at last to their consummation: the
time has now arrived at which they must raise the eye of the
soul to the universal light which lightens all things, and behold
the absolute good; for that is the pattern according to which
they are to order the State and the lives of individuals, and the
remainder of their own lives also; making philosophy their
chief pursuit, but, when their turn comes, toiling also at polit-
ics and ruling for the public good, not as though they were per-
forming some heroic action, but simply as a matter of duty; and
when they have brought up in each generation others like
themselves and left them in their place to be governors of the

475
State, then they will depart to the Islands of the Blest and
dwell there; and the city will give them public memorials and
sacrifices and honour them, if the Pythian oracle consent, as
demigods, but if not, as in any case blessed and divine.
You are a sculptor, Socrates, and have made statues of our
governors faultless in beauty.
Yes, I said, Glaucon, and of our governesses too; for you must
not suppose that what I have been saying applies to men only
and not to women as far as their natures can go.
There you are right, he said, since we have made them to
share in all things like the men.
Well, I said, and you would agree (would you not?) that what
has been said about the State and the government is not a
mere dream, and although difficult not impossible, but only
possible in the way which has been supposed; that is to say,
when the true philosopher kings are born in a State, one or
more of them, despising the honours of this present world
which they deem mean and worthless, esteeming above all
things right and the honour that springs from right, and re-
garding justice as the greatest and most necessary of all
things, whose ministers they are, and whose principles will be
exalted by them when they set in order their own city?
How will they proceed?
They will begin by sending out into the country all the inhab-
itants of the city who are more than ten years old, and will take
possession of their children, who will be unaffected by the
habits of their parents; these they will train in their own habits
and laws, I mean in the laws which we have given them: and in
this way the State and constitution of which we were speaking
will soonest and most easily attain happiness, and the nation
which has such a constitution will gain most.
Yes, that will be the best way. And I think, Socrates, that you
have very well described how, if ever, such a constitution
might come into being.
Enough then of the perfect State, and of the man who bears
its image—there is no difficulty in seeing how we shall describe
him.
There is no difficulty, he replied; and I agree with you in
thinking that nothing more need be said.

476
Part 8

477
And so, Glaucon, we have arrived at the conclusion that in the
perfect State wives and children are to be in common; and that
all education and the pursuits of war and peace are also to be
common, and the best philosophers and the bravest warriors
are to be their kings?
That, replied Glaucon, has been acknowledged.
Yes, I said; and we have further acknowledged that the gov-
ernors, when appointed themselves, will take their soldiers and
place them in houses such as we were describing, which are
common to all, and contain nothing private, or individual; and
about their property, you remember what we agreed?
Yes, I remember that no one was to have any of the ordinary
possessions of mankind; they were to be warrior athletes and
guardians, receiving from the other citizens, in lieu of annual
payment, only their maintenance, and they were to take care of
themselves and of the whole State.
True, I said; and now that this division of our task is con-
cluded, let us find the point at which we digressed, that we
may return into the old path.
There is no difficulty in returning; you implied, then as now,
that you had finished the description of the State: you said that
such a State was good, and that the man was good who
answered to it, although, as now appears, you had more excel-
lent things to relate both of State and man. And you said fur-
ther, that if this was the true form, then the others were false;
and of the false forms, you said, as I remember, that there
were four principal ones, and that their defects, and the de-
fects of the individuals corresponding to them, were worth ex-
amining. When we had seen all the individuals, and finally
agreed as to who was the best and who was the worst of them,
we were to consider whether the best was not also the happi-
est, and the worst the most miserable. I asked you what were
the four forms of government of which you spoke, and then
Polemarchus and Adeimantus put in their word; and you began
again, and have found your way to the point at which we have
now arrived.
Your recollection, I said, is most exact.
Then, like a wrestler, he replied, you must put yourself again
in the same position; and let me ask the same questions, and

478
do you give me the same answer which you were about to give
me then.
Yes, if I can, I will, I said.
I shall particularly wish to hear what were the four constitu-
tions of which you were speaking.
That question, I said, is easily answered: the four govern-
ments of which I spoke, so far as they have distinct names, are,
first, those of Crete and Sparta, which are generally ap-
plauded; what is termed oligarchy comes next; this is not
equally approved, and is a form of government which teems
with evils: thirdly, democracy, which naturally follows olig-
archy, although very different: and lastly comes tyranny, great
and famous, which differs from them all, and is the fourth and
worst disorder of a State. I do not know, do you? of any other
constitution which can be said to have a distinct character.
There are lordships and principalities which are bought and
sold, and some other intermediate forms of government. But
these are nondescripts and may be found equally among Hel-
lenes and among barbarians.
Yes, he replied, we certainly hear of many curious forms of
government which exist among them.
Do you know, I said, that governments vary as the disposi-
tions of men vary, and that there must be as many of the one
as there are of the other? For we cannot suppose that States
are made of 'oak and rock,' and not out of the human natures
which are in them, and which in a figure turn the scale and
draw other things after them?
Yes, he said, the States are as the men are; they grow out of
human characters.
Then if the constitutions of States are five, the dispositions of
individual minds will also be five?
Certainly.
Him who answers to aristocracy, and whom we rightly call
just and good, we have already described.
We have.
Then let us now proceed to describe the inferior sort of
natures, being the contentious and ambitious, who answer to
the Spartan polity; also the oligarchical, democratical, and tyr-
annical. Let us place the most just by the side of the most un-
just, and when we see them we shall be able to compare the

479
relative happiness or unhappiness of him who leads a life of
pure justice or pure injustice. The enquiry will then be com-
pleted. And we shall know whether we ought to pursue in-
justice, as Thrasymachus advises, or in accordance with the
conclusions of the argument to prefer justice.
Certainly, he replied, we must do as you say.
Shall we follow our old plan, which we adopted with a view
to clearness, of taking the State first and then proceeding to
the individual, and begin with the government of honour?—I
know of no name for such a government other than timocracy,
or perhaps timarchy. We will compare with this the like charac-
ter in the individual; and, after that, consider oligarchy and the
oligarchical man; and then again we will turn our attention to
democracy and the democratical man; and lastly, we will go
and view the city of tyranny, and once more take a look into
the tyrant's soul, and try to arrive at a satisfactory decision.
That way of viewing and judging of the matter will be very
suitable.
First, then, I said, let us enquire how timocracy (the govern-
ment of honour) arises out of aristocracy (the government of
the best). Clearly, all political changes originate in divisions of
the actual governing power; a government which is united,
however small, cannot be moved.
Very true, he said.
In what way, then, will our city be moved, and in what man-
ner will the two classes of auxiliaries and rulers disagree
among themselves or with one another? Shall we, after the
manner of Homer, pray the Muses to tell us 'how discord first
arose'? Shall we imagine them in solemn mockery, to play and
jest with us as if we were children, and to address us in a lofty
tragic vein, making believe to be in earnest?
How would they address us?
After this manner:—A city which is thus constituted can
hardly be shaken; but, seeing that everything which has a be-
ginning has also an end, even a constitution such as yours will
not last for ever, but will in time be dissolved. And this is the
dissolution:—In plants that grow in the earth, as well as in an-
imals that move on the earth's surface, fertility and sterility of
soul and body occur when the circumferences of the circles of
each are completed, which in short-lived existences pass over a

480
short space, and in long-lived ones over a long space. But to
the knowledge of human fecundity and sterility all the wisdom
and education of your rulers will not attain; the laws which
regulate them will not be discovered by an intelligence which
is alloyed with sense, but will escape them, and they will bring
children into the world when they ought not. Now that which is
of divine birth has a period which is contained in a perfect
number (i.e. a cyclical number, such as 6, which is equal to the
sum of its divisors 1, 2, 3, so that when the circle or time rep-
resented by 6 is completed, the lesser times or rotations rep-
resented by 1, 2, 3 are also completed.), but the period of hu-
man birth is comprehended in a number in which first incre-
ments by involution and evolution (or squared and cubed) ob-
taining three intervals and four terms of like and unlike, wax-
ing and waning numbers, make all the terms commensurable
and agreeable to one another. (Probably the numbers 3, 4, 5, 6
of which the three first = the sides of the Pythagorean triangle.
The terms will then be 3 cubed, 4 cubed, 5 cubed, which to-
gether = 6 cubed = 216.) The base of these (3) with a third ad-
ded (4) when combined with five (20) and raised to the third
power furnishes two harmonies; the first a square which is a
hundred times as great (400 = 4 x 100) (Or the first a square
which is 100 x 100 = 10,000. The whole number will then be
17,500 = a square of 100, and an oblong of 100 by 75.), and
the other a figure having one side equal to the former, but ob-
long, consisting of a hundred numbers squared upon rational
diameters of a square (i.e. omitting fractions), the side of
which is five (7 x 7 = 49 x 100 = 4900), each of them being
less by one (than the perfect square which includes the frac-
tions, sc. 50) or less by (Or, 'consisting of two numbers
squared upon irrational diameters,' etc. = 100. For other ex-
planations of the passage see Introduction.) two perfect
squares of irrational diameters (of a square the side of which is
five = 50 + 50 = 100); and a hundred cubes of three (27 x 100
= 2700 + 4900 + 400 = 8000). Now this number represents a
geometrical figure which has control over the good and evil of
births. For when your guardians are ignorant of the law of
births, and unite bride and bridegroom out of season, the chil-
dren will not be goodly or fortunate. And though only the best
of them will be appointed by their predecessors, still they will

481
be unworthy to hold their fathers' places, and when they come
into power as guardians, they will soon be found to fail in tak-
ing care of us, the Muses, first by under-valuing music; which
neglect will soon extend to gymnastic; and hence the young
men of your State will be less cultivated. In the succeeding
generation rulers will be appointed who have lost the guardian
power of testing the metal of your different races, which, like
Hesiod's, are of gold and silver and brass and iron. And so iron
will be mingled with silver, and brass with gold, and hence
there will arise dissimilarity and inequality and irregularity,
which always and in all places are causes of hatred and war.
This the Muses affirm to be the stock from which discord has
sprung, wherever arising; and this is their answer to us.
Yes, and we may assume that they answer truly.
Why, yes, I said, of course they answer truly; how can the
Muses speak falsely?
And what do the Muses say next?
When discord arose, then the two races were drawn different
ways: the iron and brass fell to acquiring money and land and
houses and gold and silver; but the gold and silver races, not
wanting money but having the true riches in their own nature,
inclined towards virtue and the ancient order of things. There
was a battle between them, and at last they agreed to distrib-
ute their land and houses among individual owners; and they
enslaved their friends and maintainers, whom they had
formerly protected in the condition of freemen, and made of
them subjects and servants; and they themselves were en-
gaged in war and in keeping a watch against them.
I believe that you have rightly conceived the origin of the
change.
And the new government which thus arises will be of a form
intermediate between oligarchy and aristocracy?
Very true.
Such will be the change, and after the change has been
made, how will they proceed? Clearly, the new State, being in
a mean between oligarchy and the perfect State, will partly fol-
low one and partly the other, and will also have some
peculiarities.
True, he said.

482
 In the honour given to rulers, in the abstinence of the warri-
or class from agriculture, handicrafts, and trade in general, in
the institution of common meals, and in the attention paid to
gymnastics and military training—in all these respects this
State will resemble the former.
True.
But in the fear of admitting philosophers to power, because
they are no longer to be had simple and earnest, but are made
up of mixed elements; and in turning from them to passionate
and less complex characters, who are by nature fitted for war
rather than peace; and in the value set by them upon military
stratagems and contrivances, and in the waging of everlasting
wars—this State will be for the most part peculiar.
Yes.
Yes, I said; and men of this stamp will be covetous of money,
like those who live in oligarchies; they will have, a fierce secret
longing after gold and silver, which they will hoard in dark
places, having magazines and treasuries of their own for the
deposit and concealment of them; also castles which are just
nests for their eggs, and in which they will spend large sums
on their wives, or on any others whom they please.
That is most true, he said.
And they are miserly because they have no means of openly
acquiring the money which they prize; they will spend that
which is another man's on the gratification of their desires,
stealing their pleasures and running away like children from
the law, their father: they have been schooled not by gentle in-
fluences but by force, for they have neglected her who is the
true Muse, the companion of reason and philosophy, and have
honoured gymnastic more than music.
Undoubtedly, he said, the form of government which you de-
scribe is a mixture of good and evil.
Why, there is a mixture, I said; but one thing, and one thing
only, is predominantly seen,—the spirit of contention and ambi-
tion; and these are due to the prevalence of the passionate or
spirited element.
Assuredly, he said.
Such is the origin and such the character of this State, which
has been described in outline only; the more perfect execution
was not required, for a sketch is enough to show the type of

483
the most perfectly just and most perfectly unjust; and to go
through all the States and all the characters of men, omitting
none of them, would be an interminable labour.
Very true, he replied.
Now what man answers to this form of government-how did
he come into being, and what is he like?
I think, said Adeimantus, that in the spirit of contention
which characterises him, he is not unlike our friend Glaucon.
Perhaps, I said, he may be like him in that one point; but
there are other respects in which he is very different.
In what respects?
He should have more of self-assertion and be less cultivated,
and yet a friend of culture; and he should be a good listener,
but no speaker. Such a person is apt to be rough with slaves,
unlike the educated man, who is too proud for that; and he will
also be courteous to freemen, and remarkably obedient to au-
thority; he is a lover of power and a lover of honour; claiming
to be a ruler, not because he is eloquent, or on any ground of
that sort, but because he is a soldier and has performed feats
of arms; he is also a lover of gymnastic exercises and of the
chase.
Yes, that is the type of character which answers to
timocracy.
Such an one will despise riches only when he is young; but as
he gets older he will be more and more attracted to them, be-
cause he has a piece of the avaricious nature in him, and is not
single-minded towards virtue, having lost his best guardian.
Who was that? said Adeimantus.
Philosophy, I said, tempered with music, who comes and
takes up her abode in a man, and is the only saviour of his vir-
tue throughout life.
Good, he said.
Such, I said, is the timocratical youth, and he is like the timo-
cratical State.
Exactly.
His origin is as follows:—He is often the young son of a brave
father, who dwells in an ill-governed city, of which he declines
the honours and offices, and will not go to law, or exert himself
in any way, but is ready to waive his rights in order that he
may escape trouble.

484
 And how does the son come into being?
The character of the son begins to develope when he hears
his mother complaining that her husband has no place in the
government, of which the consequence is that she has no pre-
cedence among other women. Further, when she sees her hus-
band not very eager about money, and instead of battling and
railing in the law courts or assembly, taking whatever happens
to him quietly; and when she observes that his thoughts always
centre in himself, while he treats her with very considerable in-
difference, she is annoyed, and says to her son that his father
is only half a man and far too easy-going: adding all the other
complaints about her own ill-treatment which women are so
fond of rehearsing.
Yes, said Adeimantus, they give us plenty of them, and their
complaints are so like themselves.
And you know, I said, that the old servants also, who are sup-
posed to be attached to the family, from time to time talk
privately in the same strain to the son; and if they see any one
who owes money to his father, or is wronging him in any way,
and he fails to prosecute them, they tell the youth that when he
grows up he must retaliate upon people of this sort, and be
more of a man than his father. He has only to walk abroad and
he hears and sees the same sort of thing: those who do their
own business in the city are called simpletons, and held in no
esteem, while the busy-bodies are honoured and applauded.
The result is that the young man, hearing and seeing all these
things—hearing, too, the words of his father, and having a
nearer view of his way of life, and making comparisons of him
and others—is drawn opposite ways: while his father is water-
ing and nourishing the rational principle in his soul, the others
are encouraging the passionate and appetitive; and he being
not originally of a bad nature, but having kept bad company, is
at last brought by their joint influence to a middle point, and
gives up the kingdom which is within him to the middle prin-
ciple of contentiousness and passion, and becomes arrogant
and ambitious.
You seem to me to have described his origin perfectly.
Then we have now, I said, the second form of government
and the second type of character?
We have.

485
 Next, let us look at another man who, as Aeschylus says,
'Is set over against another State;'
or rather, as our plan requires, begin with the State.
By all means.
I believe that oligarchy follows next in order.
And what manner of government do you term oligarchy?
A government resting on a valuation of property, in which
the rich have power and the poor man is deprived of it.
I understand, he replied.
Ought I not to begin by describing how the change from
timocracy to oligarchy arises?
Yes.
Well, I said, no eyes are required in order to see how the one
passes into the other.
How?
The accumulation of gold in the treasury of private individu-
als is the ruin of timocracy; they invent illegal modes of ex-
penditure; for what do they or their wives care about the law?
Yes, indeed.
And then one, seeing another grow rich, seeks to rival him,
and thus the great mass of the citizens become lovers of
money.
Likely enough.
And so they grow richer and richer, and the more they think
of making a fortune the less they think of virtue; for when
riches and virtue are placed together in the scales of the bal-
ance, the one always rises as the other falls.
True.
And in proportion as riches and rich men are honoured in the
State, virtue and the virtuous are dishonoured.
Clearly.
And what is honoured is cultivated, and that which has no
honour is neglected.
That is obvious.
And so at last, instead of loving contention and glory, men
become lovers of trade and money; they honour and look up to
the rich man, and make a ruler of him, and dishonour the poor
man.
They do so.

