Chapter III: Part 3

14. “And we say that you, O Socrates, will be subject to these charges if you accomplish your design, and that not least of the Athenians, but most so of all.” And if I should ask, for what reason? They would probably justly retort on me by saying, that among all the Athenians I especially made this compact with them. For they would say, “Socrates, we have strong proof of this, that you were satisfied both with us and the city; for of all the Athenians you especially would never have dwelt in it, if it had not been especially agreeable to you. For you never went out of the city to any of the public spectacles, except once to the Isthmian games, nor any where else, except on military service, nor have you ever gone abroad as other men do, nor had you ever had any desire to become acquainted with any other city or other laws, but we and our city were sufficient for you; so strongly were you attached to us, and so far did you consent to submit to our government, both in other respects and in begetting children in this city, in consequence of your being satisfied with it. Moreover in your very trial, it was in your power to have imposed on yourself a sentence of exile, if you pleased, and might then have done, with the consent of the city, what you now attempt against its consent. Then indeed you boasted yourself as not being grieved if you must needs die; but you preferred, as you said, death to exile. Now, however, you are neither ashamed of those professions, nor do you revere us, the laws, since you endeavour to destroy us; and you act as the vilest slave would act, by endeavouring to make your escape contrary to the conventions and the compacts by which you engaged to submit to our government. First then, therefore, answer us this, whether we speak the truth or not in affirming that you agreed to be governed by us in deed though not in word?” What shall we say to this, Crito? Can we do otherwise than assent?

_Cri._ We must needs do so, Socrates?

_Socr._ “What else, then,” they will say, “are you doing but violating the conventions and compacts which you made with us, though you did not enter into them from compulsion or through deception, or from being compelled to determine in a short time, but during the space of seventy years, in which you might have departed if you had been dissatisfied with us, and the compacts had not appeared to you to be just? You, however, neither preferred Lacedæmon nor Crete, which you several times said are governed by good laws, nor any other of the Grecian or barbarian cities; but you have been less out of Athens than the lame and the blind, and other maimed persons. So much, it is evident, were you satisfied with the city and us, the laws, beyond the rest of the Athenians: for who can be satisfied with a city without laws? But now will you not abide by your compacts? You will, if you are persuaded by us, Socrates, and will not make yourself ridiculous by leaving the city.

15. “For consider, by violating these compacts and offending against any of them, what good you will do to yourself or your friends. For that your friends will run the risk of being themselves banished, and deprived of the rights of citizenship, or of forfeiting their property, is pretty clear. And as for yourself, if you should go to one of the neighbouring cities, either Thebes or Megara, for both are governed by good laws, you will go there, Socrates, as an enemy to their polity, and such as have any regard for their country will look upon you with suspicion, regarding you as a corrupter of the laws, and you will confirm the opinion of the judges, so that they will appear to have condemned you rightly, for whoso is a corrupter of the laws will appear in all likelihood to be a corrupter of youths and weak-minded men. Will you then avoid these well-governed cities, and the best-ordered men? And should you do so, will it be worth your while to live? Or will you approach them, and have the effrontery to converse with them, Socrates, on subjects the same as you did here, that virtue and justice, legal institutions and laws, should be most highly valued by men? And do you not think that this conduct of Socrates would be very indecorous? You must think so. But you will keep clear of these places, and go to Thessaly, to Crito’s friends, for there is the greatest disorder and licentiousness, and perhaps they will gladly hear you relating how drolly you escaped from prison, clad in some dress or covered with a skin, or in some other disguise such as fugitives are wont to dress themselves in, having so changed your usual appearance. And will no one say that you, though an old man, with but a short time to live, in all probability, have dared to have such a base desire of life as to violate the most sacred laws? Perhaps not, should you not offend any one. But if you should, you will hear, Socrates, many things utterly unworthy of you. You will live, too, in a state of abject dependence on all men, and as their slave. But what will you do in Thessaly besides feasting, as if you had gone to Thessaly to a banquet? And what will become of those discourses about justice and all other virtues?—But do you wish to live for the sake of your children, that you may rear and educate them? What then? Will you take them to Thessaly, and there rear and educate them, making them aliens to their country, that they may owe you this obligation too? Or if not so, being reared here, will they be better reared and educated while you are living, though not with them? for your friends will take care of them. Whether, if you go to Thessaly, will they take care of them, but if you go to Hades will they not take care of them? If, however, any advantage is to be derived from those that say they are your friends, we must think they will.

16. “Then, O Socrates, be persuaded by us who have nurtured you, and do not set a higher value on your children, or on life, or on any thing else than justice, that, when you arrive in Hades, you may have all this to say in your defence before those who have dominion there. For neither here in this life, if you do what is proposed, does it appear to be better, or more just, or more holy to yourself, or any of your friends; nor will it be better for you when you arrive there. But now you depart, if you do depart, unjustly treated, not by us, the laws, but by men; but should you escape, having thus disgracefully returned injury for injury, and evil for evil, having violated your own compacts and conventions which you made with us, and having done evil to those to whom you least of all should have done it, namely, yourself, your friends, your country, and us, both we shall be indignant with you as long as you live, and there our brothers, the laws in Hades, will not receive you favourably, knowing that you attempted, as far as you were able, to destroy us. Let not Crito, then, persuade you to do what he advises, rather than we.”

