existence, if only it could be realised. How is this to be brought about?
Our State might be realised, Socrates replies, on one condition—preposterous as it will seem to the world—"philosophers must be kings;" or, failing this, the princes of this world must be imbued with the true philosophic spirit.
And what, then, is a philosopher? He is a rare and perfect being, who takes all knowledge and virtue as his portion; he is "the spectator of all time and all existence," for he knows the absolute and real ideas of beauty, truth, and justice—far removed from the uncertain twilight of opinion. He is free from the meanness or injustice of petty natures; he is lordly in his conceptions, gracious in manner, with a quick memory, and a well-adjusted mind. It is no argument, continues Socrates, to say that among the so-called philosophers of the present day you will find many rogues and fools. It is so; but the fault rests not with philosophy itself, but with the ignorant multitude, and with the pretentious teachers of our youth; for rare talents may be perverted by bad training, and strong but ill-regulated minds will produce the greatest evils. A young and noble character has indeed little chance of withstanding the corruptions of the age. The fulsome compliments of friends and advisers, the senseless clamour of the law-court or the Assembly, combine to ruin him; and, worse than all, the influence of the Sophists, who act as keepers to this many-headed monster of a people, understanding its habits and humouring its caprices, calling what it fancies good and what it