486
 They next proceed to make a law which fixes a sum of money
as the qualification of citizenship; the sum is higher in one
place and lower in another, as the oligarchy is more or less ex-
clusive; and they allow no one whose property falls below the
amount fixed to have any share in the government. These
changes in the constitution they effect by force of arms, if in-
timidation has not already done their work.
Very true.
And this, speaking generally, is the way in which oligarchy is
established.
Yes, he said; but what are the characteristics of this form of
government, and what are the defects of which we were
speaking?
First of all, I said, consider the nature of the qualification.
Just think what would happen if pilots were to be chosen ac-
cording to their property, and a poor man were refused permis-
sion to steer, even though he were a better pilot?
You mean that they would shipwreck?
Yes; and is not this true of the government of anything?
I should imagine so.
Except a city?—or would you include a city?
Nay, he said, the case of a city is the strongest of all, inas-
much as the rule of a city is the greatest and most difficult of
all.
This, then, will be the first great defect of oligarchy?
Clearly.
And here is another defect which is quite as bad.
What defect?
The inevitable division: such a State is not one, but two
States, the one of poor, the other of rich men; and they are liv-
ing on the same spot and always conspiring against one
another.
That, surely, is at least as bad.
Another discreditable feature is, that, for a like reason, they
are incapable of carrying on any war. Either they arm the mul-
titude, and then they are more afraid of them than of the en-
emy; or, if they do not call them out in the hour of battle, they
are oligarchs indeed, few to fight as they are few to rule. And
at the same time their fondness for money makes them unwill-
ing to pay taxes.

487
 How discreditable!
And, as we said before, under such a constitution the same
persons have too many callings—they are husbandmen, trades-
men, warriors, all in one. Does that look well?
Anything but well.
There is another evil which is, perhaps, the greatest of all,
and to which this State first begins to be liable.
What evil?
A man may sell all that he has, and another may acquire his
property; yet after the sale he may dwell in the city of which he
is no longer a part, being neither trader, nor artisan, nor horse-
man, nor hoplite, but only a poor, helpless creature.
Yes, that is an evil which also first begins in this State.
The evil is certainly not prevented there; for oligarchies have
both the extremes of great wealth and utter poverty.
True.
But think again: In his wealthy days, while he was spending
his money, was a man of this sort a whit more good to the
State for the purposes of citizenship? Or did he only seem to be
a member of the ruling body, although in truth he was neither
ruler nor subject, but just a spendthrift?
As you say, he seemed to be a ruler, but was only a
spendthrift.
May we not say that this is the drone in the house who is like
the drone in the honeycomb, and that the one is the plague of
the city as the other is of the hive?
Just so, Socrates.
And God has made the flying drones, Adeimantus, all without
stings, whereas of the walking drones he has made some
without stings but others have dreadful stings; of the stingless
class are those who in their old age end as paupers; of the
stingers come all the criminal class, as they are termed.
Most true, he said.
Clearly then, whenever you see paupers in a State, some-
where in that neighborhood there are hidden away thieves, and
cut-purses and robbers of temples, and all sorts of malefactors.
Clearly.
Well, I said, and in oligarchical States do you not find
paupers?
Yes, he said; nearly everybody is a pauper who is not a ruler.

488
 And may we be so bold as to affirm that there are also many
criminals to be found in them, rogues who have stings, and
whom the authorities are careful to restrain by force?
Certainly, we may be so bold.
The existence of such persons is to be attributed to want of
education, ill-training, and an evil constitution of the State?
True.
Such, then, is the form and such are the evils of oligarchy;
and there may be many other evils.
Very likely.
Then oligarchy, or the form of government in which the
rulers are elected for their wealth, may now be dismissed. Let
us next proceed to consider the nature and origin of the indi-
vidual who answers to this State.
By all means.
Does not the timocratical man change into the oligarchical
on this wise?
How?
A time arrives when the representative of timocracy has a
son: at first he begins by emulating his father and walking in
his footsteps, but presently he sees him of a sudden foundering
against the State as upon a sunken reef, and he and all that he
has is lost; he may have been a general or some other high of-
ficer who is brought to trial under a prejudice raised by inform-
ers, and either put to death, or exiled, or deprived of the priv-
ileges of a citizen, and all his property taken from him.
Nothing more likely.
And the son has seen and known all this—he is a ruined man,
and his fear has taught him to knock ambition and passion
headforemost from his bosom's throne; humbled by poverty he
takes to money-making and by mean and miserly savings and
hard work gets a fortune together. Is not such an one likely to
seat the concupiscent and covetous element on the vacant
throne and to suffer it to play the great king within him, girt
with tiara and chain and scimitar?
Most true, he replied.
And when he has made reason and spirit sit down on the
ground obediently on either side of their sovereign, and taught
them to know their place, he compels the one to think only of
how lesser sums may be turned into larger ones, and will not

489
allow the other to worship and admire anything but riches and
rich men, or to be ambitious of anything so much as the acquis-
ition of wealth and the means of acquiring it.
Of all changes, he said, there is none so speedy or so sure as
the conversion of the ambitious youth into the avaricious one.
And the avaricious, I said, is the oligarchical youth?
Yes, he said; at any rate the individual out of whom he came
is like the State out of which oligarchy came.
Let us then consider whether there is any likeness between
them.
Very good.
First, then, they resemble one another in the value which
they set upon wealth?
Certainly.
Also in their penurious, laborious character; the individual
only satisfies his necessary appetites, and confines his ex-
penditure to them; his other desires he subdues, under the
idea that they are unprofitable.
True.
He is a shabby fellow, who saves something out of everything
and makes a purse for himself; and this is the sort of man
whom the vulgar applaud. Is he not a true image of the State
which he represents?
He appears to me to be so; at any rate money is highly val-
ued by him as well as by the State.
You see that he is not a man of cultivation, I said.
I imagine not, he said; had he been educated he would never
have made a blind god director of his chorus, or given him
chief honour.
Excellent! I said. Yet consider: Must we not further admit
that owing to this want of cultivation there will be found in him
dronelike desires as of pauper and rogue, which are forcibly
kept down by his general habit of life?
True.
Do you know where you will have to look if you want to dis-
cover his rogueries?
Where must I look?
You should see him where he has some great opportunity of
acting dishonestly, as in the guardianship of an orphan.
Aye.

490
 It will be clear enough then that in his ordinary dealings
which give him a reputation for honesty he coerces his bad
passions by an enforced virtue; not making them see that they
are wrong, or taming them by reason, but by necessity and fear
constraining them, and because he trembles for his
possessions.
To be sure.
Yes, indeed, my dear friend, but you will find that the natural
desires of the drone commonly exist in him all the same
whenever he has to spend what is not his own.
Yes, and they will be strong in him too.
The man, then, will be at war with himself; he will be two
men, and not one; but, in general, his better desires will be
found to prevail over his inferior ones.
True.
For these reasons such an one will be more respectable than
most people; yet the true virtue of a unanimous and harmoni-
ous soul will flee far away and never come near him.
I should expect so.
And surely, the miser individually will be an ignoble compet-
itor in a State for any prize of victory, or other object of hon-
ourable ambition; he will not spend his money in the contest
for glory; so afraid is he of awakening his expensive appetites
and inviting them to help and join in the struggle; in true olig-
archical fashion he fights with a small part only of his re-
sources, and the result commonly is that he loses the prize and
saves his money.
Very true.
Can we any longer doubt, then, that the miser and money-
maker answers to the oligarchical State?
There can be no doubt.
Next comes democracy; of this the origin and nature have
still to be considered by us; and then we will enquire into the
ways of the democratic man, and bring him up for judgment.
That, he said, is our method.
Well, I said, and how does the change from oligarchy into
democracy arise? Is it not on this wise?—The good at which
such a State aims is to become as rich as possible, a desire
which is insatiable?
What then?

491
 The rulers, being aware that their power rests upon their
wealth, refuse to curtail by law the extravagance of the spend-
thrift youth because they gain by their ruin; they take interest
from them and buy up their estates and thus increase their
own wealth and importance?
To be sure.
There can be no doubt that the love of wealth and the spirit
of moderation cannot exist together in citizens of the same
state to any considerable extent; one or the other will be
disregarded.
That is tolerably clear.
And in oligarchical States, from the general spread of care-
lessness and extravagance, men of good family have often been
reduced to beggary?
Yes, often.
And still they remain in the city; there they are, ready to
sting and fully armed, and some of them owe money, some
have forfeited their citizenship; a third class are in both predic-
aments; and they hate and conspire against those who have got
their property, and against everybody else, and are eager for
revolution.
That is true.
On the other hand, the men of business, stooping as they
walk, and pretending not even to see those whom they have
already ruined, insert their sting—that is, their money—into
some one else who is not on his guard against them, and recov-
er the parent sum many times over multiplied into a family of
children: and so they make drone and pauper to abound in the
State.
Yes, he said, there are plenty of them—that is certain.
The evil blazes up like a fire; and they will not extinguish it,
either by restricting a man's use of his own property, or by an-
other remedy:
What other?
One which is the next best, and has the advantage of compel-
ling the citizens to look to their characters:—Let there be a
general rule that every one shall enter into voluntary contracts
at his own risk, and there will be less of this scandalous money-
making, and the evils of which we were speaking will be
greatly lessened in the State.

492
 Yes, they will be greatly lessened.
At present the governors, induced by the motives which I
have named, treat their subjects badly; while they and their ad-
herents, especially the young men of the governing class, are
habituated to lead a life of luxury and idleness both of body
and mind; they do nothing, and are incapable of resisting
either pleasure or pain.
Very true.
They themselves care only for making money, and are as in-
different as the pauper to the cultivation of virtue.
Yes, quite as indifferent.
Such is the state of affairs which prevails among them. And
often rulers and their subjects may come in one another's way,
whether on a journey or on some other occasion of meeting, on
a pilgrimage or a march, as fellow-soldiers or fellow-sailors;
aye and they may observe the behaviour of each other in the
very moment of danger—for where danger is, there is no fear
that the poor will be despised by the rich—and very likely the
wiry sunburnt poor man may be placed in battle at the side of a
wealthy one who has never spoilt his complexion and has
plenty of superfluous flesh—when he sees such an one puffing
and at his wits'-end, how can he avoid drawing the conclusion
that men like him are only rich because no one has the courage
to despoil them? And when they meet in private will not people
be saying to one another 'Our warriors are not good for much'?
Yes, he said, I am quite aware that this is their way of
talking.
And, as in a body which is diseased the addition of a touch
from without may bring on illness, and sometimes even when
there is no external provocation a commotion may arise with-
in—in the same way wherever there is weakness in the State
there is also likely to be illness, of which the occasion may be
very slight, the one party introducing from without their olig-
archical, the other their democratical allies, and then the State
falls sick, and is at war with herself; and may be at times dis-
tracted, even when there is no external cause.
Yes, surely.
And then democracy comes into being after the poor have
conquered their opponents, slaughtering some and banishing
some, while to the remainder they give an equal share of

493
freedom and power; and this is the form of government in
which the magistrates are commonly elected by lot.
Yes, he said, that is the nature of democracy, whether the re-
volution has been effected by arms, or whether fear has caused
the opposite party to withdraw.
And now what is their manner of life, and what sort of a gov-
ernment have they? for as the government is, such will be the
man.
Clearly, he said.
In the first place, are they not free; and is not the city full of
freedom and frankness—a man may say and do what he likes?
'Tis said so, he replied.
And where freedom is, the individual is clearly able to order
for himself his own life as he pleases?
Clearly.
Then in this kind of State there will be the greatest variety of
human natures?
There will.
This, then, seems likely to be the fairest of States, being like
an embroidered robe which is spangled with every sort of
flower. And just as women and children think a variety of col-
ours to be of all things most charming, so there are many men
to whom this State, which is spangled with the manners and
characters of mankind, will appear to be the fairest of States.
Yes.
Yes, my good Sir, and there will be no better in which to look
for a government.
Why?
Because of the liberty which reigns there—they have a com-
plete assortment of constitutions; and he who has a mind to es-
tablish a State, as we have been doing, must go to a democracy
as he would to a bazaar at which they sell them, and pick out
the one that suits him; then, when he has made his choice, he
may found his State.
He will be sure to have patterns enough.
And there being no necessity, I said, for you to govern in this
State, even if you have the capacity, or to be governed, unless
you like, or go to war when the rest go to war, or to be at
peace when others are at peace, unless you are so dis-
posed—there being no necessity also, because some law

494
forbids you to hold office or be a dicast, that you should not
hold office or be a dicast, if you have a fancy—is not this a way
of life which for the moment is supremely delightful?
For the moment, yes.
And is not their humanity to the condemned in some cases
quite charming? Have you not observed how, in a democracy,
many persons, although they have been sentenced to death or
exile, just stay where they are and walk about the world—the
gentleman parades like a hero, and nobody sees or cares?
Yes, he replied, many and many a one.
See too, I said, the forgiving spirit of democracy, and the
'don't care' about trifles, and the disregard which she shows of
all the fine principles which we solemnly laid down at the
foundation of the city—as when we said that, except in the case
of some rarely gifted nature, there never will be a good man
who has not from his childhood been used to play amid things
of beauty and make of them a joy and a study—how grandly
does she trample all these fine notions of ours under her feet,
never giving a thought to the pursuits which make a states-
man, and promoting to honour any one who professes to be the
people's friend.
Yes, she is of a noble spirit.
These and other kindred characteristics are proper to demo-
cracy, which is a charming form of government, full of variety
and disorder, and dispensing a sort of equality to equals and
unequals alike.
We know her well.
Consider now, I said, what manner of man the individual is,
or rather consider, as in the case of the State, how he comes
into being.
Very good, he said.
Is not this the way—he is the son of the miserly and oligarch-
ical father who has trained him in his own habits?
Exactly.
And, like his father, he keeps under by force the pleasures
which are of the spending and not of the getting sort, being
those which are called unnecessary?
Obviously.

495
 Would you like, for the sake of clearness, to distinguish
which are the necessary and which are the unnecessary
pleasures?
I should.
Are not necessary pleasures those of which we cannot get
rid, and of which the satisfaction is a benefit to us? And they
are rightly called so, because we are framed by nature to de-
sire both what is beneficial and what is necessary, and cannot
help it.
True.
We are not wrong therefore in calling them necessary?
We are not.
And the desires of which a man may get rid, if he takes pains
from his youth upwards—of which the presence, moreover,
does no good, and in some cases the reverse of good—shall we
not be right in saying that all these are unnecessary?
Yes, certainly.
Suppose we select an example of either kind, in order that
we may have a general notion of them?
Very good.
Will not the desire of eating, that is, of simple food and con-
diments, in so far as they are required for health and strength,
be of the necessary class?
That is what I should suppose.
The pleasure of eating is necessary in two ways; it does us
good and it is essential to the continuance of life?
Yes.
But the condiments are only necessary in so far as they are
good for health?
Certainly.
And the desire which goes beyond this, of more delicate food,
or other luxuries, which might generally be got rid of, if con-
trolled and trained in youth, and is hurtful to the body, and
hurtful to the soul in the pursuit of wisdom and virtue, may be
rightly called unnecessary?
Very true.
May we not say that these desires spend, and that the others
make money because they conduce to production?
Certainly.

496
 And of the pleasures of love, and all other pleasures, the
same holds good?
True.
And the drone of whom we spoke was he who was surfeited
in pleasures and desires of this sort, and was the slave of the
unnecessary desires, whereas he who was subject to the neces-
sary only was miserly and oligarchical?
Very true.
Again, let us see how the democratical man grows out of the
oligarchical: the following, as I suspect, is commonly the
process.
What is the process?
When a young man who has been brought up as we were just
now describing, in a vulgar and miserly way, has tasted drones'
honey and has come to associate with fierce and crafty natures
who are able to provide for him all sorts of refinements and
varieties of pleasure—then, as you may imagine, the change
will begin of the oligarchical principle within him into the
democratical?
Inevitably.
And as in the city like was helping like, and the change was
effected by an alliance from without assisting one division of
the citizens, so too the young man is changed by a class of de-
sires coming from without to assist the desires within him, that
which is akin and alike again helping that which is akin and
alike?
Certainly.
And if there be any ally which aids the oligarchical principle
within him, whether the influence of a father or of kindred, ad-
vising or rebuking him, then there arises in his soul a faction
and an opposite faction, and he goes to war with himself.
It must be so.
And there are times when the democratical principle gives
way to the oligarchical, and some of his desires die, and others
are banished; a spirit of reverence enters into the young man's
soul and order is restored.
Yes, he said, that sometimes happens.
And then, again, after the old desires have been driven out,
fresh ones spring up, which are akin to them, and because he

497
their father does not know how to educate them, wax fierce
and numerous.
Yes, he said, that is apt to be the way.
They draw him to his old associates, and holding secret inter-
course with them, breed and multiply in him.
Very true.
At length they seize upon the citadel of the young man's soul,
which they perceive to be void of all accomplishments and fair
pursuits and true words, which make their abode in the minds
of men who are dear to the gods, and are their best guardians
and sentinels.
None better.
False and boastful conceits and phrases mount upwards and
take their place.
They are certain to do so.
And so the young man returns into the country of the lotus-
eaters, and takes up his dwelling there in the face of all men;
and if any help be sent by his friends to the oligarchical part of
him, the aforesaid vain conceits shut the gate of the king's fast-
ness; and they will neither allow the embassy itself to enter,
nor if private advisers offer the fatherly counsel of the aged
will they listen to them or receive them. There is a battle and
they gain the day, and then modesty, which they call silliness,
is ignominiously thrust into exile by them, and temperance,
which they nickname unmanliness, is trampled in the mire and
cast forth; they persuade men that moderation and orderly ex-
penditure are vulgarity and meanness, and so, by the help of a
rabble of evil appetites, they drive them beyond the border.
Yes, with a will.
And when they have emptied and swept clean the soul of him
who is now in their power and who is being initiated by them in
great mysteries, the next thing is to bring back to their house
insolence and anarchy and waste and impudence in bright ar-
ray having garlands on their heads, and a great company with
them, hymning their praises and calling them by sweet names;
insolence they term breeding, and anarchy liberty, and waste
magnificence, and impudence courage. And so the young man
passes out of his original nature, which was trained in the
school of necessity, into the freedom and libertinism of useless
and unnecessary pleasures.

