The Republic VII

(In this extract Socrates suggests to his listeners that reality, and in particular our own position within reality, is not as it seems. The analogy of The Cave reveals one of the essential doctrines of Plato and has opened many aspiring philosophers' eyes to his or her own destiny - which is to rise from the darkness of shadowy matter to the light of The Good, here wonderfully symbolised as the Sun. For the superficial reader the analogy of the Cave merely makes a distinction between the world of matter and the world of intellect; there is, however, a far more profound reading of this passage, as Taylor's note here [note 1] indicates.)

<514a> After these things now, said I, assimilate, with reference to erudition, and the want of erudition, our nature to such a condition as follows. Consider men as in a subterraneous habitation, resembling a cave, with <514b> its entrance expanding to the light, and answering to the whole extent of the cave. Suppose them to have been in this cave from their childhood, with chains both on their legs and necks, so as to remain there, and only be able to look before them, but by the chain incapable to turn their heads round. Suppose them likewise to have the light of a fire, burning far above and behind them; and that between the fire and the fettered men there is a road above. Along this road, observe a low wall built, like that which hedges in the stage of mountebanks on which <514c> they exhibit their wonderful tricks. I observe it, said he. Behold now, along this wall, men bearing all sorts of utensils, raised above the wall, <515a> and human statues, and other animals, in wood and stone, and furniture of every kind. And, as is likely, some of those who are carrying these are speaking, and others silent. You mention, said he, a wonderful comparison, and wonderful fettered men. But such, however, as resemble us, said I; for, in the first place, do you think that such as these see any thing of themselves, or of one another, but the shadows formed <515b> by the fire, falling on the opposite part of the cave? How can they, said he, if through the whole of life they be under a necessity, at least, or having their heads unmoved? But what do they see of what is carrying along? Is it not the very same? Why not? If then they were able to converse with one another, do not you think they would deem it proper to give names to those very things which they saw before them? Of necessity they must. And what if the opposite part of this prison had an echo, when any of those who passed along spake, do you imagine they would reckon that what spake was any thing else than the passing <515c> shadow? Not I, by Jupiter! said he. Such as these then, said I, will entirely judge that there is nothing true but the shadows of utensils. By an abundant necessity, replied he. with reference then, both to their freedom from these chains, and their cure of this ignorance, consider the nature of it, if such a thing should happen to them. When any one should be loosed, and obliged on a sudden to rise up, turn round his neck, and walk and look up towards the light; and in doing all these things should be pained, and unable, from the splendours, to behold the things of which he formerly saw the shadows, what do you think he <515d> would say, if one should tell him that formerly he had seen trifles, but now, being somewhat nearer to reality, and turned toward what was more real, he saw with more rectitude; and so, pointing out to him each of the things passing along, should question him, and oblige him to tell what it were; do not you think he would be both in doubt, and would deem what he had formerly seen to be more true than what was now <515e> pointed out to him? By far, said he. And if he should oblige him to look to the light itself, would not he find pain in his eyes, and shun it; and, turning to such things as he is able to behold, reckon that these are really more clear than those pointed out? Just so, replied he. But if one, said I, should drag him from thence violently through a rough and steep ascent, and never stop till he drew him up to the light of the sun, would he not, whilst he was thus drawn, both be in torment, and be <516a> filled with indignation? And after he had even come to the light, having his eyes filled with splendour, he would be able to see none of these things now called true. He would not, said he, suddenly at least. But he would require, I think, to be accustomed to it some time, if he were to perceive things above. And, first of all, he would most easily perceive shadows, afterwards the images of men and of other things in water, and after that the things themselves. And, with reference to these, he would <516b> more easily see the things in the heavens, and the heavens themselves, by looking in the night to the light of the stars, and the moon, than by day looking on the sun, and the light of the sun. How can it be otherwise? And, last of all, he may be able, I think, to perceive and contemplate the sun himself, not in water, not resemblances of him, in a foreign seat, but himself by himself, in his own proper region. Of necessity, said he. And after this, he would now reason with himself concerning him, that it is he who gives the seasons, and years, and <516c> governs all things in the visible place; and that of all those things which he formerly saw, he is in a certain manner the cause. It is