Socrates “Then the nature which we assumed in the philosopher, if it receives the proper teaching, must needs grow and attain to consummate excellence, but, if it be sown and planted and grown in the wrong environment, the outcome will be quite the contrary unless some god comes to the rescue. Or are you too one of the multitude who believe that there are young men who are corrupted by the sophists, and that there are sophists in private life who corrupt to any extent worth mentioning, and that it is not rather the very men who talk in this strain

Socrates who are the chief sophists and educate most effectively and mould to their own heart’s desire young and old, men and women?” “When?” said he. “Why, when,” I said, “the multitude are seated together in assemblies or in court-rooms or theaters or camps or any other public gathering of a crowd, and with loud uproar censure some of the things that are said and done and approve others, both in excess, with full-throated clamor

Socrates and clapping of hands, and thereto the rocks and the region round about re-echoing redouble the din of the censure and the praise. In such case how do you think the young man’s heart, as the saying is, is moved within him? What private teaching do you think will hold out and not rather be swept away by the torrent of censure and applause, and borne off on its current, so that he will affirm the same things that they do to be honorable and base,

Socrates and will do as they do, and be even such as they?” “That is quite inevitable, Socrates,” he said.

“And, moreover,” I said, “we have not yet mentioned the chief necessity and compulsion.” “What is it?” said he. “That which these “educators” and sophists impose by action when their words fail to convince. Don’t you know that they chastise the recalcitrant with loss of civic rights and fines and death?” “They most emphatically do,” he said. “What other sophist, then, or what private teaching do you think

will prevail in opposition to these?” “None, I fancy,” said he. “No,” said I, “the very attempt is the height of folly.”

Socrates “For there is not, never has been and never will be, a divergent type of character and virtue created by an education running counter to theirs—humanly speaking, I mean, my friend; for the divine, as the proverb says, all rules fail. And you may be sure that, if anything is saved and turns out well

Socrates in the present condition of society and government, in saying that the providence of God preserves it you will not be speaking ill.” “Neither do I think otherwise,” he said. “Then,” said I, “think this also in addition.” “What?” “Each of these private teachers who work for pay, whom the politicians call sophists and regard as their rivals, inculcates nothing else than these opinions of the multitude which they opine when they are assembled and calls this knowledge wisdom. It is as if a man were acquiring the knowledge of the humors and desires of a great strong beast which he had in his keeping,

Socrates how it is to be approached and touched, and when and by what things it is made most savage or gentle, yes, and the several sounds it is wont to utter on the occasion of each, and again what sounds uttered by another make it tame or fierce, and after mastering this knowledge by living with the creature and by lapse of time should call it wisdom, and should construct thereof a system and art and turn to the teaching of it, knowing nothing in reality about which of these opinions and desires is honorable or base, good or evil, just or unjust,

Socrates but should apply all these terms to the judgements of the great beast, calling the things that pleased it good, and the things that vexed it bad, having no other account to render of them, but should call what is necessary just and honorable, never having observed how great is the real difference between the necessary and the good, and being incapable of explaining it to another. Do you not think, by heaven, that such a one would be a strange educator?” “I do,” he said. “Do you suppose that there is any difference between such a one and the man who thinks

Socrates that it is wisdom to have learned to know the moods and the pleasures of the motley multitude in their assembly, whether about painting or music or, for that matter, politics? For if a man associates with these and offers and exhibits to them his poetry or any other product of his craft or any political. service, and grants the mob authority over himself more than is unavoidable, the proverbial necessity of Diomede will compel him to give the public what it likes, but that what it likes is really good and honorable, have you ever heard an attempted proof of this that is not simply ridiculous?”

Socrates “No,” he said, “and I fancy I never shall hear it either.”