498
 Yes, he said, the change in him is visible enough.
After this he lives on, spending his money and labour and
time on unnecessary pleasures quite as much as on necessary
ones; but if he be fortunate, and is not too much disordered in
his wits, when years have elapsed, and the heyday of passion is
over—supposing that he then re-admits into the city some part
of the exiled virtues, and does not wholly give himself up to
their successors—in that case he balances his pleasures and
lives in a sort of equilibrium, putting the government of himself
into the hands of the one which comes first and wins the turn;
and when he has had enough of that, then into the hands of an-
other; he despises none of them but encourages them all
equally.
Very true, he said.
Neither does he receive or let pass into the fortress any true
word of advice; if any one says to him that some pleasures are
the satisfactions of good and noble desires, and others of evil
desires, and that he ought to use and honour some and chas-
tise and master the others—whenever this is repeated to him
he shakes his head and says that they are all alike, and that
one is as good as another.
Yes, he said; that is the way with him.
Yes, I said, he lives from day to day indulging the appetite of
the hour; and sometimes he is lapped in drink and strains of
the flute; then he becomes a water-drinker, and tries to get
thin; then he takes a turn at gymnastics; sometimes idling and
neglecting everything, then once more living the life of a philo-
sopher; often he is busy with politics, and starts to his feet and
says and does whatever comes into his head; and, if he is emu-
lous of any one who is a warrior, off he is in that direction, or
of men of business, once more in that. His life has neither law
nor order; and this distracted existence he terms joy and bliss
and freedom; and so he goes on.
Yes, he replied, he is all liberty and equality.
Yes, I said; his life is motley and manifold and an epitome of
the lives of many;—he answers to the State which we described
as fair and spangled. And many a man and many a woman will
take him for their pattern, and many a constitution and many
an example of manners is contained in him.
Just so.

499
 Let him then be set over against democracy; he may truly be
called the democratic man.
Let that be his place, he said.
Last of all comes the most beautiful of all, man and State
alike, tyranny and the tyrant; these we have now to consider.
Quite true, he said.
Say then, my friend, In what manner does tyranny
arise?—that it has a democratic origin is evident.
Clearly.
And does not tyranny spring from democracy in the same
manner as democracy from oligarchy—I mean, after a sort?
How?
The good which oligarchy proposed to itself and the means
by which it was maintained was excess of wealth—am I not
right?
Yes.
And the insatiable desire of wealth and the neglect of all oth-
er things for the sake of money-getting was also the ruin of
oligarchy?
True.
And democracy has her own good, of which the insatiable de-
sire brings her to dissolution?
What good?
Freedom, I replied; which, as they tell you in a democracy, is
the glory of the State—and that therefore in a democracy alone
will the freeman of nature deign to dwell.
Yes; the saying is in every body's mouth.
I was going to observe, that the insatiable desire of this and
the neglect of other things introduces the change in demo-
cracy, which occasions a demand for tyranny.
How so?
When a democracy which is thirsting for freedom has evil
cup-bearers presiding over the feast, and has drunk too deeply
of the strong wine of freedom, then, unless her rulers are very
amenable and give a plentiful draught, she calls them to ac-
count and punishes them, and says that they are cursed
oligarchs.
Yes, he replied, a very common occurrence.
Yes, I said; and loyal citizens are insultingly termed by her
slaves who hug their chains and men of naught; she would

500
have subjects who are like rulers, and rulers who are like sub-
jects: these are men after her own heart, whom she praises
and honours both in private and public. Now, in such a State,
can liberty have any limit?
Certainly not.
By degrees the anarchy finds a way into private houses, and
ends by getting among the animals and infecting them.
How do you mean?
I mean that the father grows accustomed to descend to the
level of his sons and to fear them, and the son is on a level with
his father, he having no respect or reverence for either of his
parents; and this is his freedom, and the metic is equal with
the citizen and the citizen with the metic, and the stranger is
quite as good as either.
Yes, he said, that is the way.
And these are not the only evils, I said—there are several
lesser ones: In such a state of society the master fears and flat-
ters his scholars, and the scholars despise their masters and
tutors; young and old are all alike; and the young man is on a
level with the old, and is ready to compete with him in word or
deed; and old men condescend to the young and are full of
pleasantry and gaiety; they are loth to be thought morose and
authoritative, and therefore they adopt the manners of the
young.
Quite true, he said.
The last extreme of popular liberty is when the slave bought
with money, whether male or female, is just as free as his or
her purchaser; nor must I forget to tell of the liberty and equal-
ity of the two sexes in relation to each other.
Why not, as Aeschylus says, utter the word which rises to our
lips?
That is what I am doing, I replied; and I must add that no one
who does not know would believe, how much greater is the
liberty which the animals who are under the dominion of man
have in a democracy than in any other State: for truly, the she-
dogs, as the proverb says, are as good as their she-mistresses,
and the horses and asses have a way of marching along with all
the rights and dignities of freemen; and they will run at any
body who comes in their way if he does not leave the road

501
clear for them: and all things are just ready to burst with
liberty.
When I take a country walk, he said, I often experience what
you describe. You and I have dreamed the same thing.
And above all, I said, and as the result of all, see how sensit-
ive the citizens become; they chafe impatiently at the least
touch of authority, and at length, as you know, they cease to
care even for the laws, written or unwritten; they will have no
one over them.
Yes, he said, I know it too well.
Such, my friend, I said, is the fair and glorious beginning out
of which springs tyranny.
Glorious indeed, he said. But what is the next step?
The ruin of oligarchy is the ruin of democracy; the same dis-
ease magnified and intensified by liberty overmasters demo-
cracy—the truth being that the excessive increase of anything
often causes a reaction in the opposite direction; and this is the
case not only in the seasons and in vegetable and animal life,
but above all in forms of government.
True.
The excess of liberty, whether in States or individuals, seems
only to pass into excess of slavery.
Yes, the natural order.
And so tyranny naturally arises out of democracy, and the
most aggravated form of tyranny and slavery out of the most
extreme form of liberty?
As we might expect.
That, however, was not, as I believe, your question—you
rather desired to know what is that disorder which is gener-
ated alike in oligarchy and democracy, and is the ruin of both?
Just so, he replied.
Well, I said, I meant to refer to the class of idle spendthrifts,
of whom the more courageous are the leaders and the more
timid the followers, the same whom we were comparing to
drones, some stingless, and others having stings.
A very just comparison.
These two classes are the plagues of every city in which they
are generated, being what phlegm and bile are to the body.
And the good physician and lawgiver of the State ought, like
the wise bee-master, to keep them at a distance and prevent, if

502
possible, their ever coming in; and if they have anyhow found a
way in, then he should have them and their cells cut out as
speedily as possible.
Yes, by all means, he said.
Then, in order that we may see clearly what we are doing, let
us imagine democracy to be divided, as indeed it is, into three
classes; for in the first place freedom creates rather more
drones in the democratic than there were in the oligarchical
State.
That is true.
And in the democracy they are certainly more intensified.
How so?
Because in the oligarchical State they are disqualified and
driven from office, and therefore they cannot train or gather
strength; whereas in a democracy they are almost the entire
ruling power, and while the keener sort speak and act, the rest
keep buzzing about the bema and do not suffer a word to be
said on the other side; hence in democracies almost everything
is managed by the drones.
Very true, he said.
Then there is another class which is always being severed
from the mass.
What is that?
They are the orderly class, which in a nation of traders is
sure to be the richest.
Naturally so.
They are the most squeezable persons and yield the largest
amount of honey to the drones.
Why, he said, there is little to be squeezed out of people who
have little.
And this is called the wealthy class, and the drones feed upon
them.
That is pretty much the case, he said.
The people are a third class, consisting of those who work
with their own hands; they are not politicians, and have not
much to live upon. This, when assembled, is the largest and
most powerful class in a democracy.
True, he said; but then the multitude is seldom willing to con-
gregate unless they get a little honey.

503
 And do they not share? I said. Do not their leaders deprive
the rich of their estates and distribute them among the people;
at the same time taking care to reserve the larger part for
themselves?
Why, yes, he said, to that extent the people do share.
And the persons whose property is taken from them are com-
pelled to defend themselves before the people as they best
can?
What else can they do?
And then, although they may have no desire of change, the
others charge them with plotting against the people and being
friends of oligarchy?
True.
And the end is that when they see the people, not of their
own accord, but through ignorance, and because they are de-
ceived by informers, seeking to do them wrong, then at last
they are forced to become oligarchs in reality; they do not wish
to be, but the sting of the drones torments them and breeds re-
volution in them.
That is exactly the truth.
Then come impeachments and judgments and trials of one
another.
True.
The people have always some champion whom they set over
them and nurse into greatness.
Yes, that is their way.
This and no other is the root from which a tyrant springs;
when he first appears above ground he is a protector.
Yes, that is quite clear.
How then does a protector begin to change into a tyrant?
Clearly when he does what the man is said to do in the tale of
the Arcadian temple of Lycaean Zeus.
What tale?
The tale is that he who has tasted the entrails of a single hu-
man victim minced up with the entrails of other victims is
destined to become a wolf. Did you never hear it?
Oh, yes.
And the protector of the people is like him; having a mob en-
tirely at his disposal, he is not restrained from shedding the
blood of kinsmen; by the favourite method of false accusation

504
he brings them into court and murders them, making the life of
man to disappear, and with unholy tongue and lips tasting the
blood of his fellow citizens; some he kills and others he ban-
ishes, at the same time hinting at the abolition of debts and
partition of lands: and after this, what will be his destiny? Must
he not either perish at the hands of his enemies, or from being
a man become a wolf—that is, a tyrant?
Inevitably.
This, I said, is he who begins to make a party against the
rich?
The same.
After a while he is driven out, but comes back, in spite of his
enemies, a tyrant full grown.
That is clear.
And if they are unable to expel him, or to get him condemned
to death by a public accusation, they conspire to assassinate
him.
Yes, he said, that is their usual way.
Then comes the famous request for a body-guard, which is
the device of all those who have got thus far in their tyrannical
career—'Let not the people's friend,' as they say, 'be lost to
them.'
Exactly.
The people readily assent; all their fears are for him—they
have none for themselves.
Very true.
And when a man who is wealthy and is also accused of being
an enemy of the people sees this, then, my friend, as the oracle
said to Croesus,
'By pebbly Hermus' shore he flees and rests not, and is not
ashamed to be a coward.'
And quite right too, said he, for if he were, he would never be
ashamed again.
But if he is caught he dies.
Of course.
And he, the protector of whom we spoke, is to be seen, not
'larding the plain' with his bulk, but himself the overthrower of
many, standing up in the chariot of State with the reins in his
hand, no longer protector, but tyrant absolute.
No doubt, he said.

505
 And now let us consider the happiness of the man, and also
of the State in which a creature like him is generated.
Yes, he said, let us consider that.
At first, in the early days of his power, he is full of smiles,
and he salutes every one whom he meets;—he to be called a
tyrant, who is making promises in public and also in private!
liberating debtors, and distributing land to the people and his
followers, and wanting to be so kind and good to every one!
Of course, he said.
But when he has disposed of foreign enemies by conquest or
treaty, and there is nothing to fear from them, then he is al-
ways stirring up some war or other, in order that the people
may require a leader.
To be sure.
Has he not also another object, which is that they may be im-
poverished by payment of taxes, and thus compelled to devote
themselves to their daily wants and therefore less likely to con-
spire against him?
Clearly.
And if any of them are suspected by him of having notions of
freedom, and of resistance to his authority, he will have a good
pretext for destroying them by placing them at the mercy of
the enemy; and for all these reasons the tyrant must be always
getting up a war.
He must.
Now he begins to grow unpopular.
A necessary result.
Then some of those who joined in setting him up, and who
are in power, speak their minds to him and to one another, and
the more courageous of them cast in his teeth what is being
done.
Yes, that may be expected.
And the tyrant, if he means to rule, must get rid of them; he
cannot stop while he has a friend or an enemy who is good for
anything.
He cannot.
And therefore he must look about him and see who is valiant,
who is high-minded, who is wise, who is wealthy; happy man,
he is the enemy of them all, and must seek occasion against

506
them whether he will or no, until he has made a purgation of
the State.
Yes, he said, and a rare purgation.
Yes, I said, not the sort of purgation which the physicians
make of the body; for they take away the worse and leave the
better part, but he does the reverse.
If he is to rule, I suppose that he cannot help himself.
What a blessed alternative, I said:—to be compelled to dwell
only with the many bad, and to be by them hated, or not to live
at all!
Yes, that is the alternative.
And the more detestable his actions are to the citizens the
more satellites and the greater devotion in them will he
require?
Certainly.
And who are the devoted band, and where will he procure
them?
They will flock to him, he said, of their own accord, if he pays
them.
By the dog! I said, here are more drones, of every sort and
from every land.
Yes, he said, there are.
But will he not desire to get them on the spot?
How do you mean?
He will rob the citizens of their slaves; he will then set them
free and enrol them in his body-guard.
To be sure, he said; and he will be able to trust them best of
all.
What a blessed creature, I said, must this tyrant be; he has
put to death the others and has these for his trusted friends.
Yes, he said; they are quite of his sort.
Yes, I said, and these are the new citizens whom he has
called into existence, who admire him and are his companions,
while the good hate and avoid him.
Of course.
Verily, then, tragedy is a wise thing and Euripides a great
tragedian.
Why so?
Why, because he is the author of the pregnant saying,
'Tyrants are wise by living with the wise;'

507
 and he clearly meant to say that they are the wise whom the
tyrant makes his companions.
Yes, he said, and he also praises tyranny as godlike; and
many other things of the same kind are said by him and by the
other poets.
And therefore, I said, the tragic poets being wise men will
forgive us and any others who live after our manner if we do
not receive them into our State, because they are the eulogists
of tyranny.
Yes, he said, those who have the wit will doubtless forgive us.
But they will continue to go to other cities and attract mobs,
and hire voices fair and loud and persuasive, and draw the cit-
ies over to tyrannies and democracies.
Very true.
Moreover, they are paid for this and receive honour—the
greatest honour, as might be expected, from tyrants, and the
next greatest from democracies; but the higher they ascend
our constitution hill, the more their reputation fails, and seems
unable from shortness of breath to proceed further.
True.
But we are wandering from the subject: Let us therefore re-
turn and enquire how the tyrant will maintain that fair and nu-
merous and various and ever-changing army of his.
If, he said, there are sacred treasures in the city, he will con-
fiscate and spend them; and in so far as the fortunes of attain-
ted persons may suffice, he will be able to diminish the taxes
which he would otherwise have to impose upon the people.
And when these fail?
Why, clearly, he said, then he and his boon companions,
whether male or female, will be maintained out of his father's
estate.
You mean to say that the people, from whom he has derived
his being, will maintain him and his companions?
Yes, he said; they cannot help themselves.
But what if the people fly into a passion, and aver that a
grown-up son ought not to be supported by his father, but that
the father should be supported by the son? The father did not
bring him into being, or settle him in life, in order that when
his son became a man he should himself be the servant of his
own servants and should support him and his rabble of slaves

508
and companions; but that his son should protect him, and that
by his help he might be emancipated from the government of
the rich and aristocratic, as they are termed. And so he bids
him and his companions depart, just as any other father might
drive out of the house a riotous son and his undesirable
associates.
By heaven, he said, then the parent will discover what a mon-
ster he has been fostering in his bosom; and, when he wants to
drive him out, he will find that he is weak and his son strong.
Why, you do not mean to say that the tyrant will use viol-
ence? What! beat his father if he opposes him?
Yes, he will, having first disarmed him.
Then he is a parricide, and a cruel guardian of an aged par-
ent; and this is real tyranny, about which there can be no
longer a mistake: as the saying is, the people who would es-
cape the smoke which is the slavery of freemen, has fallen into
the fire which is the tyranny of slaves. Thus liberty, getting out
of all order and reason, passes into the harshest and bitterest
form of slavery.
True, he said.
Very well; and may we not rightly say that we have suffi-
ciently discussed the nature of tyranny, and the manner of the
transition from democracy to tyranny?
Yes, quite enough, he said.