17. These things, my dear friend Crito, be assured I seem to hear, as the votaries of Cybele[11] seem to hear the flutes. And the sound of these words booms in my ear, and makes me incapable of hearing any thing else. Be sure, then, so long as I retain my present opinions, if you should say any thing contrary to these, you will speak in vain. If, however, you think that you can prevail at all, say on.

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Footnote 11:

The Corybantes, priests of Cybele, who in their solemn festivals made
such a noise with flutes that the hearers could hear no other sound.

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_Cri._ But, Socrates, I have nothing to say.

_Socr._ Desist, then, Crito, and let us pursue this course, since this way the deity leads us.

INTRODUCTION TO THE PHÆDO.

This dialogue presents us with an account of the manner in which Socrates spent the last day of his life, and how he met his death. The main subject is that of the soul’s immortality, which Socrates takes upon himself to prove with as much certainty as it is possible for the human mind to arrive at. The question itself, though none could be better suited to the occasion, arises simply and naturally from the general conversation that precedes it.

When his friends visit him in the morning for the purpose of spending this his last day with him, they find him sitting up in bed and rubbing his leg, which had just been freed from bonds. He remarks on the unaccountable alternation and connexion between pleasure and pain, and adds that Æsop, had he observed it, would have made a fable from it. This remark reminds Cebes of Socrates’ having put some of Æsop’s fables into metre since his imprisonment, and he asks, for the satisfaction of the poet Evenus, what had induced him to do so. Socrates explains his reason, and concludes by bidding him tell Evenus to follow him as soon as he can. Simmias expresses his surprise at this message, on which Socrates asks, “Is not Evenus a philosopher?” and on the question being answered in the affirmative, he says, that he or any philosopher would be willing to die, though perhaps he would not commit violence on himself. This, again, seems a contradiction to Simmias, but Socrates explains it by shewing that our souls are placed in the body by God, and may not leave it without His permission. Whereupon Cebes objects, that in that case foolish men only would wish to die and quit the service of the best of masters, to which Simmias agrees. Socrates, therefore, proposes to plead his cause before them, and to shew that there is a great probability that after this life he shall go into the presence of God and good men, and be happy in proportion to the purity of his own mind.

He begins[12] by stating that philosophy itself is nothing else than a preparation for and meditation on death. Death and philosophy have this in common: death separates the soul from the body, philosophy draws off the mind from bodily things to the contemplation of truth and virtue: for he is not a true philosopher who is led away by bodily pleasures, since the senses are the source of ignorance and all evil; the mind, therefore, is entirely occupied in meditating on death, and freeing itself as much as possible from the body. How, then, can such a man be afraid of death? He who grieves at the approach of death cannot be a true lover of wisdom, but is a lover of his body. And, indeed, most men are temperate through intemperance, that is to say, they abstain from some pleasures that they may the more easily and permanently enjoy others. They embrace only a shadow of virtue, not virtue itself, since they estimate the value of all things by the pleasures they afford. Whereas the philosopher purifies his mind from all such things, and pursues virtue and wisdom for their own sakes. This course Socrates himself had pursued to the utmost of his ability, with what success he should shortly know; and on these grounds he did not repine at leaving his friends in this world, being persuaded that in another he should meet with good masters and good friends.

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Footnote 12:

§ 21-39.

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Upon this Cebes[13] says that he agrees with all else that had been said, but cannot help entertaining doubts of what will become of the soul when separated from the body, for the common opinion is that it is dispersed and vanishes like breath or smoke, and no longer exists any where. Socrates, therefore, proposes to enquire into the probability of the case, a fit employment for him under his present circumstances.

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Footnote 13:

§ 39, 40.

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His first argument[14] is drawn from the ancient belief prevalent amongst men, that souls departing hence exist in Hades, and are produced again from the dead. If this be true, it must follow that our souls are there, for they could not be produced again if they did not exist: and its truth is confirmed by this, that it is a general law of nature that contraries are produced from contraries, the greater from the less, strong from weak, slow from swift, heat from cold, and in like manner life from death, and _vice versâ_. To explain this more clearly, he proceeds to shew that what is changed passes from one state to another, and so undergoes three different states, first the actual state, then the transition, and thirdly the new state, as from a state of sleep, by awaking to being awake: in like manner birth is a transition from a state of death to life, and dying from life to death, so that the soul, by the act of dying, only passes to another state; if it were not so, all nature would in time become dead, just as if people did not awake out of sleep all would at last be buried in eternal sleep. Whence the conclusion is that the souls of men are not annihilated by death.

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Footnote 14:

§ 40-46.