“Bearing all this in mind, recall our former question. Can the multitude possibly tolerate or believe in the reality of the beautiful in itself as opposed to the multiplicity of beautiful things, or can they believe in anything conceived in its essence as opposed to the many particulars?” “Not in the least,” he said. “Philosophy, then, the love of wisdom,

is impossible for the multitude.” “Impossible.” “It is inevitable, then, that those who philosophize should be censured by them.” “Inevitable.” “And so likewise by those laymen who, associating with the mob, desire to curry favor with it.” “Obviously.” “From this point of view do you see any salvation that will suffer the born philosopher to abide in the pursuit and persevere to the end? Consider it in the light of what we said before.

We agreed that quickness in learning, memory, courage and magnificence were the traits of this nature.” “Yes.” “Then even as a boy among boys such a one will take the lead in all things, especially if the nature of his body matches the soul.” “How could he fail to do so?” he said. “His kinsmen and fellow-citizens, then, will desire, I presume, to make use of him when he is older for their own affairs.” “Of course.”

“Then they will fawn upon him with petitions and honors, anticipating and flattering the power that will be his.” “That certainly is the usual way.” “How, then, do you think such a youth will behave in such conditions, especially if it happen that he belongs to a great city and is rich and well-born therein, and thereto handsome and tall? Will his soul not be filled with unbounded ambitious hopes, and will he not think himself capable of managing the affairs of both Greeks and barbarians,

and thereupon exalt himself, haughty of mien and stuffed with empty pride and void of sense” “He surely will,” he said. “And if to a man in this state of mind someone gently comes and tells him what is the truth, that he has no sense and sorely needs it, and that the only way to get it is to work like a slave to win it, do you think it will be easy for him to lend an ear to the quiet voice in the midst of and in spite of these evil surroundings” “Far from it,” said he. “And even supposing,” said I, “that owing to a fortunate disposition and his affinity for the words of admonition

one such youth apprehends something and is moved and drawn towards philosophy, what do we suppose will be the conduct of those who think that they are losing his service and fellowship? Is there any word or deed that they will stick at to keep him from being persuaded and to incapacitate anyone who attempts it, both by private intrigue and public prosecution in the court?”

Socrates “That is inevitable,” he said. “Is there any possibility of such a one continuing to philosophize?” “None at all,” he said.

“Do you see, then,” said I, “that we were not wrong in saying that the very qualities that make up the philosophical nature do, in fact, become, when the environment and nurture are bad, in some sort the cause of its backsliding, and so do the so-called goods— riches and all such instrumentalities?” “No,” he replied, “it was rightly said.” “Such, my good friend, and so great as regards the noblest pursuit,

is the destruction and corruption of the most excellent nature, which is rare enough in any case, as we affirm. And it is from men of this type that those spring who do the greatest harm to communities and individuals, and the greatest good when the stream chances to be turned into that channel, but a small nature never does anything great to a man or a city.” “Most true,” said he.

“Those, then, to whom she properly belongs, thus falling away and leaving philosophy forlorn and unwedded, themselves live an unreal and alien life, while other unworthy wooers rush in and defile her as an orphan bereft of her kin, and attach to her such reproaches as you say her revilers taunt her with, declaring that some of her consorts are of no account and the many accountable for many evils.” “Why, yes,” he replied, “that is what they do say.” “And plausibly,” said I; “for other mannikins, observing that the place is unoccupied and full of fine terms and pretensions,

just as men escape from prison to take sanctuary in temples, so these gentlemen joyously bound away from the mechanical arts to philosophy, those that are most cunning in their little craft. For in comparison with the other arts the prestige of philosophy even in her present low estate retains a superior dignity; and this is the ambition and aspiration of that multitude of pretenders unfit by nature, whose souls are bowed and mutilated by their vulgar occupations

even as their bodies are marred by their arts and crafts. Is not that inevitable?” “Quite so,” he said. “Is not the picture which they present,” I said, “precisely that of a little bald-headed tinker who has made money and just been freed from bonds and had a bath and is wearing a new garment and has got himself up like a bridegroom and is about to marry his master’s daughter

who has fallen into poverty and abandonment?”