509
Part 9

510
Last of all comes the tyrannical man; about whom we have
once more to ask, how is he formed out of the democratical?
and how does he live, in happiness or in misery?
Yes, he said, he is the only one remaining.
There is, however, I said, a previous question which remains
unanswered.
What question?
I do not think that we have adequately determined the nature
and number of the appetites, and until this is accomplished the
enquiry will always be confused.
Well, he said, it is not too late to supply the omission.
Very true, I said; and observe the point which I want to un-
derstand: Certain of the unnecessary pleasures and appetites I
conceive to be unlawful; every one appears to have them, but
in some persons they are controlled by the laws and by reason,
and the better desires prevail over them—either they are
wholly banished or they become few and weak; while in the
case of others they are stronger, and there are more of them.
Which appetites do you mean?
I mean those which are awake when the reasoning and hu-
man and ruling power is asleep; then the wild beast within us,
gorged with meat or drink, starts up and having shaken off
sleep, goes forth to satisfy his desires; and there is no conceiv-
able folly or crime—not excepting incest or any other unnatural
union, or parricide, or the eating of forbidden food—which at
such a time, when he has parted company with all shame and
sense, a man may not be ready to commit.
Most true, he said.
But when a man's pulse is healthy and temperate, and when
before going to sleep he has awakened his rational powers, and
fed them on noble thoughts and enquiries, collecting himself in
meditation; after having first indulged his appetites neither too
much nor too little, but just enough to lay them to sleep, and
prevent them and their enjoyments and pains from interfering
with the higher principle—which he leaves in the solitude of
pure abstraction, free to contemplate and aspire to the know-
ledge of the unknown, whether in past, present, or future:
when again he has allayed the passionate element, if he has a
quarrel against any one—I say, when, after pacifying the two
irrational principles, he rouses up the third, which is reason,

511
before he takes his rest, then, as you know, he attains truth
most nearly, and is least likely to be the sport of fantastic and
lawless visions.
I quite agree.
In saying this I have been running into a digression; but the
point which I desire to note is that in all of us, even in good
men, there is a lawless wild-beast nature, which peers out in
sleep. Pray, consider whether I am right, and you agree with
me.
Yes, I agree.
And now remember the character which we attributed to the
democratic man. He was supposed from his youth upwards to
have been trained under a miserly parent, who encouraged the
saving appetites in him, but discountenanced the unnecessary,
which aim only at amusement and ornament?
True.
And then he got into the company of a more refined, li-
centious sort of people, and taking to all their wanton ways
rushed into the opposite extreme from an abhorrence of his
father's meanness. At last, being a better man than his cor-
ruptors, he was drawn in both directions until he halted mid-
way and led a life, not of vulgar and slavish passion, but of
what he deemed moderate indulgence in various pleasures.
After this manner the democrat was generated out of the
oligarch?
Yes, he said; that was our view of him, and is so still.
And now, I said, years will have passed away, and you must
conceive this man, such as he is, to have a son, who is brought
up in his father's principles.
I can imagine him.
Then you must further imagine the same thing to happen to
the son which has already happened to the father:—he is
drawn into a perfectly lawless life, which by his seducers is
termed perfect liberty; and his father and friends take part
with his moderate desires, and the opposite party assist the op-
posite ones. As soon as these dire magicians and tyrant-makers
find that they are losing their hold on him, they contrive to im-
plant in him a master passion, to be lord over his idle and
spendthrift lusts—a sort of monstrous winged drone—that is
the only image which will adequately describe him.

512
 Yes, he said, that is the only adequate image of him.
And when his other lusts, amid clouds of incense and per-
fumes and garlands and wines, and all the pleasures of a dis-
solute life, now let loose, come buzzing around him, nourishing
to the utmost the sting of desire which they implant in his
drone-like nature, then at last this lord of the soul, having Mad-
ness for the captain of his guard, breaks out into a frenzy: and
if he finds in himself any good opinions or appetites in process
of formation, and there is in him any sense of shame remain-
ing, to these better principles he puts an end, and casts them
forth until he has purged away temperance and brought in
madness to the full.
Yes, he said, that is the way in which the tyrannical man is
generated.
And is not this the reason why of old love has been called a
tyrant?
I should not wonder.
Further, I said, has not a drunken man also the spirit of a
tyrant?
He has.
And you know that a man who is deranged and not right in
his mind, will fancy that he is able to rule, not only over men,
but also over the gods?
That he will.
And the tyrannical man in the true sense of the word comes
into being when, either under the influence of nature, or habit,
or both, he becomes drunken, lustful, passionate? O my friend,
is not that so?
Assuredly.
Such is the man and such is his origin. And next, how does
he live?
Suppose, as people facetiously say, you were to tell me.
I imagine, I said, at the next step in his progress, that there
will be feasts and carousals and revellings and courtezans, and
all that sort of thing; Love is the lord of the house within him,
and orders all the concerns of his soul.
That is certain.
Yes; and every day and every night desires grow up many
and formidable, and their demands are many.
They are indeed, he said.

513
 His revenues, if he has any, are soon spent.
True.
Then comes debt and the cutting down of his property.
Of course.
When he has nothing left, must not his desires, crowding in
the nest like young ravens, be crying aloud for food; and he,
goaded on by them, and especially by love himself, who is in a
manner the captain of them, is in a frenzy, and would fain dis-
cover whom he can defraud or despoil of his property, in order
that he may gratify them?
Yes, that is sure to be the case.
He must have money, no matter how, if he is to escape horrid
pains and pangs.
He must.
And as in himself there was a succession of pleasures, and
the new got the better of the old and took away their rights, so
he being younger will claim to have more than his father and
his mother, and if he has spent his own share of the property,
he will take a slice of theirs.
No doubt he will.
And if his parents will not give way, then he will try first of
all to cheat and deceive them.
Very true.
And if he fails, then he will use force and plunder them.
Yes, probably.
And if the old man and woman fight for their own, what then,
my friend? Will the creature feel any compunction at tyranniz-
ing over them?
Nay, he said, I should not feel at all comfortable about his
parents.
But, O heavens! Adeimantus, on account of some new-
fangled love of a harlot, who is anything but a necessary con-
nection, can you believe that he would strike the mother who is
his ancient friend and necessary to his very existence, and
would place her under the authority of the other, when she is
brought under the same roof with her; or that, under like cir-
cumstances, he would do the same to his withered old father,
first and most indispensable of friends, for the sake of some
newly-found blooming youth who is the reverse of
indispensable?

514
 Yes, indeed, he said; I believe that he would.
Truly, then, I said, a tyrannical son is a blessing to his father
and mother.
He is indeed, he replied.
He first takes their property, and when that fails, and pleas-
ures are beginning to swarm in the hive of his soul, then he
breaks into a house, or steals the garments of some nightly
wayfarer; next he proceeds to clear a temple. Meanwhile the
old opinions which he had when a child, and which gave judg-
ment about good and evil, are overthrown by those others
which have just been emancipated, and are now the body-
guard of love and share his empire. These in his democratic
days, when he was still subject to the laws and to his father,
were only let loose in the dreams of sleep. But now that he is
under the dominion of love, he becomes always and in waking
reality what he was then very rarely and in a dream only; he
will commit the foulest murder, or eat forbidden food, or be
guilty of any other horrid act. Love is his tyrant, and lives
lordly in him and lawlessly, and being himself a king, leads him
on, as a tyrant leads a State, to the performance of any reck-
less deed by which he can maintain himself and the rabble of
his associates, whether those whom evil communications have
brought in from without, or those whom he himself has allowed
to break loose within him by reason of a similar evil nature in
himself. Have we not here a picture of his way of life?
Yes, indeed, he said.
And if there are only a few of them in the State, and the rest
of the people are well disposed, they go away and become the
body-guard or mercenary soldiers of some other tyrant who
may probably want them for a war; and if there is no war, they
stay at home and do many little pieces of mischief in the city.
What sort of mischief?
For example, they are the thieves, burglars, cut-purses, foot-
pads, robbers of temples, man-stealers of the community; or if
they are able to speak they turn informers, and bear false wit-
ness, and take bribes.
A small catalogue of evils, even if the perpetrators of them
are few in number.
Yes, I said; but small and great are comparative terms, and
all these things, in the misery and evil which they inflict upon a

515
State, do not come within a thousand miles of the tyrant; when
this noxious class and their followers grow numerous and be-
come conscious of their strength, assisted by the infatuation of
the people, they choose from among themselves the one who
has most of the tyrant in his own soul, and him they create
their tyrant.
Yes, he said, and he will be the most fit to be a tyrant.
If the people yield, well and good; but if they resist him, as
he began by beating his own father and mother, so now, if he
has the power, he beats them, and will keep his dear old fath-
erland or motherland, as the Cretans say, in subjection to his
young retainers whom he has introduced to be their rulers and
masters. This is the end of his passions and desires.
Exactly.
When such men are only private individuals and before they
get power, this is their character; they associate entirely with
their own flatterers or ready tools; or if they want anything
from anybody, they in their turn are equally ready to bow down
before them: they profess every sort of affection for them; but
when they have gained their point they know them no more.
Yes, truly.
They are always either the masters or servants and never the
friends of anybody; the tyrant never tastes of true freedom or
friendship.
Certainly not.
And may we not rightly call such men treacherous?
No question.
Also they are utterly unjust, if we were right in our notion of
justice?
Yes, he said, and we were perfectly right.
Let us then sum up in a word, I said, the character of the
worst man: he is the waking reality of what we dreamed.
Most true.
And this is he who being by nature most of a tyrant bears
rule, and the longer he lives the more of a tyrant he becomes.
That is certain, said Glaucon, taking his turn to answer.
And will not he who has been shown to be the wickedest, be
also the most miserable? and he who has tyrannized longest
and most, most continually and truly miserable; although this
may not be the opinion of men in general?

516
 Yes, he said, inevitably.
And must not the tyrannical man be like the tyrannical State,
and the democratical man like the democratical State; and the
same of the others?
Certainly.
And as State is to State in virtue and happiness, so is man in
relation to man?
To be sure.
Then comparing our original city, which was under a king,
and the city which is under a tyrant, how do they stand as to
virtue?
They are the opposite extremes, he said, for one is the very
best and the other is the very worst.
There can be no mistake, I said, as to which is which, and
therefore I will at once enquire whether you would arrive at a
similar decision about their relative happiness and misery. And
here we must not allow ourselves to be panic-stricken at the
apparition of the tyrant, who is only a unit and may perhaps
have a few retainers about him; but let us go as we ought into
every corner of the city and look all about, and then we will
give our opinion.
A fair invitation, he replied; and I see, as every one must,
that a tyranny is the wretchedest form of government, and the
rule of a king the happiest.
And in estimating the men too, may I not fairly make a like
request, that I should have a judge whose mind can enter into
and see through human nature? he must not be like a child
who looks at the outside and is dazzled at the pompous aspect
which the tyrannical nature assumes to the beholder, but let
him be one who has a clear insight. May I suppose that the
judgment is given in the hearing of us all by one who is able to
judge, and has dwelt in the same place with him, and been
present at his dally life and known him in his family relations,
where he may be seen stripped of his tragedy attire, and again
in the hour of public danger—he shall tell us about the happi-
ness and misery of the tyrant when compared with other men?
That again, he said, is a very fair proposal.
Shall I assume that we ourselves are able and experienced
judges and have before now met with such a person? We shall
then have some one who will answer our enquiries.

517
 By all means.
Let me ask you not to forget the parallel of the individual and
the State; bearing this in mind, and glancing in turn from one
to the other of them, will you tell me their respective
conditions?
What do you mean? he asked.
Beginning with the State, I replied, would you say that a city
which is governed by a tyrant is free or enslaved?
No city, he said, can be more completely enslaved.
And yet, as you see, there are freemen as well as masters in
such a State?
Yes, he said, I see that there are—a few; but the people,
speaking generally, and the best of them are miserably de-
graded and enslaved.
Then if the man is like the State, I said, must not the same
rule prevail? his soul is full of meanness and vulgarity—the
best elements in him are enslaved; and there is a small ruling
part, which is also the worst and maddest.
Inevitably.
And would you say that the soul of such an one is the soul of
a freeman, or of a slave?
He has the soul of a slave, in my opinion.
And the State which is enslaved under a tyrant is utterly in-
capable of acting voluntarily?
Utterly incapable.
And also the soul which is under a tyrant (I am speaking of
the soul taken as a whole) is least capable of doing what she
desires; there is a gadfly which goads her, and she is full of
trouble and remorse?
Certainly.
And is the city which is under a tyrant rich or poor?
Poor.
And the tyrannical soul must be always poor and insatiable?
True.
And must not such a State and such a man be always full of
fear?
Yes, indeed.
Is there any State in which you will find more of lamentation
and sorrow and groaning and pain?
Certainly not.

518
 And is there any man in whom you will find more of this sort
of misery than in the tyrannical man, who is in a fury of pas-
sions and desires?
Impossible.
Reflecting upon these and similar evils, you held the tyran-
nical State to be the most miserable of States?
And I was right, he said.
Certainly, I said. And when you see the same evils in the tyr-
annical man, what do you say of him?
I say that he is by far the most miserable of all men.
There, I said, I think that you are beginning to go wrong.
What do you mean?
I do not think that he has as yet reached the utmost extreme
of misery.
Then who is more miserable?
One of whom I am about to speak.
Who is that?
He who is of a tyrannical nature, and instead of leading a
private life has been cursed with the further misfortune of be-
ing a public tyrant.
From what has been said, I gather that you are right.
Yes, I replied, but in this high argument you should be a little
more certain, and should not conjecture only; for of all ques-
tions, this respecting good and evil is the greatest.
Very true, he said.
Let me then offer you an illustration, which may, I think,
throw a light upon this subject.
What is your illustration?
The case of rich individuals in cities who possess many
slaves: from them you may form an idea of the tyrant's condi-
tion, for they both have slaves; the only difference is that he
has more slaves.
Yes, that is the difference.
You know that they live securely and have nothing to appre-
hend from their servants?
What should they fear?
Nothing. But do you observe the reason of this?
Yes; the reason is, that the whole city is leagued together for
the protection of each individual.

519
 Very true, I said. But imagine one of these owners, the mas-
ter say of some fifty slaves, together with his family and prop-
erty and slaves, carried off by a god into the wilderness, where
there are no freemen to help him—will he not be in an agony of
fear lest he and his wife and children should be put to death by
his slaves?
Yes, he said, he will be in the utmost fear.
The time has arrived when he will be compelled to flatter
divers of his slaves, and make many promises to them of free-
dom and other things, much against his will—he will have to
cajole his own servants.
Yes, he said, that will be the only way of saving himself.
And suppose the same god, who carried him away, to sur-
round him with neighbours who will not suffer one man to be
the master of another, and who, if they could catch the offend-
er, would take his life?
His case will be still worse, if you suppose him to be every-
where surrounded and watched by enemies.
And is not this the sort of prison in which the tyrant will be
bound—he who being by nature such as we have described, is
full of all sorts of fears and lusts? His soul is dainty and greedy,
and yet alone, of all men in the city, he is never allowed to go
on a journey, or to see the things which other freemen desire
to see, but he lives in his hole like a woman hidden in the
house, and is jealous of any other citizen who goes into foreign
parts and sees anything of interest.
Very true, he said.
And amid evils such as these will not he who is ill-governed
in his own person—the tyrannical man, I mean—whom you just
now decided to be the most miserable of all—will not he be yet
more miserable when, instead of leading a private life, he is
constrained by fortune to be a public tyrant? He has to be mas-
ter of others when he is not master of himself: he is like a dis-
eased or paralytic man who is compelled to pass his life, not in
retirement, but fighting and combating with other men.
Yes, he said, the similitude is most exact.
Is not his case utterly miserable? and does not the actual tyr-
ant lead a worse life than he whose life you determined to be
the worst?
Certainly.

520
 He who is the real tyrant, whatever men may think, is the
real slave, and is obliged to practise the greatest adulation and
servility, and to be the flatterer of the vilest of mankind. He
has desires which he is utterly unable to satisfy, and has more
wants than any one, and is truly poor, if you know how to in-
spect the whole soul of him: all his life long he is beset with
fear and is full of convulsions and distractions, even as the
State which he resembles: and surely the resemblance holds?
Very true, he said.
Moreover, as we were saying before, he grows worse from
having power: he becomes and is of necessity more jealous,
more faithless, more unjust, more friendless, more impious,
than he was at first; he is the purveyor and cherisher of every
sort of vice, and the consequence is that he is supremely miser-
able, and that he makes everybody else as miserable as
himself.
No man of any sense will dispute your words.
Come then, I said, and as the general umpire in theatrical
contests proclaims the result, do you also decide who in your
opinion is first in the scale of happiness, and who second, and
in what order the others follow: there are five of them in
all—they are the royal, timocratical, oligarchical, democratical,
tyrannical.
The decision will be easily given, he replied; they shall be
choruses coming on the stage, and I must judge them in the or-
der in which they enter, by the criterion of virtue and vice,
happiness and misery.
Need we hire a herald, or shall I announce, that the son of
Ariston (the best) has decided that the best and justest is also
the happiest, and that this is he who is the most royal man and
king over himself; and that the worst and most unjust man is
also the most miserable, and that this is he who being the
greatest tyrant of himself is also the greatest tyrant of his
State?
Make the proclamation yourself, he said.
And shall I add, 'whether seen or unseen by gods and men'?
Let the words be added.
Then this, I said, will be our first proof; and there is another,
which may also have some weight.
What is that?

521
 The second proof is derived from the nature of the soul: see-
ing that the individual soul, like the State, has been divided by
us into three principles, the division may, I think, furnish a new
demonstration.
Of what nature?
It seems to me that to these three principles three pleasures
correspond; also three desires and governing powers.
How do you mean? he said.
There is one principle with which, as we were saying, a man
learns, another with which he is angry; the third, having many
forms, has no special name, but is denoted by the general term
appetitive, from the extraordinary strength and vehemence of
the desires of eating and drinking and the other sensual appet-
ites which are the main elements of it; also money-loving, be-
cause such desires are generally satisfied by the help of
money.
That is true, he said.
If we were to say that the loves and pleasures of this third
part were concerned with gain, we should then be able to fall
back on a single notion; and might truly and intelligibly de-
scribe this part of the soul as loving gain or money.
I agree with you.
Again, is not the passionate element wholly set on ruling and
conquering and getting fame?
True.
Suppose we call it the contentious or ambitious—would the
term be suitable?
Extremely suitable.
On the other hand, every one sees that the principle of know-
ledge is wholly directed to the truth, and cares less than either
of the others for gain or fame.
Far less.
'Lover of wisdom,' 'lover of knowledge,' are titles which we
may fitly apply to that part of the soul?
Certainly.
One principle prevails in the souls of one class of men, anoth-
er in others, as may happen?
Yes.
Then we may begin by assuming that there are three classes
of men—lovers of wisdom, lovers of honour, lovers of gain?