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Cebes[15] agrees to this reasoning, and adds that he is further convinced of its truth by calling to mind an argument used by Socrates on former occasions, that knowledge is nothing but reminiscence, and if this is so, the soul must have existed and had knowledge before it became united to the body.

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Footnote 15:

§ 47.

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But in case Simmias should not yet be satisfied, Socrates[16] proceeds to enlarge on this, his second argument, drawn from reminiscence. We daily find that we are carried from the knowledge of one thing to another. Things perceived by the eyes, ears, and other senses, bring up the thought of other things: thus the sight of a lyre or a garment reminds us of a friend, and not only are we thus reminded of sensible objects, but of things which are comprehended by the mind alone, and have no sensitive existence. For we have formed in our minds an idea of abstract equality, of the beautiful, the just, the good, in short, of every thing which we say exists without the aid of the senses, for we use them only in the perception of individual things, whence it follows that the mind did not acquire this knowledge in this life, but must have had it before, and therefore the soul must have existed before.

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Footnote 16:

§ 48-57.

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Simmias and Cebes[17] both agree in admitting that Socrates has proved the pre-existence of the soul, but insist that he has not shewn it to be immortal, for that nothing hinders but that, according to the popular opinion, it may be dispersed at the dissolution of the body. To which Socrates replies, that if their former admissions are joined to his last argument, the immortality, as well as the pre-existence of the soul, has been sufficiently proved. For if it is true that any thing living is produced from that which is dead, then the soul must exist after death, otherwise it could not be produced again.

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Footnote 17:

§ 55-59.

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However to remove the apprehension that the soul may be dispersed by a wind as it were, Socrates proceeds, in his third argument[18], to examine that doubt more thoroughly. What then is meant by being dispersed but being dissolved into its parts? In order therefore to a thing being capable of dispersion it must be compounded of parts. Now there are two kinds of things, one compounded, the other simple, the former kind is subject to change, the latter not, and can be comprehended by the mind alone. The one is visible, the other invisible; and the soul, which is invisible, when it employs the bodily senses wanders and is confused, but when it abstracts itself from the body it attains to the knowledge of that which is eternal, immortal, and unchangeable. The soul, therefore, being uncompounded and invisible must be indissoluble, that is to say immortal.

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Footnote 18:

§ 61-75.

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Still Simmias and Cebes[19] are unconvinced. The former objects, that the soul, according to Socrates’ own shewing, is nothing but a harmony resulting from a combination of the parts of the body, and so may perish with the body as the harmony of a lyre does when the lyre itself is broken. And Cebes, though he admits that the soul is more durable than the body, yet objects that it is not therefore of necessity immortal but may in time wear out, and it is by no means clear that this is not its last period.

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Footnote 19:

§ 76-84.

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These objections produce a powerful effect on the rest of the company, but Socrates, undismayed, exhorts them not to suffer themselves to be deterred from seeking the truth by any difficulties they may meet with; and then proceeds[20] to shew, in a moment, the fallacy of Simmias’ objection. It was before admitted, he says, that the soul existed before the body, but harmony is produced after the lyre is formed, so that the two cases are totally different. And further, there are various degrees of harmony, but every soul is as much a soul as any other. But then what will a person who holds this doctrine, that the soul is harmony, say of virtue and vice in the soul? Will he call them another kind of harmony and discord? If so, he will contradict himself, for it is admitted that one soul is not more or less a soul than another, and therefore one cannot be more or less harmonized than another, and one could not admit of a greater degree of virtue or vice than another; and indeed a soul, being harmony, could not partake of vice at all, which is discord.

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Footnote 20:

§ 93-99.

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Socrates, having thus satisfactorily answered the argument adduced by Simmias, goes on to rebut that of Cebes[21], who objected that the soul might in time wear out. In order to do this, he relates that when a young man he attempted to investigate the causes of every thing, why they exist and why they perish; and in the course of his researches finding the futility of attributing the existence of things to what are called natural causes, he resolved on endeavouring to find out the reasons of things. He therefore assumed that there is a certain abstract beauty, and goodness, and magnitude, and so of all other things: the truth of which being granted he thinks he shall be able to prove that the soul is immortal.

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Footnote 21:

§ 100-112.

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This then being conceded by Cebes, Socrates[22] argues that every thing that is beautiful is so from partaking of abstract beauty, and great from partaking of magnitude, and little from partaking of littleness. Now it is impossible he argues that contraries can exist in the same thing at the same time, for instance the same thing cannot possess both magnitude and littleness, but one will withdraw at the approach of the other: and not only so, but things which, though not contrary to each other, yet always contain contraries within themselves cannot co-exist; for instance the number three has no contrary, yet it contains within itself the idea of odd, which is the contrary to even, and so three never can become even; in like manner heat while it is heat can never admit the idea of its contrary, cold. Now if this method of reasoning is applied to the soul it will be found to be immortal; for life and death are contraries, and never can co-exist, but wherever the soul is there is life, so that it contains within itself that which is contrary to death, and consequently can never admit of death; therefore it is immortal.