evident, said he, that after these things he may arrive at such reasonings as these. But what? when he remembers his first habitation, and the wisdom which was there, and those who were then his companions in bonds, do you not think he will esteem himself happy by the change, and pity them? And that greatly. And if there were there any honours and encomiums and rewards among themselves, for him who most acutely perceived what passed along, and best remembered which of them were wont to <516d> pass foremost, which latest, and which of them went together; and from these observations were most able to presage what was to happen; does it appear to you that he will be desirous of such honours, or envy those who among these are honoured, and in power? Or, will he not rather wish to suffer that of Homer, and vehemently desire As labourer to some ignoble man To work for hire . . . . . . . . and rather suffer any thing than to possess such opinions, and live after <516e> such a manner? I think so, replied he, that he would suffer, and embrace any thing rather than live in that manner. But consider this further, said I: If such an one should descend, and sit down again in the same seat, would not his eyes be filled with darkness, in consequence of <517a> coming suddenly from the sun? Very much so, replied he. And should he now again be obliged to give his opinion of those shadows, and to dispute about them with those who are there eternally chained, whilst yet his eyes were dazzled, and before they recovered their former state, (which would not be effected in a short time) would he not afford them laughter? and would it not be said of him, that, having ascended, he was returned with vitiated eyes, and that it was not proper even to attempt to go above, and that whoever should attempt to liberate them, and lead them up, if ever they were able to get him into their hands, should be put to death? They would by all means, said he, put him to death. The <517b> whole of this image now, said _, friend Glauco, is to be applied to our preceding discourse: for, if you compare this region, which is seen by the sight, to the habitation of the prison; and the light of the fire in it, to the power of the sun; and the ascent above, and the vision of things above, to the soul's ascent into the intelligible place; you will apprehend my meaning, since you want to hear it. But God knows whether it be true. Appearances then present themselves to my view as follows. In the intelligible place, the idea of The Good is the last object of vision, and is scarcely to be seen; but if it be seen, we must collect by reasoning <517c> that it is the cause to all of everything right and beautiful, generating in the visible place, light, and its lord the sun; and in the intelligible place, it is itself the lord, producing truth and intellect [see note 1]; and this must be beheld by him who is to act wisely, either privately or in public. I agree with you, said he, as far as I am able. Come now, said I, and agree with me likewise in this. And do not wonder that such as arrive hither are unwilling to act in human affairs but their souls always hasten to converse with things above; for it is somehow reasonable it should be <517d> so, if these things take place according to our above- mentioned image. It is indeed reasonable, replied he. But what? do you think that this is anything wonderful, that when a man comes from divine contemplations to human evils, he should behave awkwardly and appear extremely ridiculous, whilst he is yet dazzled, and is obliged, before he is sufficiently accustomed to the present darkness, to contend in courts of <517e> justice, or elsewhere, about the shadows of justice, or those statues which occasion the shadows; and to dispute about this point, how these things are apprehended by those who have never at any time beheld <518a> justice itself? This is not at all wonderful, said he. But if a man possesses intellect, said I, he must remember, that there is a twofold disturbance of the sight, and arising from two causes, when we betake ourselves from light to darkness, and from darkness to light: and when a man considers that these very things happen with reference also to the soul, whenever he sees any one disturbed, and unable to perceive any thing, he will not laugh in an unreasonable manner, but will consider, whether the soul, coming from a more splendid life, be darkened by ignorance, or, going from abundant ignorance to one more luminous, be filled with the dazzling splendour, and so will congratulate the one on <518b> its fate and life, and compassionate the life and fate of the other. And if he wishes to laugh at the soul that goes from darkness to light, his laughter would be less improper, than if he were to laugh at the soul which descends from the light to darkness. You say very reasonably, replied he. It is proper then, said I, that we judge of them after such a manner as this, if those things be true. That education is not such a <518c> thing as some announce it to be; for they somehow say, that whilst there is no science in the soul, they will insert it, as if they were inserting sight in blind eyes. They say so, replied he. But our present reasoning, said I, now shows, that this power being in the soul of every one, and the organ by which every one learns, and being in the same condition as the eye, if it were unable otherwise, than with the whole