522
 Exactly.
And there are three kinds of pleasure, which are their sever-
al objects?
Very true.
Now, if you examine the three classes of men, and ask of
them in turn which of their lives is pleasantest, each will be
found praising his own and depreciating that of others: the
money-maker will contrast the vanity of honour or of learning if
they bring no money with the solid advantages of gold and
silver?
True, he said.
And the lover of honour—what will be his opinion? Will he
not think that the pleasure of riches is vulgar, while the pleas-
ure of learning, if it brings no distinction, is all smoke and non-
sense to him?
Very true.
And are we to suppose, I said, that the philosopher sets any
value on other pleasures in comparison with the pleasure of
knowing the truth, and in that pursuit abiding, ever learning,
not so far indeed from the heaven of pleasure? Does he not call
the other pleasures necessary, under the idea that if there
were no necessity for them, he would rather not have them?
There can be no doubt of that, he replied.
Since, then, the pleasures of each class and the life of each
are in dispute, and the question is not which life is more or less
honourable, or better or worse, but which is the more pleasant
or painless—how shall we know who speaks truly?
I cannot myself tell, he said.
Well, but what ought to be the criterion? Is any better than
experience and wisdom and reason?
There cannot be a better, he said.
Then, I said, reflect. Of the three individuals, which has the
greatest experience of all the pleasures which we enumerated?
Has the lover of gain, in learning the nature of essential truth,
greater experience of the pleasure of knowledge than the
philosopher has of the pleasure of gain?
The philosopher, he replied, has greatly the advantage; for
he has of necessity always known the taste of the other pleas-
ures from his childhood upwards: but the lover of gain in all his
experience has not of necessity tasted—or, I should rather say,

523
even had he desired, could hardly have tasted—the sweetness
of learning and knowing truth.
Then the lover of wisdom has a great advantage over the lov-
er of gain, for he has a double experience?
Yes, very great.
Again, has he greater experience of the pleasures of honour,
or the lover of honour of the pleasures of wisdom?
Nay, he said, all three are honoured in proportion as they at-
tain their object; for the rich man and the brave man and the
wise man alike have their crowd of admirers, and as they all re-
ceive honour they all have experience of the pleasures of hon-
our; but the delight which is to be found in the knowledge of
true being is known to the philosopher only.
His experience, then, will enable him to judge better than
any one?
Far better.
And he is the only one who has wisdom as well as
experience?
Certainly.
Further, the very faculty which is the instrument of judgment
is not possessed by the covetous or ambitious man, but only by
the philosopher?
What faculty?
Reason, with whom, as we were saying, the decision ought to
rest.
Yes.
And reasoning is peculiarly his instrument?
Certainly.
If wealth and gain were the criterion, then the praise or
blame of the lover of gain would surely be the most
trustworthy?
Assuredly.
Or if honour or victory or courage, in that case the judgment
of the ambitious or pugnacious would be the truest?
Clearly.
But since experience and wisdom and reason are the
judges—
The only inference possible, he replied, is that pleasures
which are approved by the lover of wisdom and reason are the
truest.

524
 And so we arrive at the result, that the pleasure of the intelli-
gent part of the soul is the pleasantest of the three, and that he
of us in whom this is the ruling principle has the pleasantest
life.
Unquestionably, he said, the wise man speaks with authority
when he approves of his own life.
And what does the judge affirm to be the life which is next,
and the pleasure which is next?
Clearly that of the soldier and lover of honour; who is nearer
to himself than the money-maker.
Last comes the lover of gain?
Very true, he said.
Twice in succession, then, has the just man overthrown the
unjust in this conflict; and now comes the third trial, which is
dedicated to Olympian Zeus the saviour: a sage whispers in my
ear that no pleasure except that of the wise is quite true and
pure—all others are a shadow only; and surely this will prove
the greatest and most decisive of falls?
Yes, the greatest; but will you explain yourself?
I will work out the subject and you shall answer my
questions.
Proceed.
Say, then, is not pleasure opposed to pain?
True.
And there is a neutral state which is neither pleasure nor
pain?
There is.
A state which is intermediate, and a sort of repose of the soul
about either—that is what you mean?
Yes.
You remember what people say when they are sick?
What do they say?
That after all nothing is pleasanter than health. But then they
never knew this to be the greatest of pleasures until they were
ill.
Yes, I know, he said.
And when persons are suffering from acute pain, you must
have heard them say that there is nothing pleasanter than to
get rid of their pain?
I have.

525
 And there are many other cases of suffering in which the
mere rest and cessation of pain, and not any positive enjoy-
ment, is extolled by them as the greatest pleasure?
Yes, he said; at the time they are pleased and well content to
be at rest.
Again, when pleasure ceases, that sort of rest or cessation
will be painful?
Doubtless, he said.
Then the intermediate state of rest will be pleasure and will
also be pain?
So it would seem.
But can that which is neither become both?
I should say not.
And both pleasure and pain are motions of the soul, are they
not?
Yes.
But that which is neither was just now shown to be rest and
not motion, and in a mean between them?
Yes.
How, then, can we be right in supposing that the absence of
pain is pleasure, or that the absence of pleasure is pain?
Impossible.
This then is an appearance only and not a reality; that is to
say, the rest is pleasure at the moment and in comparison of
what is painful, and painful in comparison of what is pleasant;
but all these representations, when tried by the test of true
pleasure, are not real but a sort of imposition?
That is the inference.
Look at the other class of pleasures which have no ante-
cedent pains and you will no longer suppose, as you perhaps
may at present, that pleasure is only the cessation of pain, or
pain of pleasure.
What are they, he said, and where shall I find them?
There are many of them: take as an example the pleasures of
smell, which are very great and have no antecedent pains; they
come in a moment, and when they depart leave no pain behind
them.
Most true, he said.
Let us not, then, be induced to believe that pure pleasure is
the cessation of pain, or pain of pleasure.

526
 No.
Still, the more numerous and violent pleasures which reach
the soul through the body are generally of this sort—they are
reliefs of pain.
That is true.
And the anticipations of future pleasures and pains are of a
like nature?
Yes.
Shall I give you an illustration of them?
Let me hear.
You would allow, I said, that there is in nature an upper and
lower and middle region?
I should.
And if a person were to go from the lower to the middle re-
gion, would he not imagine that he is going up; and he who is
standing in the middle and sees whence he has come, would
imagine that he is already in the upper region, if he has never
seen the true upper world?
To be sure, he said; how can he think otherwise?
But if he were taken back again he would imagine, and truly
imagine, that he was descending?
No doubt.
All that would arise out of his ignorance of the true upper
and middle and lower regions?
Yes.
Then can you wonder that persons who are inexperienced in
the truth, as they have wrong ideas about many other things,
should also have wrong ideas about pleasure and pain and the
intermediate state; so that when they are only being drawn to-
wards the painful they feel pain and think the pain which they
experience to be real, and in like manner, when drawn away
from pain to the neutral or intermediate state, they firmly be-
lieve that they have reached the goal of satiety and pleasure;
they, not knowing pleasure, err in contrasting pain with the ab-
sence of pain, which is like contrasting black with grey instead
of white—can you wonder, I say, at this?
No, indeed; I should be much more disposed to wonder at the
opposite.
Look at the matter thus:—Hunger, thirst, and the like, are in-
anitions of the bodily state?

527
 Yes.
And ignorance and folly are inanitions of the soul?
True.
And food and wisdom are the corresponding satisfactions of
either?
Certainly.
And is the satisfaction derived from that which has less or
from that which has more existence the truer?
Clearly, from that which has more.
What classes of things have a greater share of pure existence
in your judgment—those of which food and drink and condi-
ments and all kinds of sustenance are examples, or the class
which contains true opinion and knowledge and mind and all
the different kinds of virtue? Put the question in this
way:—Which has a more pure being—that which is concerned
with the invariable, the immortal, and the true, and is of such a
nature, and is found in such natures; or that which is con-
cerned with and found in the variable and mortal, and is itself
variable and mortal?
Far purer, he replied, is the being of that which is concerned
with the invariable.
And does the essence of the invariable partake of knowledge
in the same degree as of essence?
Yes, of knowledge in the same degree.
And of truth in the same degree?
Yes.
And, conversely, that which has less of truth will also have
less of essence?
Necessarily.
Then, in general, those kinds of things which are in the ser-
vice of the body have less of truth and essence than those
which are in the service of the soul?
Far less.
And has not the body itself less of truth and essence than the
soul?
Yes.
What is filled with more real existence, and actually has a
more real existence, is more really filled than that which is
filled with less real existence and is less real?
Of course.

528
 And if there be a pleasure in being filled with that which is
according to nature, that which is more really filled with more
real being will more really and truly enjoy true pleasure;
whereas that which participates in less real being will be less
truly and surely satisfied, and will participate in an illusory and
less real pleasure?
Unquestionably.
Those then who know not wisdom and virtue, and are always
busy with gluttony and sensuality, go down and up again as far
as the mean; and in this region they move at random
throughout life, but they never pass into the true upper world;
thither they neither look, nor do they ever find their way,
neither are they truly filled with true being, nor do they taste
of pure and abiding pleasure. Like cattle, with their eyes al-
ways looking down and their heads stooping to the earth, that
is, to the dining-table, they fatten and feed and breed, and, in
their excessive love of these delights, they kick and butt at one
another with horns and hoofs which are made of iron; and they
kill one another by reason of their insatiable lust. For they fill
themselves with that which is not substantial, and the part of
themselves which they fill is also unsubstantial and
incontinent.
Verily, Socrates, said Glaucon, you describe the life of the
many like an oracle.
Their pleasures are mixed with pains—how can they be oth-
erwise? For they are mere shadows and pictures of the true,
and are coloured by contrast, which exaggerates both light and
shade, and so they implant in the minds of fools insane desires
of themselves; and they are fought about as Stesichorus says
that the Greeks fought about the shadow of Helen at Troy in ig-
norance of the truth.
Something of that sort must inevitably happen.
And must not the like happen with the spirited or passionate
element of the soul? Will not the passionate man who carries
his passion into action, be in the like case, whether he is envi-
ous and ambitious, or violent and contentious, or angry and
discontented, if he be seeking to attain honour and victory and
the satisfaction of his anger without reason or sense?
Yes, he said, the same will happen with the spirited element
also.

529
 Then may we not confidently assert that the lovers of money
and honour, when they seek their pleasures under the guid-
ance and in the company of reason and knowledge, and pursue
after and win the pleasures which wisdom shows them, will
also have the truest pleasures in the highest degree which is
attainable to them, inasmuch as they follow truth; and they will
have the pleasures which are natural to them, if that which is
best for each one is also most natural to him?
Yes, certainly; the best is the most natural.
And when the whole soul follows the philosophical principle,
and there is no division, the several parts are just, and do each
of them their own business, and enjoy severally the best and
truest pleasures of which they are capable?
Exactly.
But when either of the two other principles prevails, it fails
in attaining its own pleasure, and compels the rest to pursue
after a pleasure which is a shadow only and which is not their
own?
True.
And the greater the interval which separates them from
philosophy and reason, the more strange and illusive will be
the pleasure?
Yes.
And is not that farthest from reason which is at the greatest
distance from law and order?
Clearly.
And the lustful and tyrannical desires are, as we saw, at the
greatest distance? Yes.
And the royal and orderly desires are nearest?
Yes.
Then the tyrant will live at the greatest distance from true or
natural pleasure, and the king at the least?
Certainly.
But if so, the tyrant will live most unpleasantly, and the king
most pleasantly?
Inevitably.
Would you know the measure of the interval which separates
them?
Will you tell me?

530
 There appear to be three pleasures, one genuine and two
spurious: now the transgression of the tyrant reaches a point
beyond the spurious; he has run away from the region of law
and reason, and taken up his abode with certain slave pleas-
ures which are his satellites, and the measure of his inferiority
can only be expressed in a figure.
How do you mean?
I assume, I said, that the tyrant is in the third place from the
oligarch; the democrat was in the middle?
Yes.
And if there is truth in what has preceded, he will be wedded
to an image of pleasure which is thrice removed as to truth
from the pleasure of the oligarch?
He will.
And the oligarch is third from the royal; since we count as
one royal and aristocratical?
Yes, he is third.
Then the tyrant is removed from true pleasure by the space
of a number which is three times three?
Manifestly.
The shadow then of tyrannical pleasure determined by the
number of length will be a plane figure.
Certainly.
And if you raise the power and make the plane a solid, there
is no difficulty in seeing how vast is the interval by which the
tyrant is parted from the king.
Yes; the arithmetician will easily do the sum.
Or if some person begins at the other end and measures the
interval by which the king is parted from the tyrant in truth of
pleasure, he will find him, when the multiplication is com-
pleted, living 729 times more pleasantly, and the tyrant more
painfully by this same interval.
What a wonderful calculation! And how enormous is the dis-
tance which separates the just from the unjust in regard to
pleasure and pain!
Yet a true calculation, I said, and a number which nearly con-
cerns human life, if human beings are concerned with days and
nights and months and years. (729 NEARLY equals the number
of days and nights in the year.)
Yes, he said, human life is certainly concerned with them.

531
 Then if the good and just man be thus superior in pleasure to
the evil and unjust, his superiority will be infinitely greater in
propriety of life and in beauty and virtue?
Immeasurably greater.
Well, I said, and now having arrived at this stage of the argu-
ment, we may revert to the words which brought us hither:
Was not some one saying that injustice was a gain to the per-
fectly unjust who was reputed to be just?
Yes, that was said.
Now then, having determined the power and quality of
justice and injustice, let us have a little conversation with him.
What shall we say to him?
Let us make an image of the soul, that he may have his own
words presented before his eyes.
Of what sort?
An ideal image of the soul, like the composite creations of an-
cient mythology, such as the Chimera or Scylla or Cerberus,
and there are many others in which two or more different
natures are said to grow into one.
There are said of have been such unions.
Then do you now model the form of a multitudinous, many-
headed monster, having a ring of heads of all manner of
beasts, tame and wild, which he is able to generate and meta-
morphose at will.
You suppose marvellous powers in the artist; but, as lan-
guage is more pliable than wax or any similar substance, let
there be such a model as you propose.
Suppose now that you make a second form as of a lion, and a
third of a man, the second smaller than the first, and the third
smaller than the second.
That, he said, is an easier task; and I have made them as you
say.
And now join them, and let the three grow into one.
That has been accomplished.
Next fashion the outside of them into a single image, as of a
man, so that he who is not able to look within, and sees only
the outer hull, may believe the beast to be a single human
creature.
I have done so, he said.

532
 And now, to him who maintains that it is profitable for the
human creature to be unjust, and unprofitable to be just, let us
reply that, if he be right, it is profitable for this creature to
feast the multitudinous monster and strengthen the lion and
the lion-like qualities, but to starve and weaken the man, who
is consequently liable to be dragged about at the mercy of
either of the other two; and he is not to attempt to familiarize
or harmonize them with one another—he ought rather to suffer
them to fight and bite and devour one another.
Certainly, he said; that is what the approver of injustice says.
To him the supporter of justice makes answer that he should
ever so speak and act as to give the man within him in some
way or other the most complete mastery over the entire human
creature. He should watch over the many-headed monster like
a good husbandman, fostering and cultivating the gentle qualit-
ies, and preventing the wild ones from growing; he should be
making the lion-heart his ally, and in common care of them all
should be uniting the several parts with one another and with
himself.
Yes, he said, that is quite what the maintainer of justice say.
And so from every point of view, whether of pleasure, hon-
our, or advantage, the approver of justice is right and speaks
the truth, and the disapprover is wrong and false and ignorant?
Yes, from every point of view.
Come, now, and let us gently reason with the unjust, who is
not intentionally in error. 'Sweet Sir,' we will say to him, 'what
think you of things esteemed noble and ignoble? Is not the
noble that which subjects the beast to the man, or rather to the
god in man; and the ignoble that which subjects the man to the
beast?' He can hardly avoid saying Yes—can he now?
Not if he has any regard for my opinion.
But, if he agree so far, we may ask him to answer another
question: 'Then how would a man profit if he received gold and
silver on the condition that he was to enslave the noblest part
of him to the worst? Who can imagine that a man who sold his
son or daughter into slavery for money, especially if he sold
them into the hands of fierce and evil men, would be the gain-
er, however large might be the sum which he received? And
will any one say that he is not a miserable caitiff who remorse-
lessly sells his own divine being to that which is most godless

533
and detestable? Eriphyle took the necklace as the price of her
husband's life, but he is taking a bribe in order to compass a
worse ruin.'
Yes, said Glaucon, far worse—I will answer for him.
Has not the intemperate been censured of old, because in
him the huge multiform monster is allowed to be too much at
large?
Clearly.
And men are blamed for pride and bad temper when the lion
and serpent element in them disproportionately grows and
gains strength?
Yes.
And luxury and softness are blamed, because they relax and
weaken this same creature, and make a coward of him?
Very true.
And is not a man reproached for flattery and meanness who
subordinates the spirited animal to the unruly monster, and,
for the sake of money, of which he can never have enough, ha-
bituates him in the days of his youth to be trampled in the
mire, and from being a lion to become a monkey?
True, he said.
And why are mean employments and manual arts a re-
proach? Only because they imply a natural weakness of the
higher principle; the individual is unable to control the
creatures within him, but has to court them, and his great
study is how to flatter them.
Such appears to be the reason.
And therefore, being desirous of placing him under a rule
like that of the best, we say that he ought to be the servant of
the best, in whom the Divine rules; not, as Thrasymachus sup-
posed, to the injury of the servant, but because every one had
better be ruled by divine wisdom dwelling within him; or, if
this be impossible, then by an external authority, in order that
we may be all, as far as possible, under the same government,
friends and equals.
True, he said.
And this is clearly seen to be the intention of the law, which
is the ally of the whole city; and is seen also in the authority
which we exercise over children, and the refusal to let them be
free until we have established in them a principle analogous to