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Footnote 22:

§ 112-128.

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With this he closes his arguments in support of the soul’s immortality. Cebes owns himself convinced, but Simmias, though he is unable to make any objection to the soundness of Socrates’ reasoning, cannot help still entertaining doubts on the subject. If, however, the soul is immortal, Socrates proceeds[23], great need is there in this life to endeavour to become as wise and good as possible. For if death were a deliverance from every thing it would be a great gain for the wicked, but since the soul appears to be immortal, it must go to the place suited to its nature. For it is said that each person’s demon conducts him to a place where he receives sentence according to his deserts.

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Footnote 23:

§ 129-131.

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He then[24] draws a fanciful picture of the various regions of the earth, to which the good and the bad will respectively go after death, and exhorts his friends to use every endeavour to acquire virtue and wisdom in this life, “for,” he adds, “the reward is noble and the hope great.”

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Footnote 24:

§ 132-145.

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Having thus brought his subject to a conclusion, Socrates proposes to bathe himself, in order not to trouble others to wash his dead body. Crito thereupon asks if he has any commands to give, and especially how he would be buried, to which he, with his usual cheerfulness, makes answer, “Just as you please, if only you can catch me;” and then, smiling, he reminds them that after death he shall be no longer with them, and begs the others of the party to be sureties to Crito for his absence from the body, as they had been before bound for his presence before his judges.

After he had bathed, and taken leave of his children and the women of his family, the officer of the Eleven comes in to intimate to him that it is now time to drink the poison. Crito urges a little delay, as the sun had not yet set, but Socrates refuses to make himself ridiculous by shewing such a fondness for life; the man who is to administer the poison is therefore sent for, and on his holding out the cup, Socrates, neither trembling nor changing colour or countenance at all, but, as he was wont, looking stedfastly at the man, asked if he might make a libation to any one, and being told that no more poison than enough had been mixed, he simply prayed that his departure from this to another world might be happy, and then drank off the poison readily and calmly. His friends, who had hitherto with difficulty restrained themselves, could no longer control the outward expressions of grief, to which Socrates said, “What are you doing, my friends? I, for this reason chiefly, sent away the women, that they might not commit any folly of this kind. For I have heard that it is right to die with good omens. Be quiet, therefore, and bear up.”

When he had walked about for a while his legs began to grow heavy, so he laid down on his back, and his body, from the feet upwards, gradually grew cold and stiff. His last words were, “Crito, we owe a cock to Æsculapius: pay it, therefore, and do not neglect it.”

“This,” concludes Phædo, “was the end of our friend, a man, as we may say, the best of all his time that we have known, and moreover, the most wise and just.”

PHÆDO,

OR

THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL.

FIRST ECHECRATES, PHÆDO.

THEN SOCRATES, APOLLODORUS, CEBES, SIMMIAS, AND CRITO.

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_Ech._ Were you personally present, Phædo, with Socrates on that day when he drank the poison in prison? or did you hear an account of it from some one else?

_Phæd._ I was there myself, Echecrates.

_Ech._ What then did he say before his death? and how did he die? for I should be glad to hear: for scarcely any citizen of Phlius[25] ever visits Athens now, nor has any stranger for a long time come from thence, who was able to give us a clear account of the particulars, except that he died from drinking poison; but he was unable to tell us any thing more.

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Footnote 25:

Phlius, to which Echecrates belonged, was a town of Sicyonia in
Peloponnesus.

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2. _Phæd._ And did you not hear about the trial how it went off?

_Ech._ Yes; some one told me this; and I wondered, that as it took place so long ago, he appears to have died long afterwards. What was the reason of this, Phædo?

_Phæd._ An accidental circumstance happened in his favour, Echecrates: for the poop of the ship which the Athenians send to Delos, chanced to be crowned on the day before the trial.

_Ech._ But what is this ship?

_Phæd._ It is the ship, as the Athenians say, in which Theseus formerly conveyed the fourteen boys and girls to Crete, and saved both them and himself. They, therefore, made a vow to Apollo on that occasion, as it is said, that if they were saved they would every year despatch a solemn embassy to Delos; which from that time to the present, they send yearly to the god. 3. When they begin the preparations for this solemn embassy, they have a law that the city shall be purified during this period, and that no public execution shall take place until the ship has reached Delos, and returned to Athens: and this occasionally takes a long time, when the winds happen to impede their passage. The commencement of the embassy is when the priest of Apollo has crowned the poop of the ship. And this was done, as I said, on the day before the trial: on this account Socrates had a long interval in prison between the trial and his death.

4. _Ech._ And what, Phædo, were the circumstances of his death? what was said and done? and who of his friends were with him? or would not the magistrates allow them to be present, but did he die destitute of friends?

_Phæd._ By no means; but some, indeed several, were present.

_Ech._ Take the trouble, then, to relate to me all the particulars as clearly as you can, unless you have any pressing business.