body, to turn from darkness to light, must, in like manner, with the whole soul, be turned from generation, till it be able to endure the contemplation of being itself, and the most splendid of being; and this <518d> we call The Good. Do we not? We do. This then, said I, would appear to be the art of his conversion, in what manner he shall, with greatest ease and advantage, be turned. Not to implant in him the power of seeing, but considering him as possessed of it, only improperly situated, and not looking at what he ought, to contrive some method by which this may be accomplished. It seems so, replied he. The other virtues now then of the soul, as they are called, seem to be somewhat resembling those of the body (for when, in reality, they were not in it formerly, they are afterwards produced in it by habits and exercises); but <518e> that of wisdom, as it seems, happens to be of a nature somewhat more divine than any other; as it never loses its power, but, according as it is <519a> turned, is useful and advantageous, or useless and hurtful. Or have you not observed of those who are said to be wicked, yet wise, how sharply the little soul sees, and how acutely it comprehends every thing to which it is turned, as having no contemptible sight, but compelled to be subservient to wickedness: so that the more acutely it sees, so much the more productive is it of wickedness? Entirely so, replied he. But however, said I, with reference to this part of such a genius; if, immediately from childhood, it should be stripped of every thing allied to generation, as leaden weights, and of all those pleasures and lusts <519b> which relate to feastings and such like, which turn the sight of the soul to things downwards; from all these, if the soul, being freed, should turn itself towards truth, the very same principle in the same men would most acutely see those things as it now does these to which it is turned. It is likely, replied he. But what? is not this likely, said I, and necessarily deduced from what has been mentioned? that neither those who are uninstructed and unacquainted with truth can ever sufficiently <519c> take care of the city; nor yet those who allow themselves to spend the whole of their time in learning. The former, because they have no one scope in life, aiming at which they ought to do whatever they do, both in private and in public; and the latter, because they are not willing to manage civil affairs, thinking that whilst they are yet alive, they inhabit the islands of the blessed. True, said he. It is our business then, said I, to oblige those of the inhabitants who have the best geniuses, to apply to that learning which we formerly said was the greatest, both to view <519d> The Good, and to ascend that ascent; and when they have ascended, and sufficiently viewed it, we are not to allow them what is now allowed them. What is that? To continue there, said I, and be unwilling to descend again to those fettered men, or share with them in their toils and honours, whether more trifling or more important. Shall we then, said he, act unjustly towards them, and make them live a worse life <519e> when they have it in their power to live a better? You have again forgot, friend, said I, that this is not the legislator's concern, in what manner any one tribe in the city shall live remarkably happy; but this he endeavours to effectuate in the whole city, connecting the citizens together; and by necessity, and by persuasion, making them share the advantage with one another with which they are severally able to benefit <520a> the community: and the legislator, when he makes such men in the city, does it not that he may permit them to go where each may incline, but that himself may employ them for connecting the city together. True, said he, I forgot, indeed. Consider then, said I, Glauco, that we shall no way injure the philosophers who arise among us, but tell them what is just, when we oblige them to take care of others, and to be guardians. We will allow, indeed, that those who in other cities become philosophers, with reason do not participate of the toils of public offices <520b> in the state (for they spring up of themselves, the policy of each city opposing them, and it is just, that what springs of itself, owing its growth to none, should not be forward to pay for its nurture to any one); but you have we generated both for yourselves, and for the rest of the state, as the leaders and kings in a hive, and have educated you <520c> better, and in a more perfect manner than they, and made you more capable of sharing both in the rewards and labours attending public offices. Every one then must, in part, descend to the dwelling of the others, and accustom himself to behold obscure objects: for, when you are accustomed to them, you will infinitely better perceive things there, and will fully know the several images what they are, and of what, from your having perceived the truth concerning things beautiful, and just, and good. And thus, as a real vision, both to us and you, shall the city be inhabited, and not as a dream, as most cities are at present inhabited <520d> by such as both fight with one another about shadows, and raise sedition about governing, as if it were some mighty good. But the truth is as follows: In whatever city those who are to govern, are the most averse to undertake government, that city, of necessity, will be the best established, and