534
the constitution of a state, and by cultivation of this higher ele-
ment have set up in their hearts a guardian and ruler like our
own, and when this is done they may go their ways.
Yes, he said, the purpose of the law is manifest.
From what point of view, then, and on what ground can we
say that a man is profited by injustice or intemperance or other
baseness, which will make him a worse man, even though he
acquire money or power by his wickedness?
From no point of view at all.
What shall he profit, if his injustice be undetected and un-
punished? He who is undetected only gets worse, whereas he
who is detected and punished has the brutal part of his nature
silenced and humanized; the gentler element in him is liber-
ated, and his whole soul is perfected and ennobled by the ac-
quirement of justice and temperance and wisdom, more than
the body ever is by receiving gifts of beauty, strength and
health, in proportion as the soul is more honourable than the
body.
Certainly, he said.
To this nobler purpose the man of understanding will devote
the energies of his life. And in the first place, he will honour
studies which impress these qualities on his soul and will dis-
regard others?
Clearly, he said.
In the next place, he will regulate his bodily habit and train-
ing, and so far will he be from yielding to brutal and irrational
pleasures, that he will regard even health as quite a secondary
matter; his first object will be not that he may be fair or strong
or well, unless he is likely thereby to gain temperance, but he
will always desire so to attemper the body as to preserve the
harmony of the soul?
Certainly he will, if he has true music in him.
And in the acquisition of wealth there is a principle of order
and harmony which he will also observe; he will not allow him-
self to be dazzled by the foolish applause of the world, and
heap up riches to his own infinite harm?
Certainly not, he said.
He will look at the city which is within him, and take heed
that no disorder occur in it, such as might arise either from

535
superfluity or from want; and upon this principle he will regu-
late his property and gain or spend according to his means.
Very true.
And, for the same reason, he will gladly accept and enjoy
such honours as he deems likely to make him a better man; but
those, whether private or public, which are likely to disorder
his life, he will avoid?
Then, if that is his motive, he will not be a statesman.
By the dog of Egypt, he will! in the city which is his own he
certainly will, though in the land of his birth perhaps not, un-
less he have a divine call.
I understand; you mean that he will be a ruler in the city of
which we are the founders, and which exists in idea only; for I
do not believe that there is such an one anywhere on earth?
In heaven, I replied, there is laid up a pattern of it, methinks,
which he who desires may behold, and beholding, may set his
own house in order. But whether such an one exists, or ever
will exist in fact, is no matter; for he will live after the manner
of that city, having nothing to do with any other.
I think so, he said.

536
Part 10

537
Of the many excellences which I perceive in the order of our
State, there is none which upon reflection pleases me better
than the rule about poetry.
To what do you refer?
To the rejection of imitative poetry, which certainly ought not
to be received; as I see far more clearly now that the parts of
the soul have been distinguished.
What do you mean?
Speaking in confidence, for I should not like to have my
words repeated to the tragedians and the rest of the imitative
tribe—but I do not mind saying to you, that all poetical imita-
tions are ruinous to the understanding of the hearers, and that
the knowledge of their true nature is the only antidote to them.
Explain the purport of your remark.
Well, I will tell you, although I have always from my earliest
youth had an awe and love of Homer, which even now makes
the words falter on my lips, for he is the great captain and
teacher of the whole of that charming tragic company; but a
man is not to be reverenced more than the truth, and therefore
I will speak out.
Very good, he said.
Listen to me then, or rather, answer me.
Put your question.
Can you tell me what imitation is? for I really do not know.
A likely thing, then, that I should know.
Why not? for the duller eye may often see a thing sooner
than the keener.
Very true, he said; but in your presence, even if I had any
faint notion, I could not muster courage to utter it. Will you en-
quire yourself?
Well then, shall we begin the enquiry in our usual manner:
Whenever a number of individuals have a common name, we
assume them to have also a corresponding idea or form:—do
you understand me?
I do.
Let us take any common instance; there are beds and tables
in the world—plenty of them, are there not?
Yes.
But there are only two ideas or forms of them—one the idea
of a bed, the other of a table.

538
 True.
And the maker of either of them makes a bed or he makes a
table for our use, in accordance with the idea—that is our way
of speaking in this and similar instances—but no artificer
makes the ideas themselves: how could he?
Impossible.
And there is another artist,—I should like to know what you
would say of him.
Who is he?
One who is the maker of all the works of all other workmen.
What an extraordinary man!
Wait a little, and there will be more reason for your saying
so. For this is he who is able to make not only vessels of every
kind, but plants and animals, himself and all other things—the
earth and heaven, and the things which are in heaven or under
the earth; he makes the gods also.
He must be a wizard and no mistake.
Oh! you are incredulous, are you? Do you mean that there is
no such maker or creator, or that in one sense there might be a
maker of all these things but in another not? Do you see that
there is a way in which you could make them all yourself?
What way?
An easy way enough; or rather, there are many ways in
which the feat might be quickly and easily accomplished, none
quicker than that of turning a mirror round and round—you
would soon enough make the sun and the heavens, and the
earth and yourself, and other animals and plants, and all the
other things of which we were just now speaking, in the
mirror.
Yes, he said; but they would be appearances only.
Very good, I said, you are coming to the point now. And the
painter too is, as I conceive, just such another—a creator of ap-
pearances, is he not?
Of course.
But then I suppose you will say that what he creates is un-
true. And yet there is a sense in which the painter also creates
a bed?
Yes, he said, but not a real bed.

539
 And what of the maker of the bed? were you not saying that
he too makes, not the idea which, according to our view, is the
essence of the bed, but only a particular bed?
Yes, I did.
Then if he does not make that which exists he cannot make
true existence, but only some semblance of existence; and if
any one were to say that the work of the maker of the bed, or
of any other workman, has real existence, he could hardly be
supposed to be speaking the truth.
At any rate, he replied, philosophers would say that he was
not speaking the truth.
No wonder, then, that his work too is an indistinct expression
of truth.
No wonder.
Suppose now that by the light of the examples just offered
we enquire who this imitator is?
If you please.
Well then, here are three beds: one existing in nature, which
is made by God, as I think that we may say—for no one else can
be the maker?
No.
There is another which is the work of the carpenter?
Yes.
And the work of the painter is a third?
Yes.
Beds, then, are of three kinds, and there are three artists
who superintend them: God, the maker of the bed, and the
painter?
Yes, there are three of them.
God, whether from choice or from necessity, made one bed in
nature and one only; two or more such ideal beds neither ever
have been nor ever will be made by God.
Why is that?
Because even if He had made but two, a third would still ap-
pear behind them which both of them would have for their
idea, and that would be the ideal bed and not the two others.
Very true, he said.
God knew this, and He desired to be the real maker of a real
bed, not a particular maker of a particular bed, and therefore
He created a bed which is essentially and by nature one only.

540
 So we believe.
Shall we, then, speak of Him as the natural author or maker
of the bed?
Yes, he replied; inasmuch as by the natural process of cre-
ation He is the author of this and of all other things.
And what shall we say of the carpenter—is not he also the
maker of the bed?
Yes.
But would you call the painter a creator and maker?
Certainly not.
Yet if he is not the maker, what is he in relation to the bed?
I think, he said, that we may fairly designate him as the imit-
ator of that which the others make.
Good, I said; then you call him who is third in the descent
from nature an imitator?
Certainly, he said.
And the tragic poet is an imitator, and therefore, like all oth-
er imitators, he is thrice removed from the king and from the
truth?
That appears to be so.
Then about the imitator we are agreed. And what about the
painter?—I would like to know whether he may be thought to
imitate that which originally exists in nature, or only the cre-
ations of artists?
The latter.
As they are or as they appear? you have still to determine
this.
What do you mean?
I mean, that you may look at a bed from different points of
view, obliquely or directly or from any other point of view, and
the bed will appear different, but there is no difference in real-
ity. And the same of all things.
Yes, he said, the difference is only apparent.
Now let me ask you another question: Which is the art of
painting designed to be—an imitation of things as they are, or
as they appear—of appearance or of reality?
Of appearance.
Then the imitator, I said, is a long way off the truth, and can
do all things because he lightly touches on a small part of
them, and that part an image. For example: A painter will paint

541
a cobbler, carpenter, or any other artist, though he knows
nothing of their arts; and, if he is a good artist, he may deceive
children or simple persons, when he shows them his picture of
a carpenter from a distance, and they will fancy that they are
looking at a real carpenter.
Certainly.
And whenever any one informs us that he has found a man
who knows all the arts, and all things else that anybody knows,
and every single thing with a higher degree of accuracy than
any other man—whoever tells us this, I think that we can only
imagine him to be a simple creature who is likely to have been
deceived by some wizard or actor whom he met, and whom he
thought all-knowing, because he himself was unable to analyse
the nature of knowledge and ignorance and imitation.
Most true.
And so, when we hear persons saying that the tragedians,
and Homer, who is at their head, know all the arts and all
things human, virtue as well as vice, and divine things too, for
that the good poet cannot compose well unless he knows his
subject, and that he who has not this knowledge can never be a
poet, we ought to consider whether here also there may not be
a similar illusion. Perhaps they may have come across imitators
and been deceived by them; they may not have remembered
when they saw their works that these were but imitations
thrice removed from the truth, and could easily be made
without any knowledge of the truth, because they are appear-
ances only and not realities? Or, after all, they may be in the
right, and poets do really know the things about which they
seem to the many to speak so well?
The question, he said, should by all means be considered.
Now do you suppose that if a person were able to make the
original as well as the image, he would seriously devote him-
self to the image-making branch? Would he allow imitation to
be the ruling principle of his life, as if he had nothing higher in
him?
I should say not.
The real artist, who knew what he was imitating, would be
interested in realities and not in imitations; and would desire
to leave as memorials of himself works many and fair; and,

542
instead of being the author of encomiums, he would prefer to
be the theme of them.
Yes, he said, that would be to him a source of much greater
honour and profit.
Then, I said, we must put a question to Homer; not about
medicine, or any of the arts to which his poems only incident-
ally refer: we are not going to ask him, or any other poet,
whether he has cured patients like Asclepius, or left behind
him a school of medicine such as the Asclepiads were, or
whether he only talks about medicine and other arts at second-
hand; but we have a right to know respecting military tactics,
politics, education, which are the chiefest and noblest subjects
of his poems, and we may fairly ask him about them. 'Friend
Homer,' then we say to him, 'if you are only in the second re-
move from truth in what you say of virtue, and not in the
third—not an image maker or imitator—and if you are able to
discern what pursuits make men better or worse in private or
public life, tell us what State was ever better governed by your
help? The good order of Lacedaemon is due to Lycurgus, and
many other cities great and small have been similarly benefited
by others; but who says that you have been a good legislator to
them and have done them any good? Italy and Sicily boast of
Charondas, and there is Solon who is renowned among us; but
what city has anything to say about you?' Is there any city
which he might name?
I think not, said Glaucon; not even the Homerids themselves
pretend that he was a legislator.
Well, but is there any war on record which was carried on
successfully by him, or aided by his counsels, when he was
alive?
There is not.
Or is there any invention of his, applicable to the arts or to
human life, such as Thales the Milesian or Anacharsis the
Scythian, and other ingenious men have conceived, which is at-
tributed to him?
There is absolutely nothing of the kind.
But, if Homer never did any public service, was he privately a
guide or teacher of any? Had he in his lifetime friends who
loved to associate with him, and who handed down to posterity
an Homeric way of life, such as was established by Pythagoras

543
who was so greatly beloved for his wisdom, and whose follow-
ers are to this day quite celebrated for the order which was
named after him?
Nothing of the kind is recorded of him. For surely, Socrates,
Creophylus, the companion of Homer, that child of flesh, whose
name always makes us laugh, might be more justly ridiculed
for his stupidity, if, as is said, Homer was greatly neglected by
him and others in his own day when he was alive?
Yes, I replied, that is the tradition. But can you imagine,
Glaucon, that if Homer had really been able to educate and im-
prove mankind—if he had possessed knowledge and not been a
mere imitator—can you imagine, I say, that he would not have
had many followers, and been honoured and loved by them?
Protagoras of Abdera, and Prodicus of Ceos, and a host of oth-
ers, have only to whisper to their contemporaries: 'You will
never be able to manage either your own house or your own
State until you appoint us to be your ministers of educa-
tion'—and this ingenious device of theirs has such an effect in
making men love them that their companions all but carry
them about on their shoulders. And is it conceivable that the
contemporaries of Homer, or again of Hesiod, would have al-
lowed either of them to go about as rhapsodists, if they had
really been able to make mankind virtuous? Would they not
have been as unwilling to part with them as with gold, and
have compelled them to stay at home with them? Or, if the
master would not stay, then the disciples would have followed
him about everywhere, until they had got education enough?
Yes, Socrates, that, I think, is quite true.
Then must we not infer that all these poetical individuals, be-
ginning with Homer, are only imitators; they copy images of
virtue and the like, but the truth they never reach? The poet is
like a painter who, as we have already observed, will make a
likeness of a cobbler though he understands nothing of cob-
bling; and his picture is good enough for those who know no
more than he does, and judge only by colours and figures.
Quite so.
In like manner the poet with his words and phrases may be
said to lay on the colours of the several arts, himself under-
standing their nature only enough to imitate them; and other
people, who are as ignorant as he is, and judge only from his

544
words, imagine that if he speaks of cobbling, or of military tac-
tics, or of anything else, in metre and harmony and rhythm, he
speaks very well—such is the sweet influence which melody
and rhythm by nature have. And I think that you must have ob-
served again and again what a poor appearance the tales of po-
ets make when stripped of the colours which music puts upon
them, and recited in simple prose.
Yes, he said.
They are like faces which were never really beautiful, but
only blooming; and now the bloom of youth has passed away
from them?
Exactly.
Here is another point: The imitator or maker of the image
knows nothing of true existence; he knows appearances only.
Am I not right?
Yes.
Then let us have a clear understanding, and not be satisfied
with half an explanation.
Proceed.
Of the painter we say that he will paint reins, and he will
paint a bit?
Yes.
And the worker in leather and brass will make them?
Certainly.
But does the painter know the right form of the bit and
reins? Nay, hardly even the workers in brass and leather who
make them; only the horseman who knows how to use
them—he knows their right form.
Most true.
And may we not say the same of all things?
What?
That there are three arts which are concerned with all
things: one which uses, another which makes, a third which im-
itates them?
Yes.
And the excellence or beauty or truth of every structure, an-
imate or inanimate, and of every action of man, is relative to
the use for which nature or the artist has intended them.
True.

545
 Then the user of them must have the greatest experience of
them, and he must indicate to the maker the good or bad qual-
ities which develop themselves in use; for example, the flute-
player will tell the flute-maker which of his flutes is satisfact-
ory to the performer; he will tell him how he ought to make
them, and the other will attend to his instructions?
Of course.
The one knows and therefore speaks with authority about the
goodness and badness of flutes, while the other, confiding in
him, will do what he is told by him?
True.
The instrument is the same, but about the excellence or bad-
ness of it the maker will only attain to a correct belief; and this
he will gain from him who knows, by talking to him and being
compelled to hear what he has to say, whereas the user will
have knowledge?
True.
But will the imitator have either? Will he know from use
whether or no his drawing is correct or beautiful? or will he
have right opinion from being compelled to associate with an-
other who knows and gives him instructions about what he
should draw?
Neither.
Then he will no more have true opinion than he will have
knowledge about the goodness or badness of his imitations?
I suppose not.
The imitative artist will be in a brilliant state of intelligence
about his own creations?
Nay, very much the reverse.
And still he will go on imitating without knowing what makes
a thing good or bad, and may be expected therefore to imitate
only that which appears to be good to the ignorant multitude?
Just so.
Thus far then we are pretty well agreed that the imitator has
no knowledge worth mentioning of what he imitates. Imitation
is only a kind of play or sport, and the tragic poets, whether
they write in Iambic or in Heroic verse, are imitators in the
highest degree?
Very true.

546
 And now tell me, I conjure you, has not imitation been shown
by us to be concerned with that which is thrice removed from
the truth?
Certainly.
And what is the faculty in man to which imitation is
addressed?
What do you mean?
I will explain: The body which is large when seen near, ap-
pears small when seen at a distance?
True.
And the same object appears straight when looked at out of
the water, and crooked when in the water; and the concave be-
comes convex, owing to the illusion about colours to which the
sight is liable. Thus every sort of confusion is revealed within
us; and this is that weakness of the human mind on which the
art of conjuring and of deceiving by light and shadow and other
ingenious devices imposes, having an effect upon us like
magic.
True.
And the arts of measuring and numbering and weighing
come to the rescue of the human understanding—there is the
beauty of them—and the apparent greater or less, or more or
heavier, no longer have the mastery over us, but give way be-
fore calculation and measure and weight?
Most true.
And this, surely, must be the work of the calculating and ra-
tional principle in the soul?
To be sure.
And when this principle measures and certifies that some
things are equal, or that some are greater or less than others,
there occurs an apparent contradiction?
True.
But were we not saying that such a contradiction is im-
possible—the same faculty cannot have contrary opinions at
the same time about the same thing?
Very true.
Then that part of the soul which has an opinion contrary to
measure is not the same with that which has an opinion in ac-
cordance with measure?
True.