_Phæd._ I am at leisure, and will endeavour to give you a full account: for to call Socrates to mind, whether speaking myself or listening to some one else, is always most delightful to me.

5. _Ech._ And indeed, Phædo, you have others to listen to you who are of the same mind. However, endeavour to relate every thing as accurately as you can.

_Phæd._ I was indeed wonderfully affected by being present, for I was not impressed with a feeling of pity, like one present at the death of a friend; for the man appeared to me to be happy, Echecrates, both from his manner and discourse, so fearlessly and nobly did he meet his death: so much so, that it occurred to me, that in going to Hades he was not going without a divine destiny, but that when he arrived there he would be happy, if any one ever was. For this reason I was entirely uninfluenced by any feeling of pity, as would seem likely to be the case with one present on so mournful an occasion; nor was I affected by pleasure from being engaged in philosophical discussions, as was our custom; for our conversation was of that kind. But an altogether unaccountable feeling possessed me, a kind of unusual mixture compounded of pleasure and pain together, when I considered that he was immediately about to die. And all of us who were present were affected in much the same manner, at one time laughing, at another weeping, one of us especially, Apollodorus, for you know the man and his manner.

_Ech._ How should I not?

6. _Phæd._ He, then, was entirely overcome by these emotions; and I too was troubled, as well as the others.

_Ech._ But who were present, Phædo?

_Phæd._ Of his fellow-countrymen, this Apollodorus was present, and Critobulus, and his father Crito, moreover Hermogenes, Epigenes, Æschines, and Antisthenes; Ctesippus the Pæanian, Menexenus, and some other of his countrymen were also there: Plato I think was sick.

_Ech._ Were any strangers present?

_Phæd._ Yes: Simmias the Theban, Cebes, and Phædondes: and from Megara, Euclides and Terpsion.

7. _Ech._ But what! were not Aristippus and Cleombrotus present?

_Phæd._ No: for they were said to be at Ægina.

_Ech._ Was any one else there?

_Phæd._ I think that these were nearly all who were present.

_Ech._ Well now: what do you say was the subject of conversation?

_Phæd._ I will endeavour to relate the whole to you from the beginning. On the preceding days I and the others were constantly in the habit of visiting Socrates, meeting early in the morning at the court-house where the trial took place, for it was near the prison. 8. Here then we waited every day till the prison was opened, conversing with each other; for it was not opened very early, but, as soon as it was opened we went in to Socrates, and usually spent the day with him. On that occasion however, we met earlier than usual; for on the preceding day, when we left the prison in the evening, we heard that the ship had arrived from Delos. We therefore urged each other to come as early as possible to the accustomed place; accordingly we came, and the porter, who used to admit us, coming out, told us to wait, and not enter until he called us. “For,” he said, “the Eleven are now freeing Socrates from his bonds, and announcing to him that he must die to-day.” But in no long time he returned, and bade us enter.

9. When we entered, we found Socrates just freed from his bonds, and Xantippe, you know her, holding his little boy and sitting by him. As soon as Xantippe saw us, she wept aloud and said such things as women usually do on such occasions, as “Socrates, your friends will now converse with you for the last time and you with them.” But Socrates, looking towards Crito, said, “Crito, let some one take her home.” Upon which some of Crito’s attendants led her away, wailing and beating herself.

But Socrates sitting up in bed, drew up his leg, and rubbed it with his hand, and as he rubbed it, said; “What an unaccountable thing, my friends, that seems to be, which men call pleasure; and how wonderfully is it related towards that which appears to be its contrary, pain; in that they will not both be present to a man at the same time, yet, if any one pursues and attains the one, he is almost always compelled to receive the other, as if they were both united together from one head.

10. “And it seems to me,” he said, “that if Æsop had observed this he would have made a fable from it, how the deity, wishing to reconcile these warring principles, when he could not do so, united their heads together, and from hence whomsoever the one visits the other attends immediately after; as appears to be the case with me, since I suffered pain in my leg before from the chain, but now pleasure seems to have succeeded.”

Hereupon Cebes, interrupting him, said, “By Jupiter, Socrates, you have done well in reminding me: with respect to the poems which you made, by putting into metre those Fables of Æsop and the hymn to Apollo, several other persons asked me, and especially Evenus recently, with what design you made them after you came here, whereas before you had never made any. 11. If, therefore, you care at all that I should be able to answer Evenus, when he asks me again, for I am sure he will do so, tell me what I must say to him.”