the most free from sedition; and that city, whose governors are of a contrary character, will be in a contrary condition. Entirely so, replied he. Do you think then that our pupils will disobey us, when they hear these injunctions, and be unwilling to labour jointly in the city, each bearing a part, but spend the most of their time with <520e> one another, free from public affairs? Impossible, said he. For we prescribe just things to just men. And each of them enters on magistracy from this consideration beyond all others, that they are under a necessity of governing after a manner contrary to all the present governors of all other cities. For thus it is, my companion, said I, if you <521a> discover a life for those who are to be our governors, better than that of governing, then it will be possible for you to have the city well established; for in it alone shall those govern who are truly rich, not in gold, but in that in which a happy man ought to be rich, in a good and prudent life. But if, whilst they are poor, and destitute of goods of their own, they come to the public, thinking they ought thence to pillage good, it is not possible to have the city rightly established. For the contest being who shall govern, such a war being domestic, and within <521b> them, it destroys both themselves, and the rest of the city. Most true, said he. Have you then, said I, any other kind of life which despises public magistracies, but that of true philosophy? No, by Jupiter! said he. But, however, they ought at least not to be fond of governing who enter on it, otherwise the rivals will fight about it. How can it be otherwise? Whom else then will you oblige to enter on the guardianship of the city, but such as are most intelligent in those things by which the city is best established, and who have other honours, and <521c> a life better than the political one? No others, said he. Are you willing then, that we now consider this, by what means such men shall be produced, and how one shall bring them into the light, as some are said, from Hades, to have ascended to the Gods? Why should I not be willing? replied he. This now, as it seems, is not the turning of a shell [see note 2]; but the conversion of the soul coming from some benighted day, to the true re-ascent to real being, which we say is true philosophy. Entirely <521d> so. Ought we not then to consider which of the disciplines possesses such a power? Why not? What now, Glauco, may that discipline of the soul be, which draws her from that which is generated towards being itself? But this I consider whilst I am speaking. Did not we indeed say, that it was necessary for them, whilst young, to be wrestlers in war? We said so. It is proper then, that this discipline likewise be added to that which is now the object of our inquiry. Which? Not to be useless to military men. It must indeed, said he, be added if possible. They <521e> were somewhere in our former discourse instructed by us in gymnastic and music. They were, replied he. Gymnastic indeed somehow respects what is generated and destroyed, for it presides over the increase and <522a> corruption of body. It seems so. This then cannot be the discipline which we investigate. It cannot. Is it music then, such as we formerly described? But it was, said he, as a counterpart of gymnastic, if you remember, by habits instructing our guardians, imparting no science, but only with respect to harmony, a certain propriety, and with regard to rhythm, a certain propriety of rhythm, and in discourses, certain other habits the sisters of these, both in such discourses as are fabulous, and <522b> in such as are nearer to truth. But as to a discipline respecting such a good as you now investigate, there was nothing of this in that music. You have, most accurately, said I, reminded me; for it treated, in reality, of no such thing. But, divine Glauco, what may this discipline be? For all the arts have somehow appeared to be mechanical and illiberal. How should they not? And what other discipline remains distinct from music, gymnastic, and the arts? Come, said I, if we have nothing yet further besides these to take, let us take something in these which <522c> extends over them all. What is that? Such as this general thing, which all arts, and dianoëtic powers, and sciences employ, and which every one ought, in the first place, necessarily to learn. What is that? said he. This trifling thing, said I, to know completely one, and two, and three: I call this summarily number, and computation. Or is it not thus with reference to these, that every art, and likewise every science, must of necessity participate of these? They must of necessity, replied he. And <522d> must not the art of war likewise participate of them? Of necessity, said he. Palamedes then, in the tragedies, shows every where Agamemnon to have been at least a most ridiculous general; or have you not observed how he says, that having invented numeration, he adjusted the ranks in the camp at Troy, and numbered up both the ships, and all the other forces which were not numbered before; and Agamemnon, as it seems, did not even know how many foot he had, as he understood not how to number them: but what kind of general do you imagine him to be? Some absurd one, for my part, replied he, if this were true. Is there any other discipline then, said I, which we shall establish as more necessary <522e> to a military