547
 And the better part of the soul is likely to be that which
trusts to measure and calculation?
Certainly.
And that which is opposed to them is one of the inferior prin-
ciples of the soul?
No doubt.
This was the conclusion at which I was seeking to arrive
when I said that painting or drawing, and imitation in general,
when doing their own proper work, are far removed from
truth, and the companions and friends and associates of a prin-
ciple within us which is equally removed from reason, and that
they have no true or healthy aim.
Exactly.
The imitative art is an inferior who marries an inferior, and
has inferior offspring.
Very true.
And is this confined to the sight only, or does it extend to the
hearing also, relating in fact to what we term poetry?
Probably the same would be true of poetry.
Do not rely, I said, on a probability derived from the analogy
of painting; but let us examine further and see whether the fac-
ulty with which poetical imitation is concerned is good or bad.
By all means.
We may state the question thus:—Imitation imitates the ac-
tions of men, whether voluntary or involuntary, on which, as
they imagine, a good or bad result has ensued, and they rejoice
or sorrow accordingly. Is there anything more?
No, there is nothing else.
But in all this variety of circumstances is the man at unity
with himself—or rather, as in the instance of sight there was
confusion and opposition in his opinions about the same things,
so here also is there not strife and inconsistency in his life?
Though I need hardly raise the question again, for I remember
that all this has been already admitted; and the soul has been
acknowledged by us to be full of these and ten thousand simil-
ar oppositions occurring at the same moment?
And we were right, he said.
Yes, I said, thus far we were right; but there was an omission
which must now be supplied.
What was the omission?

548
 Were we not saying that a good man, who has the misfortune
to lose his son or anything else which is most dear to him, will
bear the loss with more equanimity than another?
Yes.
But will he have no sorrow, or shall we say that although he
cannot help sorrowing, he will moderate his sorrow?
The latter, he said, is the truer statement.
Tell me: will he be more likely to struggle and hold out
against his sorrow when he is seen by his equals, or when he is
alone?
It will make a great difference whether he is seen or not.
When he is by himself he will not mind saying or doing many
things which he would be ashamed of any one hearing or see-
ing him do?
True.
There is a principle of law and reason in him which bids him
resist, as well as a feeling of his misfortune which is forcing
him to indulge his sorrow?
True.
But when a man is drawn in two opposite directions, to and
from the same object, this, as we affirm, necessarily implies
two distinct principles in him?
Certainly.
One of them is ready to follow the guidance of the law?
How do you mean?
The law would say that to be patient under suffering is best,
and that we should not give way to impatience, as there is no
knowing whether such things are good or evil; and nothing is
gained by impatience; also, because no human thing is of seri-
ous importance, and grief stands in the way of that which at
the moment is most required.
What is most required? he asked.
That we should take counsel about what has happened, and
when the dice have been thrown order our affairs in the way
which reason deems best; not, like children who have had a
fall, keeping hold of the part struck and wasting time in setting
up a howl, but always accustoming the soul forthwith to apply
a remedy, raising up that which is sickly and fallen, banishing
the cry of sorrow by the healing art.

549
 Yes, he said, that is the true way of meeting the attacks of
fortune.
Yes, I said; and the higher principle is ready to follow this
suggestion of reason?
Clearly.
And the other principle, which inclines us to recollection of
our troubles and to lamentation, and can never have enough of
them, we may call irrational, useless, and cowardly?
Indeed, we may.
And does not the latter—I mean the rebellious principle—fur-
nish a great variety of materials for imitation? Whereas the
wise and calm temperament, being always nearly equable, is
not easy to imitate or to appreciate when imitated, especially
at a public festival when a promiscuous crowd is assembled in
a theatre. For the feeling represented is one to which they are
strangers.
Certainly.
Then the imitative poet who aims at being popular is not by
nature made, nor is his art intended, to please or to affect the
rational principle in the soul; but he will prefer the passionate
and fitful temper, which is easily imitated?
Clearly.
And now we may fairly take him and place him by the side of
the painter, for he is like him in two ways: first, inasmuch as
his creations have an inferior degree of truth—in this, I say, he
is like him; and he is also like him in being concerned with an
inferior part of the soul; and therefore we shall be right in re-
fusing to admit him into a well-ordered State, because he
awakens and nourishes and strengthens the feelings and im-
pairs the reason. As in a city when the evil are permitted to
have authority and the good are put out of the way, so in the
soul of man, as we maintain, the imitative poet implants an evil
constitution, for he indulges the irrational nature which has no
discernment of greater and less, but thinks the same thing at
one time great and at another small—he is a manufacturer of
images and is very far removed from the truth.
Exactly.
But we have not yet brought forward the heaviest count in
our accusation:—the power which poetry has of harming even

550
the good (and there are very few who are not harmed), is
surely an awful thing?
Yes, certainly, if the effect is what you say.
Hear and judge: The best of us, as I conceive, when we listen
to a passage of Homer, or one of the tragedians, in which he
represents some pitiful hero who is drawling out his sorrows in
a long oration, or weeping, and smiting his breast—the best of
us, you know, delight in giving way to sympathy, and are in
raptures at the excellence of the poet who stirs our feelings
most.
Yes, of course I know.
But when any sorrow of our own happens to us, then you
may observe that we pride ourselves on the opposite qual-
ity—we would fain be quiet and patient; this is the manly part,
and the other which delighted us in the recitation is now
deemed to be the part of a woman.
Very true, he said.
Now can we be right in praising and admiring another who is
doing that which any one of us would abominate and be
ashamed of in his own person?
No, he said, that is certainly not reasonable.
Nay, I said, quite reasonable from one point of view.
What point of view?
If you consider, I said, that when in misfortune we feel a nat-
ural hunger and desire to relieve our sorrow by weeping and
lamentation, and that this feeling which is kept under control
in our own calamities is satisfied and delighted by the po-
ets;—the better nature in each of us, not having been suffi-
ciently trained by reason or habit, allows the sympathetic ele-
ment to break loose because the sorrow is another's; and the
spectator fancies that there can be no disgrace to himself in
praising and pitying any one who comes telling him what a
good man he is, and making a fuss about his troubles; he
thinks that the pleasure is a gain, and why should he be super-
cilious and lose this and the poem too? Few persons ever re-
flect, as I should imagine, that from the evil of other men
something of evil is communicated to themselves. And so the
feeling of sorrow which has gathered strength at the sight of
the misfortunes of others is with difficulty repressed in our
own.

551
 How very true!
And does not the same hold also of the ridiculous? There are
jests which you would be ashamed to make yourself, and yet on
the comic stage, or indeed in private, when you hear them, you
are greatly amused by them, and are not at all disgusted at
their unseemliness;—the case of pity is repeated;—there is a
principle in human nature which is disposed to raise a laugh,
and this which you once restrained by reason, because you
were afraid of being thought a buffoon, is now let out again;
and having stimulated the risible faculty at the theatre, you are
betrayed unconsciously to yourself into playing the comic poet
at home.
Quite true, he said.
And the same may be said of lust and anger and all the other
affections, of desire and pain and pleasure, which are held to
be inseparable from every action—in all of them poetry feeds
and waters the passions instead of drying them up; she lets
them rule, although they ought to be controlled, if mankind are
ever to increase in happiness and virtue.
I cannot deny it.
Therefore, Glaucon, I said, whenever you meet with any of
the eulogists of Homer declaring that he has been the educator
of Hellas, and that he is profitable for education and for the or-
dering of human things, and that you should take him up again
and again and get to know him and regulate your whole life ac-
cording to him, we may love and honour those who say these
things—they are excellent people, as far as their lights extend;
and we are ready to acknowledge that Homer is the greatest of
poets and first of tragedy writers; but we must remain firm in
our conviction that hymns to the gods and praises of famous
men are the only poetry which ought to be admitted into our
State. For if you go beyond this and allow the honeyed muse to
enter, either in epic or lyric verse, not law and the reason of
mankind, which by common consent have ever been deemed
best, but pleasure and pain will be the rulers in our State.
That is most true, he said.
And now since we have reverted to the subject of poetry, let
this our defence serve to show the reasonableness of our
former judgment in sending away out of our State an art hav-
ing the tendencies which we have described; for reason

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constrained us. But that she may not impute to us any harsh-
ness or want of politeness, let us tell her that there is an an-
cient quarrel between philosophy and poetry; of which there
are many proofs, such as the saying of 'the yelping hound howl-
ing at her lord,' or of one 'mighty in the vain talk of fools,' and
'the mob of sages circumventing Zeus,' and the 'subtle thinkers
who are beggars after all'; and there are innumerable other
signs of ancient enmity between them. Notwithstanding this,
let us assure our sweet friend and the sister arts of imitation,
that if she will only prove her title to exist in a well-ordered
State we shall be delighted to receive her—we are very con-
scious of her charms; but we may not on that account betray
the truth. I dare say, Glaucon, that you are as much charmed
by her as I am, especially when she appears in Homer?
Yes, indeed, I am greatly charmed.
Shall I propose, then, that she be allowed to return from ex-
ile, but upon this condition only—that she make a defence of
herself in lyrical or some other metre?
Certainly.
And we may further grant to those of her defenders who are
lovers of poetry and yet not poets the permission to speak in
prose on her behalf: let them show not only that she is pleasant
but also useful to States and to human life, and we will listen in
a kindly spirit; for if this can be proved we shall surely be the
gainers—I mean, if there is a use in poetry as well as a delight?
Certainly, he said, we shall be the gainers.
If her defence fails, then, my dear friend, like other persons
who are enamoured of something, but put a restraint upon
themselves when they think their desires are opposed to their
interests, so too must we after the manner of lovers give her
up, though not without a struggle. We too are inspired by that
love of poetry which the education of noble States has im-
planted in us, and therefore we would have her appear at her
best and truest; but so long as she is unable to make good her
defence, this argument of ours shall be a charm to us, which
we will repeat to ourselves while we listen to her strains; that
we may not fall away into the childish love of her which captiv-
ates the many. At all events we are well aware that poetry be-
ing such as we have described is not to be regarded seriously
as attaining to the truth; and he who listens to her, fearing for

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the safety of the city which is within him, should be on his
guard against her seductions and make our words his law.
Yes, he said, I quite agree with you.
Yes, I said, my dear Glaucon, for great is the issue at stake,
greater than appears, whether a man is to be good or bad. And
what will any one be profited if under the influence of honour
or money or power, aye, or under the excitement of poetry, he
neglect justice and virtue?
Yes, he said; I have been convinced by the argument, as I be-
lieve that any one else would have been.
And yet no mention has been made of the greatest prizes and
rewards which await virtue.
What, are there any greater still? If there are, they must be
of an inconceivable greatness.
Why, I said, what was ever great in a short time? The whole
period of three score years and ten is surely but a little thing in
comparison with eternity?
Say rather 'nothing,' he replied.
And should an immortal being seriously think of this little
space rather than of the whole?
Of the whole, certainly. But why do you ask?
Are you not aware, I said, that the soul of man is immortal
and imperishable?
He looked at me in astonishment, and said: No, by heaven:
And are you really prepared to maintain this?
Yes, I said, I ought to be, and you too—there is no difficulty
in proving it.
I see a great difficulty; but I should like to hear you state this
argument of which you make so light.
Listen then.
I am attending.
There is a thing which you call good and another which you
call evil?
Yes, he replied.
Would you agree with me in thinking that the corrupting and
destroying element is the evil, and the saving and improving
element the good?
Yes.
And you admit that every thing has a good and also an evil;
as ophthalmia is the evil of the eyes and disease of the whole

554
body; as mildew is of corn, and rot of timber, or rust of copper
and iron: in everything, or in almost everything, there is an in-
herent evil and disease?
Yes, he said.
And anything which is infected by any of these evils is made
evil, and at last wholly dissolves and dies?
True.
The vice and evil which is inherent in each is the destruction
of each; and if this does not destroy them there is nothing else
that will; for good certainly will not destroy them, nor again,
that which is neither good nor evil.
Certainly not.
If, then, we find any nature which having this inherent cor-
ruption cannot be dissolved or destroyed, we may be certain
that of such a nature there is no destruction?
That may be assumed.
Well, I said, and is there no evil which corrupts the soul?
Yes, he said, there are all the evils which we were just now
passing in review: unrighteousness, intemperance, cowardice,
ignorance.
But does any of these dissolve or destroy her?—and here do
not let us fall into the error of supposing that the unjust and
foolish man, when he is detected, perishes through his own in-
justice, which is an evil of the soul. Take the analogy of the
body: The evil of the body is a disease which wastes and re-
duces and annihilates the body; and all the things of which we
were just now speaking come to annihilation through their own
corruption attaching to them and inhering in them and so des-
troying them. Is not this true?
Yes.
Consider the soul in like manner. Does the injustice or other
evil which exists in the soul waste and consume her? Do they
by attaching to the soul and inhering in her at last bring her to
death, and so separate her from the body?
Certainly not.
And yet, I said, it is unreasonable to suppose that anything
can perish from without through affection of external evil
which could not be destroyed from within by a corruption of its
own?
It is, he replied.

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 Consider, I said, Glaucon, that even the badness of food,
whether staleness, decomposition, or any other bad quality,
when confined to the actual food, is not supposed to destroy
the body; although, if the badness of food communicates cor-
ruption to the body, then we should say that the body has been
destroyed by a corruption of itself, which is disease, brought
on by this; but that the body, being one thing, can be destroyed
by the badness of food, which is another, and which does not
engender any natural infection—this we shall absolutely deny?
Very true.
And, on the same principle, unless some bodily evil can pro-
duce an evil of the soul, we must not suppose that the soul,
which is one thing, can be dissolved by any merely external evil
which belongs to another?
Yes, he said, there is reason in that.
Either, then, let us refute this conclusion, or, while it remains
unrefuted, let us never say that fever, or any other disease, or
the knife put to the throat, or even the cutting up of the whole
body into the minutest pieces, can destroy the soul, until she
herself is proved to become more unholy or unrighteous in con-
sequence of these things being done to the body; but that the
soul, or anything else if not destroyed by an internal evil, can
be destroyed by an external one, is not to be affirmed by any
man.
And surely, he replied, no one will ever prove that the souls
of men become more unjust in consequence of death.
But if some one who would rather not admit the immortality
of the soul boldly denies this, and says that the dying do really
become more evil and unrighteous, then, if the speaker is
right, I suppose that injustice, like disease, must be assumed to
be fatal to the unjust, and that those who take this disorder die
by the natural inherent power of destruction which evil has,
and which kills them sooner or later, but in quite another way
from that in which, at present, the wicked receive death at the
hands of others as the penalty of their deeds?
Nay, he said, in that case injustice, if fatal to the unjust, will
not be so very terrible to him, for he will be delivered from evil.
But I rather suspect the opposite to be the truth, and that in-
justice which, if it have the power, will murder others, keeps

556
the murderer alive—aye, and well awake too; so far removed is
her dwelling-place from being a house of death.
True, I said; if the inherent natural vice or evil of the soul is
unable to kill or destroy her, hardly will that which is appoin-
ted to be the destruction of some other body, destroy a soul or
anything else except that of which it was appointed to be the
destruction.
Yes, that can hardly be.
But the soul which cannot be destroyed by an evil, whether
inherent or external, must exist for ever, and if existing for
ever, must be immortal?
Certainly.
That is the conclusion, I said; and, if a true conclusion, then
the souls must always be the same, for if none be destroyed
they will not diminish in number. Neither will they increase,
for the increase of the immortal natures must come from
something mortal, and all things would thus end in
immortality.
Very true.
But this we cannot believe—reason will not allow us—any
more than we can believe the soul, in her truest nature, to be
full of variety and difference and dissimilarity.
What do you mean? he said.
The soul, I said, being, as is now proven, immortal, must be
the fairest of compositions and cannot be compounded of many
elements?
Certainly not.
Her immortality is demonstrated by the previous argument,
and there are many other proofs; but to see her as she really is,
not as we now behold her, marred by communion with the
body and other miseries, you must contemplate her with the
eye of reason, in her original purity; and then her beauty will
be revealed, and justice and injustice and all the things which
we have described will be manifested more clearly. Thus far,
we have spoken the truth concerning her as she appears at
present, but we must remember also that we have seen her
only in a condition which may be compared to that of the sea-
god Glaucus, whose original image can hardly be discerned be-
cause his natural members are broken off and crushed and
damaged by the waves in all sorts of ways, and incrustations

557
have grown over them of seaweed and shells and stones, so
that he is more like some monster than he is to his own natural
form. And the soul which we behold is in a similar condition,
disfigured by ten thousand ills. But not there, Glaucon, not
there must we look.
Where then?
At her love of wisdom. Let us see whom she affects, and what
society and converse she seeks in virtue of her near kindred
with the immortal and eternal and divine; also how different
she would become if wholly following this superior principle,
and borne by a divine impulse out of the ocean in which she
now is, and disengaged from the stones and shells and things
of earth and rock which in wild variety spring up around her
because she feeds upon earth, and is overgrown by the good
things of this life as they are termed: then you would see her as
she is, and know whether she have one shape only or many, or
what her nature is. Of her affections and of the forms which
she takes in this present life I think that we have now said
enough.
True, he replied.
And thus, I said, we have fulfilled the conditions of the argu-
ment; we have not introduced the rewards and glories of
justice, which, as you were saying, are to be found in Homer
and Hesiod; but justice in her own nature has been shown to
be best for the soul in her own nature. Let a man do what is
just, whether he have the ring of Gyges or not, and even if in
addition to the ring of Gyges he put on the helmet of Hades.
Very true.
And now, Glaucon, there will be no harm in further enumer-
ating how many and how great are the rewards which justice
and the other virtues procure to the soul from gods and men,
both in life and after death.
Certainly not, he said.
Will you repay me, then, what you borrowed in the
argument?
What did I borrow?
The assumption that the just man should appear unjust and
the unjust just: for you were of opinion that even if the true
state of the case could not possibly escape the eyes of gods and
men, still this admission ought to be made for the sake of the