“Tell him the truth then, Cebes,” he replied, “that I did not make them from a wish to compete with him, or his poems, for I knew that this would be no easy matter; but that I might discover the meaning of certain dreams, and discharge my conscience, if this should happen to be the music which they have often ordered me to apply myself to. For they were to the following purport: often in my past life the same dream visited me, appearing at different times in different forms, yet always saying the same thing, ‘Socrates,’ it said, ‘apply yourself to and practise music.’ 12. And I formerly supposed that it exhorted and encouraged me to continue the pursuit I was engaged in, as those who cheer on racers, so that the dream encouraged me to continue the pursuit I was engaged in, namely, to apply myself to music, since philosophy is the highest music, and I was devoted to it. But now since my trial took place, and the festival of the god retarded my death, it appeared to me that, if by chance the dream so frequently enjoined me to apply myself to popular music, I ought not to disobey it but do so, for that it would be safer for me not to depart hence before I had discharged my conscience by making some poems in obedience to the dream. Thus, then, I first of all composed a hymn to the god whose festival was present, and after the god, considering that a poet, if he means to be a poet, ought to make fables and not discourses, and knowing that I was not skilled in making fables, I therefore put into verse those fables of Æsop, which were at hand, and were known to me, and which first occurred to me.

13. Tell this then to Evenus, Cebes, and bid him farewell, and, if he is wise, to follow me as soon as he can. But I depart, as it seems, to-day; for so the Athenians order.”

To this Simmias said; “What is this, Socrates, which you exhort Evenus to do? for I often meet with him; and from what I know of him, I am pretty certain that he will not at all be willing to comply with your advice.”

“What then,” said he, “is not Evenus a philosopher?”

“To me he seems to be so,” said Simmias.

“Then he will be willing,” rejoined Socrates, “and so will every one who worthily engages in this study; perhaps indeed he will not commit violence on himself, for that they say is not allowable.” And as he said this he let down his leg from the bed on the ground, and in this posture continued during the remainder of the discussion.

Cebes then asked him, “What do you mean, Socrates, by saying that it is not lawful to commit violence on one’s-self, but that a philosopher should be willing to follow one who is dying?”

14. “What, Cebes, have not you and Simmias, who have conversed familiarly with Philolaus[26] on this subject, heard?”

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Footnote 26:

A Pythagorean of Crotona.

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“Nothing very clearly, Socrates.”

“I however speak only from hearsay; what then I have heard I have no scruple in telling. And perhaps it is most becoming for one who is about to travel there, to enquire and speculate about the journey thither, what kind we think it is. What else can one do in the interval before sunset?”

“Why then, Socrates, do they say that it is not allowable to kill one’s-self? for I, as you asked just now, have heard both Philolaus, when he lived with us, and several others say that it was not right to do this; but I never heard any thing clear upon the subject from any one.”

15. “Then you should consider it attentively,” said Socrates, “for perhaps you may hear: probably however, it will appear wonderful to you, if this alone of all other things is an universal truth[27], and it never happens to a man, as is the case in all other things, that at sometimes and to some persons only it is better to die than to live; yet that these men for whom it is better to die—this probably will appear wonderful to you—may not without impiety do this good to themselves, but must await another benefactor.”

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Footnote 27:

Namely, “that it is better to die than live.”

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16. Then Cebes, gently smiling, said, speaking in his own dialect[28], “Jove be witness.”

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Footnote 28:

Ἴττω Bœotian for ἴστω.

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“And indeed,” said Socrates, “it would appear to be unreasonable, yet still perhaps it has some reason on its side. The maxim indeed given on this subject in the mystical doctrines[29], that we men are in a kind of prison, and that we ought not to free ourselves from it and escape, appears to me difficult to be understood, and not easy to penetrate. This however appears to me, Cebes, to be well said, that the gods take care of us, and that we men are one of their possessions. Does it not seem so to you?”

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Footnote 29:

Of Pythagoras.

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“It does,” replied Cebes.

“Therefore,” said he, “if one of your slaves were to kill himself, without your having intimated that you wished him to die, should you not be angry with him, and should you not punish him if you could?”

“Certainly,” he replied.

“Perhaps then in this point of view, it is not unreasonable to assert, that a man ought not to kill himself before the deity lays him under a necessity of doing so, such as that now laid on me.”

17. “This, indeed,” said Cebes, “appears to be probable. But what you said just now, Socrates, that philosophers should be very willing to die, appears to be an absurdity, if what we said just now is agreeable to reason, that it is God who takes care of us, and that we are his property. For that the wisest men should not be grieved at leaving that service in which they govern them who are the best of all masters, namely the gods, is not consistent with reason. For surely he cannot think that he will take better care of himself when he has become free: but a foolish man might perhaps think thus, that he should fly from his master, and would not reflect that he ought not to fly from a good one, but should cling to him as much as possible, therefore he would fly against all reason: but a man of sense would desire to be constantly with one better than himself. Thus, Socrates, the contrary of what you just now said is likely to be the case; for it becomes the wise to be grieved at dying, but the foolish to rejoice.”

18. Socrates, on hearing this, appeared to me to be pleased with the pertinacity of Cebes, and looking towards us, said, “Cebes, you see, always searches out arguments, and is not at all willing to admit at once any thing one has said.”

Whereupon Simmias replied; “But indeed, Socrates, Cebes appears to me, now, to say something to the purpose: for with what design should men really wise fly from masters who are better than themselves, and so readily leave them? And Cebes appears to me to direct his argument against you, because you so easily endure to abandon both us, and those good rulers, as you yourself confess, the gods.”