man, than to be able to compute and to number? This most of all, said he, if he would any way understand how to range his troops, and still more if he is to be a man. Do you perceive them, said <523a> I, with regard to this discipline the same thing as I do? What is that? It seems to belong to those things which we are investigating, which naturally lead to intelligence, but that no one uses it aright, being entirely a conductor towards real being. How do you say? replied he. I shall endeavour, said I, to explain at least my own opinion. With reference to those things which I distinguish with myself into such as lead towards intelligence, and such as do not, do you consider them along with me, and either agree or dissent, in order that we may more distinctly see, whether this be such as I conjecture respecting it. - Show <523b> me, said he. I show you then, said I, if you perceive some things with relation to the senses, which call not intelligence to the inquiry, as they are sufficiently determined by sense, but other things which by all means call upon it to inquire, as sense does nothing sane. You plainly mean, said he, such things as appear at a distance, and such as are painted. You have not altogether, said I, apprehended my meaning. Which then, said he, do you mean? Those things, said I, call not upon <523c> intelligence, which do not issue in a contrary sensation at one and the same time; but such as issue in this manner. I establish to be those which call upon intelligence: since here sense manifests the one sensation no more than its contrary, whether it meet with it near, or at a distance. But you will understand my meaning more plainly in this manner. These, we say, are three fingers, the little finger, the next to it, and the middle finger. Plainly so, replied he. Consider me then as speaking of them when seen near, and take notice of this concerning them. What? <523d> Each of them alike appears to be a finger, and in this there is no difference, whether it be seen in the middle or in the end; whether it be white or black, thick or slender, or any thing else of this kind; for in all these, the soul of the multitude is under no necessity to question their intellect what is a finger; for never does sight itself at the same time intimate finger to be finger, and its contrary. It does not, replied he. Is it not likely then, said I, that such a case as this at least shall neither <523e> call upon nor excite intelligence? It is likely. But what? with reference to their being great and small, does the sight sufficiently perceive this, and makes it no difference to it, that one of them is situated in the middle, or at the end; and in like manner with reference to their thickness and slenderness, their softness and hardness, does the touch <524a> sufficiently perceive these things; and in like manner the other senses, do they no way defectively manifest such things? Or does each of them act in this manner? First of all, must not that sense which relates to hard, of necessity relate likewise to soft; and feeling these, it reports to the soul, as if both hard and soft were one and the same? It does. And must not then the soul again, said I, in such cases, of necessity be in doubt, what the sense points out to it as hard, since it calls the same thing soft likewise; and so with reference to the sense relating to light and heavy; the soul must be in doubt what is light and what is heavy; if the sense intimates that heavy is light, and that light is heavy? These <524b> at least, said he, are truly absurd reports to the soul, and stand in need of examination. It is likely then, said I, that first of all, in such cases as these, the soul, calling in reason and intelligence, endeavours to discover, whether the things reported be one, or whether they be two. Why not? And if they appear to be two, each of them appears to be one, and distinct from the other. It does. And if each of them be one, and both of them two, he will by intelligence perceive two distinct; for, if they <524c> were not distinct, he could not perceive two, but only one. Right. The sight in like manner, we say, perceives great and small, but not as distinct from each other, but as something confused. Does it not? It does. In order to obtain perspicuity in this affair, intelligence is obliged again to consider great and small, not as confused, but distinct, after a manner contrary to the sense of sight. True. And is it not from hence, somehow, that it begins to question us, What then is great, and what is small? By all means. And so we have called the one intelligible, and the <524d> other visible. Very right, said he. This then is what I was just now endeavouring to express, when I said, that some things call on the dianoëtic part, and others do not: and such as fall on the sense at the same time with their contraries, I define to be such as require intelligence, but such as do not, do not excite intelligence. I understand now, said he, and it appears so to me. What now? with reference to number and unity, to which of the two classes do you think they belong? I do not understand, replied he. But reason by analogy, said I, from what we have already said: for, if unity be of itself sufficiently seen, or be apprehended by any other sense, it will not lead towards real <524e> being, as we said concerning finger. But if there be always seen at the same time something contrary to it, so as that