558
argument, in order that pure justice might be weighed against
pure injustice. Do you remember?
I should be much to blame if I had forgotten.
Then, as the cause is decided, I demand on behalf of justice
that the estimation in which she is held by gods and men and
which we acknowledge to be her due should now be restored
to her by us; since she has been shown to confer reality, and
not to deceive those who truly possess her, let what has been
taken from her be given back, that so she may win that palm of
appearance which is hers also, and which she gives to her own.
The demand, he said, is just.
In the first place, I said—and this is the first thing which you
will have to give back—the nature both of the just and unjust is
truly known to the gods.
Granted.
And if they are both known to them, one must be the friend
and the other the enemy of the gods, as we admitted from the
beginning?
True.
And the friend of the gods may be supposed to receive from
them all things at their best, excepting only such evil as is the
necessary consequence of former sins?
Certainly.
Then this must be our notion of the just man, that even when
he is in poverty or sickness, or any other seeming misfortune,
all things will in the end work together for good to him in life
and death: for the gods have a care of any one whose desire is
to become just and to be like God, as far as man can attain the
divine likeness, by the pursuit of virtue?
Yes, he said; if he is like God he will surely not be neglected
by him.
And of the unjust may not the opposite be supposed?
Certainly.
Such, then, are the palms of victory which the gods give the
just?
That is my conviction.
And what do they receive of men? Look at things as they
really are, and you will see that the clever unjust are in the
case of runners, who run well from the starting-place to the
goal but not back again from the goal: they go off at a great

559
pace, but in the end only look foolish, slinking away with their
ears draggling on their shoulders, and without a crown; but the
true runner comes to the finish and receives the prize and is
crowned. And this is the way with the just; he who endures to
the end of every action and occasion of his entire life has a
good report and carries off the prize which men have to
bestow.
True.
And now you must allow me to repeat of the just the bless-
ings which you were attributing to the fortunate unjust. I shall
say of them, what you were saying of the others, that as they
grow older, they become rulers in their own city if they care to
be; they marry whom they like and give in marriage to whom
they will; all that you said of the others I now say of these. And,
on the other hand, of the unjust I say that the greater number,
even though they escape in their youth, are found out at last
and look foolish at the end of their course, and when they come
to be old and miserable are flouted alike by stranger and cit-
izen; they are beaten and then come those things unfit for ears
polite, as you truly term them; they will be racked and have
their eyes burned out, as you were saying. And you may sup-
pose that I have repeated the remainder of your tale of horrors.
But will you let me assume, without reciting them, that these
things are true?
Certainly, he said, what you say is true.
These, then, are the prizes and rewards and gifts which are
bestowed upon the just by gods and men in this present life, in
addition to the other good things which justice of herself
provides.
Yes, he said; and they are fair and lasting.
And yet, I said, all these are as nothing either in number or
greatness in comparison with those other recompenses which
await both just and unjust after death. And you ought to hear
them, and then both just and unjust will have received from us
a full payment of the debt which the argument owes to them.
Speak, he said; there are few things which I would more
gladly hear.
Well, I said, I will tell you a tale; not one of the tales which
Odysseus tells to the hero Alcinous, yet this too is a tale of a
hero, Er the son of Armenius, a Pamphylian by birth. He was

560
slain in battle, and ten days afterwards, when the bodies of the
dead were taken up already in a state of corruption, his body
was found unaffected by decay, and carried away home to be
buried. And on the twelfth day, as he was lying on the funeral
pile, he returned to life and told them what he had seen in the
other world. He said that when his soul left the body he went
on a journey with a great company, and that they came to a
mysterious place at which there were two openings in the
earth; they were near together, and over against them were
two other openings in the heaven above. In the intermediate
space there were judges seated, who commanded the just,
after they had given judgment on them and had bound their
sentences in front of them, to ascend by the heavenly way on
the right hand; and in like manner the unjust were bidden by
them to descend by the lower way on the left hand; these also
bore the symbols of their deeds, but fastened on their backs.
He drew near, and they told him that he was to be the messen-
ger who would carry the report of the other world to men, and
they bade him hear and see all that was to be heard and seen
in that place. Then he beheld and saw on one side the souls de-
parting at either opening of heaven and earth when sentence
had been given on them; and at the two other openings other
souls, some ascending out of the earth dusty and worn with
travel, some descending out of heaven clean and bright. And
arriving ever and anon they seemed to have come from a long
journey, and they went forth with gladness into the meadow,
where they encamped as at a festival; and those who knew one
another embraced and conversed, the souls which came from
earth curiously enquiring about the things above, and the souls
which came from heaven about the things beneath. And they
told one another of what had happened by the way, those from
below weeping and sorrowing at the remembrance of the
things which they had endured and seen in their journey be-
neath the earth (now the journey lasted a thousand years),
while those from above were describing heavenly delights and
visions of inconceivable beauty. The story, Glaucon, would take
too long to tell; but the sum was this:—He said that for every
wrong which they had done to any one they suffered tenfold; or
once in a hundred years—such being reckoned to be the length
of man's life, and the penalty being thus paid ten times in a

561
thousand years. If, for example, there were any who had been
the cause of many deaths, or had betrayed or enslaved cities or
armies, or been guilty of any other evil behaviour, for each and
all of their offences they received punishment ten times over,
and the rewards of beneficence and justice and holiness were
in the same proportion. I need hardly repeat what he said con-
cerning young children dying almost as soon as they were
born. Of piety and impiety to gods and parents, and of murder-
ers, there were retributions other and greater far which he de-
scribed. He mentioned that he was present when one of the
spirits asked another, 'Where is Ardiaeus the Great?' (Now this
Ardiaeus lived a thousand years before the time of Er: he had
been the tyrant of some city of Pamphylia, and had murdered
his aged father and his elder brother, and was said to have
committed many other abominable crimes.) The answer of the
other spirit was: 'He comes not hither and will never come.
And this,' said he, 'was one of the dreadful sights which we
ourselves witnessed. We were at the mouth of the cavern, and,
having completed all our experiences, were about to reascend,
when of a sudden Ardiaeus appeared and several others, most
of whom were tyrants; and there were also besides the tyrants
private individuals who had been great criminals: they were
just, as they fancied, about to return into the upper world, but
the mouth, instead of admitting them, gave a roar, whenever
any of these incurable sinners or some one who had not been
sufficiently punished tried to ascend; and then wild men of
fiery aspect, who were standing by and heard the sound, seized
and carried them off; and Ardiaeus and others they bound head
and foot and hand, and threw them down and flayed them with
scourges, and dragged them along the road at the side, carding
them on thorns like wool, and declaring to the passers-by what
were their crimes, and that they were being taken away to be
cast into hell.' And of all the many terrors which they had en-
dured, he said that there was none like the terror which each
of them felt at that moment, lest they should hear the voice;
and when there was silence, one by one they ascended with ex-
ceeding joy. These, said Er, were the penalties and retribu-
tions, and there were blessings as great.
Now when the spirits which were in the meadow had tarried
seven days, on the eighth they were obliged to proceed on

562
their journey, and, on the fourth day after, he said that they
came to a place where they could see from above a line of
light, straight as a column, extending right through the whole
heaven and through the earth, in colour resembling the rain-
bow, only brighter and purer; another day's journey brought
them to the place, and there, in the midst of the light, they saw
the ends of the chains of heaven let down from above: for this
light is the belt of heaven, and holds together the circle of the
universe, like the under-girders of a trireme. From these ends
is extended the spindle of Necessity, on which all the revolu-
tions turn. The shaft and hook of this spindle are made of steel,
and the whorl is made partly of steel and also partly of other
materials. Now the whorl is in form like the whorl used on
earth; and the description of it implied that there is one large
hollow whorl which is quite scooped out, and into this is fitted
another lesser one, and another, and another, and four others,
making eight in all, like vessels which fit into one another; the
whorls show their edges on the upper side, and on their lower
side all together form one continuous whorl. This is pierced by
the spindle, which is driven home through the centre of the
eighth. The first and outermost whorl has the rim broadest,
and the seven inner whorls are narrower, in the following pro-
portions—the sixth is next to the first in size, the fourth next to
the sixth; then comes the eighth; the seventh is fifth, the fifth is
sixth, the third is seventh, last and eighth comes the second.
The largest (or fixed stars) is spangled, and the seventh (or
sun) is brightest; the eighth (or moon) coloured by the reflec-
ted light of the seventh; the second and fifth (Saturn and Mer-
cury) are in colour like one another, and yellower than the pre-
ceding; the third (Venus) has the whitest light; the fourth
(Mars) is reddish; the sixth (Jupiter) is in whiteness second.
Now the whole spindle has the same motion; but, as the whole
revolves in one direction, the seven inner circles move slowly
in the other, and of these the swiftest is the eighth; next in
swiftness are the seventh, sixth, and fifth, which move togeth-
er; third in swiftness appeared to move according to the law of
this reversed motion the fourth; the third appeared fourth and
the second fifth. The spindle turns on the knees of Necessity;
and on the upper surface of each circle is a siren, who goes
round with them, hymning a single tone or note. The eight

563
together form one harmony; and round about, at equal inter-
vals, there is another band, three in number, each sitting upon
her throne: these are the Fates, daughters of Necessity, who
are clothed in white robes and have chaplets upon their heads,
Lachesis and Clotho and Atropos, who accompany with their
voices the harmony of the sirens—Lachesis singing of the past,
Clotho of the present, Atropos of the future; Clotho from time
to time assisting with a touch of her right hand the revolution
of the outer circle of the whorl or spindle, and Atropos with her
left hand touching and guiding the inner ones, and Lachesis
laying hold of either in turn, first with one hand and then with
the other.
When Er and the spirits arrived, their duty was to go at once
to Lachesis; but first of all there came a prophet who arranged
them in order; then he took from the knees of Lachesis lots and
samples of lives, and having mounted a high pulpit, spoke as
follows: 'Hear the word of Lachesis, the daughter of Necessity.
Mortal souls, behold a new cycle of life and mortality. Your
genius will not be allotted to you, but you will choose your
genius; and let him who draws the first lot have the first
choice, and the life which he chooses shall be his destiny. Vir-
tue is free, and as a man honours or dishonours her he will
have more or less of her; the responsibility is with the
chooser—God is justified.' When the Interpreter had thus
spoken he scattered lots indifferently among them all, and
each of them took up the lot which fell near him, all but Er
himself (he was not allowed), and each as he took his lot per-
ceived the number which he had obtained. Then the Interpret-
er placed on the ground before them the samples of lives; and
there were many more lives than the souls present, and they
were of all sorts. There were lives of every animal and of man
in every condition. And there were tyrannies among them,
some lasting out the tyrant's life, others which broke off in the
middle and came to an end in poverty and exile and beggary;
and there were lives of famous men, some who were famous
for their form and beauty as well as for their strength and suc-
cess in games, or, again, for their birth and the qualities of
their ancestors; and some who were the reverse of famous for
the opposite qualities. And of women likewise; there was not,
however, any definite character in them, because the soul,

564
when choosing a new life, must of necessity become different.
But there was every other quality, and the all mingled with one
another, and also with elements of wealth and poverty, and dis-
ease and health; and there were mean states also. And here,
my dear Glaucon, is the supreme peril of our human state; and
therefore the utmost care should be taken. Let each one of us
leave every other kind of knowledge and seek and follow one
thing only, if peradventure he may be able to learn and may
find some one who will make him able to learn and discern
between good and evil, and so to choose always and every-
where the better life as he has opportunity. He should consider
the bearing of all these things which have been mentioned sev-
erally and collectively upon virtue; he should know what the ef-
fect of beauty is when combined with poverty or wealth in a
particular soul, and what are the good and evil consequences
of noble and humble birth, of private and public station, of
strength and weakness, of cleverness and dullness, and of all
the natural and acquired gifts of the soul, and the operation of
them when conjoined; he will then look at the nature of the
soul, and from the consideration of all these qualities he will be
able to determine which is the better and which is the worse;
and so he will choose, giving the name of evil to the life which
will make his soul more unjust, and good to the life which will
make his soul more just; all else he will disregard. For we have
seen and know that this is the best choice both in life and after
death. A man must take with him into the world below an
adamantine faith in truth and right, that there too he may be
undazzled by the desire of wealth or the other allurements of
evil, lest, coming upon tyrannies and similar villainies, he do ir-
remediable wrongs to others and suffer yet worse himself; but
let him know how to choose the mean and avoid the extremes
on either side, as far as possible, not only in this life but in all
that which is to come. For this is the way of happiness.
And according to the report of the messenger from the other
world this was what the prophet said at the time: 'Even for the
last comer, if he chooses wisely and will live diligently, there is
appointed a happy and not undesirable existence. Let not him
who chooses first be careless, and let not the last despair.' And
when he had spoken, he who had the first choice came forward
and in a moment chose the greatest tyranny; his mind having

565
been darkened by folly and sensuality, he had not thought out
the whole matter before he chose, and did not at first sight
perceive that he was fated, among other evils, to devour his
own children. But when he had time to reflect, and saw what
was in the lot, he began to beat his breast and lament over his
choice, forgetting the proclamation of the prophet; for, instead
of throwing the blame of his misfortune on himself, he accused
chance and the gods, and everything rather than himself. Now
he was one of those who came from heaven, and in a former
life had dwelt in a well-ordered State, but his virtue was a mat-
ter of habit only, and he had no philosophy. And it was true of
others who were similarly overtaken, that the greater number
of them came from heaven and therefore they had never been
schooled by trial, whereas the pilgrims who came from earth
having themselves suffered and seen others suffer, were not in
a hurry to choose. And owing to this inexperience of theirs, and
also because the lot was a chance, many of the souls ex-
changed a good destiny for an evil or an evil for a good. For if a
man had always on his arrival in this world dedicated himself
from the first to sound philosophy, and had been moderately
fortunate in the number of the lot, he might, as the messenger
reported, be happy here, and also his journey to another life
and return to this, instead of being rough and underground,
would be smooth and heavenly. Most curious, he said, was the
spectacle—sad and laughable and strange; for the choice of the
souls was in most cases based on their experience of a previ-
ous life. There he saw the soul which had once been Orpheus
choosing the life of a swan out of enmity to the race of women,
hating to be born of a woman because they had been his mur-
derers; he beheld also the soul of Thamyras choosing the life of
a nightingale; birds, on the other hand, like the swan and other
musicians, wanting to be men. The soul which obtained the
twentieth lot chose the life of a lion, and this was the soul of
Ajax the son of Telamon, who would not be a man, remember-
ing the injustice which was done him in the judgment about the
arms. The next was Agamemnon, who took the life of an eagle,
because, like Ajax, he hated human nature by reason of his suf-
ferings. About the middle came the lot of Atalanta; she, seeing
the great fame of an athlete, was unable to resist the tempta-
tion: and after her there followed the soul of Epeus the son of

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Panopeus passing into the nature of a woman cunning in the
arts; and far away among the last who chose, the soul of the
jester Thersites was putting on the form of a monkey. There
came also the soul of Odysseus having yet to make a choice,
and his lot happened to be the last of them all. Now the recol-
lection of former toils had disenchanted him of ambition, and
he went about for a considerable time in search of the life of a
private man who had no cares; he had some difficulty in find-
ing this, which was lying about and had been neglected by
everybody else; and when he saw it, he said that he would have
done the same had his lot been first instead of last, and that he
was delighted to have it. And not only did men pass into anim-
als, but I must also mention that there were animals tame and
wild who changed into one another and into corresponding hu-
man natures—the good into the gentle and the evil into the
savage, in all sorts of combinations.
All the souls had now chosen their lives, and they went in the
order of their choice to Lachesis, who sent with them the geni-
us whom they had severally chosen, to be the guardian of their
lives and the fulfiller of the choice: this genius led the souls
first to Clotho, and drew them within the revolution of the
spindle impelled by her hand, thus ratifying the destiny of
each; and then, when they were fastened to this, carried them
to Atropos, who spun the threads and made them irreversible,
whence without turning round they passed beneath the throne
of Necessity; and when they had all passed, they marched on in
a scorching heat to the plain of Forgetfulness, which was a bar-
ren waste destitute of trees and verdure; and then towards
evening they encamped by the river of Unmindfulness, whose
water no vessel can hold; of this they were all obliged to drink
a certain quantity, and those who were not saved by wisdom
drank more than was necessary; and each one as he drank for-
got all things. Now after they had gone to rest, about the
middle of the night there was a thunderstorm and earthquake,
and then in an instant they were driven upwards in all manner
of ways to their birth, like stars shooting. He himself was
hindered from drinking the water. But in what manner or by
what means he returned to the body he could not say; only, in
the morning, awaking suddenly, he found himself lying on the
pyre.

567
 And thus, Glaucon, the tale has been saved and has not per-
ished, and will save us if we are obedient to the word spoken;
and we shall pass safely over the river of Forgetfulness and our
soul will not be defiled. Wherefore my counsel is, that we hold
fast ever to the heavenly way and follow after justice and virtue
always, considering that the soul is immortal and able to en-
dure every sort of good and every sort of evil. Thus shall we
live dear to one another and to the gods, both while remaining
here and when, like conquerors in the games who go round to
gather gifts, we receive our reward. And it shall be well with us
both in this life and in the pilgrimage of a thousand years
which we have been describing.

568
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