“You speak justly,” said Socrates, “for I think you mean that I ought to make my defence to this charge, as if I were in a court of justice.”

“Certainly,” replied Simmias.

19. “Come then,” said he, “I will endeavour to defend myself more successfully before you than before the judges. For,” he proceeded, “Simmias and Cebes, if I did not think that I should go first of all amongst other deities who are both wise and good, and, next, amongst men who have departed this life, better than any here, I should be wrong in not grieving at death: but now be assured, I hope to go amongst good men, though I would not positively assert it; that, however, I shall go amongst gods who are perfectly good masters, be assured I can positively assert this, if I can any thing of the kind. So that, on this account, I am not so much troubled, but I entertain a good hope that something awaits those who die, and that, as was said long since, it will be far better for the good than the evil.”

20. “What then, Socrates,” said Simmias, “would you go away keeping this persuasion to yourself, or would you impart it to us? For this good appears to me to be also common to us; and at the same time it will be an apology for you, if you can persuade us to believe what you say.”

“I will endeavour to do so,” he said. “But first let us attend to Crito here, and see what it is he seems to have for some time wished to say.”

“What else, Socrates,” said Crito, “but what he who is to give you the poison told me some time ago, that I should tell you to speak as little as possible? For he says that men become too much heated by speaking, and that nothing of this kind ought to interfere with the poison, and that otherwise, those who did so were sometimes compelled to drink two or three times.”

To which Socrates replied, “Let him alone, and let him attend to his own business, and prepare to give it me twice, or, if occasion requires, even thrice.”

21. “I was almost certain what you would say,” answered Crito, “but he has been some time pestering me.”

“Never mind him,” he rejoined.

“But now I wish to render an account to you, my judges, of the reason why a man who has really devoted his life to philosophy, when he is about to die, appears to me, on good grounds, to have confidence, and to entertain a firm hope that the greatest good will befal him in the other world, when he has departed this life. How then this comes to pass, Simmias and Cebes, I will endeavour to explain.

“For as many as rightly apply themselves to philosophy seem to have left all others in ignorance, that they aim at nothing else than to die and be dead. If this then is true, it would surely be absurd to be anxious about nothing else than this during their whole life, but, when it arrives, to be grieved at what they have been long anxious about and aimed at.”

22. Upon this, Simmias, smiling, said, “By Jupiter, Socrates, though I am not now at all inclined to smile, you have made me do so; for I think that the multitude, if they heard this, would think it was very well said in reference to philosophers, and that our countrymen particularly would agree with you, that true philosophers do desire death, and that they are by no means ignorant that they deserve to suffer it.”

“And indeed, Simmias, they would speak the truth, except in asserting that they are not ignorant; for they are ignorant of the sense in which true philosophers desire to die, and in what sense they deserve death, and what kind of death. But,” he said, “let us take leave of them, and speak to one another. Do we think that death is any thing?”

“Certainly,” replied Simmias.

23. “Is it any thing else than the separation of the soul from the body? and is not this to die, for the body to be apart by itself separated from the soul, and for the soul to subsist apart by itself separated from the body? Is death any thing else than this?”

“No, but this,” he replied.

“Consider then, my good friend, whether you are of the same opinion as me; for thus I think we shall understand better the subject we are considering. Does it appear to you to be becoming in a philosopher to be anxious about pleasures, as they are called, such as meats and drinks?”

“By no means, Socrates,” said Simmias.

“But what? about the pleasures of love?”

“Not at all.”

24. “What then? does such a man appear to you to think other bodily indulgences of value? for instance, does he seem to you to value or despise the possession of magnificent garments and sandals, and other ornaments of the body, except so far as necessity compels him to use them?”

“The true philosopher,” he answered, “appears to me to despise them.”

“Does not then,” he continued, “the whole employment of such a man appear to you to be, not about the body, but to separate himself from it as much as possible, and be occupied about his soul?”

“It does.”

“First of all then, in such matters, does not the philosopher, above all other men, evidently free his soul as much as he can from communion with the body?”

“It appears so.”

25. “And it appears, Simmias, to the generality of men, that he who takes no pleasure in such things, and who does not use them, does not deserve to live; but that he nearly approaches to death who cares nothing for the pleasures that subsist through the body.”

“You speak very truly.”

“But what with respect to the acquisition of wisdom, is the body an impediment or not, if any one takes it with him as a partner in the search? What I mean is this: Do sight and hearing convey any truth to men, or are they such as the poets constantly sing, who say that we neither hear nor see any thing with accuracy? If however these bodily senses are neither accurate nor clear, much less can the others be so: for they are all far inferior to these. Do they not seem so to you?”

“Certainly,” he replied.

26. “When then,” said he, “does the soul light on the truth? for, when it attempts to consider any thing in conjunction with the body, it is plain that it is then led astray by it.”

“You say truly.”