it shall no more appear unity than the contrary, it would then require some one to judge of it: and the soul would be under a necessity to doubt within itself, and to inquire, exciting the conception within itself, and to interrogate it what this unity is. And thus the discipline which relates to unity would be <525a> of the class of those which lead, and turn the soul to the contemplation of real being. But indeed this at least, said he, is what the very sight of it effects in no small degree: for we behold the same thing, at one and the same time, as one and as an infinite multitude. And if this be the case with reference to unity, said I, will not every number be affected in the same manner? Why not? But surely both computation and <525b> arithmetic wholly relate to number. Very much so. These then seem to lead to truth. Transcendently so. They belong then, as it seems, to those disciplines which we are investigating. For the soldier must necessarily learn these things, for the disposing of his ranks; and the philosopher for the attaining to real being, emerging from generation, or he can never become a reasoner. It is so, replied he. But our guardian at least happens to be both a soldier and a philosopher. Undoubtedly. It were proper then, Glauco, to establish by law this discipline, and to persuade those who are to manage the greatest affairs <525c> of the city to apply to computation, and study it, not in a common way, but till by intelligence itself they arrive at the contemplation of the nature of numbers, not for the sake of buying, nor of selling, as merchants and retailers, but both for war, and for facility in the energies of the soul itself, and its conversion from generation to truth and essence. Most beautifully said, replied he. And surely now, I perceive <525d> likewise, said I, at present whilst this discipline respecting computations is mentioned, how elegant it is, and every way advantageous towards our purpose, if one applies to it for the sake of knowledge, and not with a view to traffic! Which way? replied he. This very thing which we now mentioned, how vehemently does it somehow lead up the soul, and compel it to reason about numbers themselves, by no means admitting, if a man in reasoning with it shall produce numbers which have visible <525e> and tangible bodies! For you know of some who are skilled in these things, and who, if a man in reasoning should attempt to divide unity itself, would both ridicule him, and not admit it; but if you divide it into parts, they multiply them, afraid lest anyhow unity should appear <526a> not to be unity, but many parts. You say, replied he, most true. What think you now, Glauco, if one should ask them: O admirable men! about what kind of numbers are you reasoning? in which there is unity, such as you think fit to approve, each whole equal to each whole, and not differing in the smallest degree, having no part in itself, what do you think they would answer? This, as I suppose; that they mean such numbers as can be conceived by the dianoëtic part alone, but cannot be comprehended in any other way. You see then, my friend, said I, that <526b> in reality this discipline appears to be necessary for us, since it seems to compel the soul to employ intelligence itself in the perception of truth itself. And surely now, said he, it effects this in a very powerful degree. But what? have you hitherto considered this? that those who are naturally skilled in computation appear to be acute in all disciplines; and such as are naturally slow, if they be instructed and exercised in this, though they derive no other advantage, yet at the same time all of them <526c> proceed so far as to become more acute than they were before. It is so, replied he. And surely, as I think, you will not easily find any thing, and not at all many, which occasion greater labour to the learner and student than this. No, indeed. On all these accounts, then, this discipline is not to be omitted but the best geniuses are to be instructed in it. I agree, said he. Let this one thing then, said I, be established among us; and, in the next place, let us consider if that which is consequent to this in any respect pertains to us. What is it? said he: or, <526d> do you mean geometry? That very thing, said I. As far, said he, as it relates to warlike affairs, it is plain that it belongs to us; for, as to encampments, and the occupying of ground, contracting and extending an army, and all those figures into which they form armies, both in battles and in marches, the same man would differ from himself when he is a geometrician, and when he is not. But surely now, said I, for such purposes as these, some little geometry and some portion of computation might suffice: but we must inquire, whether much of it, <526e> and great advances in it, would contribute any thing to this great end, to make us more easily perceive the idea of the good. And we say that every thing contributes to this, that obliges the soul to turn itself towards that region in which is the most divine of being, which it must by all means perceive. You say right, replied he. If therefore it compel the soul to contemplate essence, it belongs to us; but if it oblige it to <527a> contemplate generation, it does not belong to us. We say so indeed. Those then who are but a little conversant in geometry, said I, will not dispute with us this point at least, that this science is