“Must it not then be by reasoning, if at all, that any of the things that really are become known to it?”

“Yes.”

“And surely the soul then reasons best when none of these things disturb it, neither hearing, nor sight, nor pain, nor pleasure of any kind, but it retires as much as possible within itself, taking leave of the body, and, as far as it can, not communicating or being in contact with it, it aims at the discovery of that which is.”

“Such is the case.”

“Does not then the soul of the philosopher, in these cases, despise the body, and flee from it, and seek to retire within itself?”

“It appears so.”

“But what as to such things as these, Simmias? Do we say that justice itself is something or nothing?”

“We say it is something, by Jupiter.”

“And that beauty and goodness are something?”

“How not?”

“Now then have you ever seen any thing of this kind with your eyes?”

“By no means,” he replied.

“Did you ever lay hold of them by any other bodily sense? but I speak generally, as of magnitude, health, strength, and, in a word, of the essence of every thing, that is to say, what each is. Is then the exact truth of these perceived by means of the body, or is it thus, whoever amongst us habituates himself to reflect most deeply and accurately on each several thing about which he is considering, he will make the nearest approach to the knowledge of it?”

“Certainly.”

28. “Would not he, then, do this with the utmost purity, who should in the highest degree approach each subject by means of the mere mental faculties, neither employing the sight in conjunction with the reflective faculty, nor introducing any other sense together with reasoning; but who, using pure reflection by itself, should attempt to search out each essence purely by itself, freed as much as possible from the eyes and ears, and, in a word, from the whole body, as disturbing the soul, and not suffering it to acquire truth and wisdom, when it is in communion with it. Is not he the person, Simmias, if any one can, who will arrive at the knowledge of that which is?”

29. “You speak with wonderful truth, Socrates,” replied Simmias.

“Wherefore,” he said, “it necessarily follows from all this, that some such opinion as this should be entertained by genuine philosophers, so that they should speak among themselves as follows: ‘A by-path, as it were, seems to lead us on in our researches undertaken by reason,’ because as long as we are encumbered with the body, and our soul is contaminated with such an evil, we can never fully attain to what we desire; and this, we say, is truth. For the body subjects us to innumerable hindrances on account of its necessary support, and moreover if any diseases befal us, they impede us in our search after that which is; and it fills us with longings, desires, fears, all kinds of fancies, and a multitude of absurdities, so that, as it is said in real truth, by reason of the body it is never possible for us to make any advances in wisdom. 30. “For nothing else but the body and its desires occasion wars, seditions, and contests; for all wars amongst us arise on account of our desire to acquire wealth; and we are compelled to acquire wealth on account of the body, being enslaved to its service; and consequently on all these accounts we are hindered in the pursuit of philosophy. But the worst of all is, that if it leaves us any leisure, and we apply ourselves to the consideration of any subject, it constantly obtrudes itself in the midst of our researches, and occasions trouble and disturbance, and confounds us so that we are not able by reason of it to discern the truth. It has then in reality been demonstrated to us, that if we are ever to know any thing purely, we must be separated from the body, and contemplate the things themselves by the mere soul. And then, as it seems, we shall obtain that which we desire, and which we profess ourselves to be lovers of, wisdom, when we are dead, as reason shews, but not while we are alive. 31. For if it is not possible to know any thing purely in conjunction with the body, one of these two things must follow, either that we can never acquire knowledge, or only after we are dead; for then the soul will subsist apart by itself, separate from the body, but not before. And while we live, we shall thus, as it seems, approach nearest to knowledge, if we hold no intercourse or communion at all with the body, except what absolute necessity requires, nor suffer ourselves to be polluted by its nature, but purify ourselves from it, until God himself shall release us. And thus being pure, and freed from the folly of body, we shall in all likelihood be with others like ourselves, and shall of ourselves know the whole real essence, and that probably is truth; for it is not allowable for the impure to attain to the pure. Such things, I think, Simmias, all true lovers of wisdom must both think and say to one another. Does it not seem so to you?”

“Most assuredly, Socrates.”

32. “If this then,” said Socrates, “is true, my friend, there is great hope for one who arrives where I am going, there, if any where, to acquire that in perfection for the sake of which we have taken so much pains during our past life; so that the journey now appointed me is set out upon with good hope, and will be so by any other man who thinks that his mind has been as it were purified.”

“Certainly,” said Simmias.

“But does not purification consist in this, as was said in a former part of our discourse, in separating as much as possible the soul from the body, and in accustoming it to gather and collect itself by itself on all sides apart from the body, and to dwell, as far as it can, both now and hereafter, alone by itself, delivered as it were from the shackles of the body?”

“Certainly,” he replied.

33. “Is this then called death, this deliverance and separation of the soul from the body?”

“Assuredly,” he answered.

“But, as we affirmed, those who pursue philosophy rightly, are especially and alone desirous to deliver it, and this is the very study of philosophers, the deliverance and separation of the soul from the body, is it not?”

“It appears so.”