perfectly contrary to the common modes of speech, employed in it by those who practice it. How? said he. They speak somehow very ridiculously, and through necessity: for all the discourse they employ in it appears to be with a view to operation, and to practice. Thus they speak of making a square, of prolonging, of adjoining, and the like. _ut yet the whole of this discipline is somehow studied for the sake of knowledge. By all means <527b> indeed, said he. Must not this further be assented to? What? That it is the knowledge of that which always is, and not of that which is sometimes generated and destroyed. This, said he, must be granted; for geometrical knowledge is of that which always is. It would seem then, generous Glauco, to draw the soul towards truth, and to be productive of a dianoëtic energy adapted to a philosopher, so as to raise this power of the soul to things above, instead of causing it improperly, as at <527c> present, to contemplate things below. As much as possible, replied he. As much as possible then, said I, must we give orders, that those in this most beautiful city of yours by no means omit geometry; for even its by-works are not inconsiderable. What by-works? said he. Those, said I, which you mentioned relating to war; and indeed with reference to all disciplines, as to the understanding of them more handsomely, we know somehow, that the having learned geometry or not, makes every way an entire difference. Every way, by Jupiter! said he. Let us then establish this second discipline for the youth. Let us establish it, replied he. But <527d> what? shall we, in the third place, establish astronomy? or are you of a different opinion? I am, said he, of the same: for to be well skilled in the seasons of months and years, belongs not only to agriculture and navigation, but equally to the military art. You are pleasant, said I, as you seem to be afraid of the multitude, lest you should appear to enjoin useless disciplines: but this is not altogether a contemptible thing, though it is difficult to persuade them, that by each of these disciplines <527e> a certain organ of the soul is both purified and exsuscitated, which is blinded and buried by studies of another kind; an organ better worth saving than ten thousand eyes, since truth is perceived by this alone. To such therefore as are of the same opinion, you will very readily appear to reason admirably well: but such as have never observed this will <528a> probably think you say nothing at all: for they perceive no other advantage in these things worthy of attention. Consider now from this point, with which of these two you will reason; or carry on the reasonings with neither of them, but principally for your own sake, yet envy not another, if any one shall be able to be benefited by them. In this manner, replied he, I choose, on my own account principally both to reason, and to question and answer. Come then, said I, let us go back again: for we have not rightly taken that which is consequent to <528b> geometry. How have we taken? replied he. After a plain surface, said I, we have taken a solid, moving in a circle, before we considered it by itself: but if we had proceeded rightly we should have taken the third argument immediately after the second, and that is somehow the argument of cubes, and what participates of depth. It is so, replied he. But these things, Socrates, seem not yet to be discovered. The reason of it, said I, is twofold. Because there is no city which sufficiently honours them, they are slightly investigated, being difficult; and besides, those who do investigate them want a leader, without which they cannot discover them. And this leader is in the first place hard to be obtained; and when he is obtained, as things are at present, those who investigate <528c> these particulars, as they conceive magnificently of themselves, will not obey him. But if the whole city presided over these things, and held them in esteem, such as inquired into them would be obedient, and their inquiries, being carried on with assiduity and vigour, would discover themselves what they were since: even now, whilst they are on the one hand despised and mutilated by the multitude, and on the other by those who study them without being able to give any account of their utility, they yet forcibly, under all these disadvantages, increase through their <528d> native grace: nor is it wonderful that they do so. Because truly, said he, this grace is very remarkable. But tell me more plainly what you were just now saying; for somehow that study which respects a plain surface you called geometry. I did, said I. And then, said he, you mentioned astronomy in the first place after it. But afterwards you drew back. Because, whilst _ am hastening, said I, to discuss all things rapidly, I advance more slowly. For that augment by depth which was next according to method we passed over, because the investigation of it is ridiculous; and after geometry we mentioned astronomy, which is the <528e> circular motion of a solid. You say right, replied he. We establish then, said I, astronomy as the fourth discipline, supposing that to subsist which we have now omitted, if the city shall enter upon it. It is reasonable, said he. And now that you agree with me, Socrates, I proceed in my commendation of astronomy, which you formerly <529a> reproved as unseasonable.

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