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 befall him in the
other world, when he has departed this life. How then this comes to
pass, Simmias and Cebes, I will endeavor 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."
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 anything?"
"Certainly," replied Simmias.
"Is it anything 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 anything 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"
"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."
"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 anyone 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 anything 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.
"When, then," said he, "does the soul light on the truth? for, when it
attempts to consider anything 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
disturbs 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 anything 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 everything, 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
among 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."
"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?"
"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 hinderances on account of its necessary support, and
moreover if any diseases befall 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.
"For nothing else but the body and its desires occasions wars,
seditions, and contests; for all wars among 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 anything 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 shows,
but not while we are alive. For if it is not possible to know anything
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."
"If this, then," said Socrates, "is true, my friend, there is great hope
for one who arrives where I am going, there, if anywhere, to acquire
that 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.
"This earth and the whole region here are decayed and corroded, as
things in the sea by the saltness; for nothing of any value grows in the
sea, nor, in a word, does it contain anything perfect, but there are
caverns, and sand, and mud in abundance, and filth in whatever parts of
the sea there is earth, nor are they at all worthy to be compared with
the beautiful things with us. But, on the other hand, those things in
the upper regions of the earth would appear far more to excel the things
with us. For, if we may tell a beautiful fable, it is well worth
hearing, Simmias, what kind the things are on the earth beneath the
heavens."
"Indeed, Socrates," said Simmias, "we should be very glad to hear that
fable."
"First of all, then, my friend," he continued, "this earth, if anyone
should survey it from above, is said to have the appearance of balls
covered with twelve different pieces of leather, variegated and
distinguished with colors, of which the colors found here, and which
painters use, are as it were copies. But there the whole earth is
composed of such, and far more brilliant and pure than these; for one
part of it is purple, and of wonderful beauty, part of a golden color,
and part of white, more white than chalk or snow, and in like manner
composed of other colors, and those more in number and more beautiful
than any we have ever beheld. And those very hollow parts of the earth,
though filled with water and air, exhibit a certain species of color,
shining among the variety of other colors, so that one continually
variegated aspect presents itself to the view. In this earth, being
such, all things that grow grow in a manner proportioned to its
nature--trees, flowers, and fruits; and again, in like manner, its
mountains and stones possess, in the same proportion, smoothness and
transparency and more beautiful colors; of which the well-known stones
here that are so highly prized are but fragments, such as sardin-stones,
jaspers, and emeralds, and all of that kind. But there, there is nothing
subsists that is not of this character, and even more beautiful than
these.
"But the reason of this is, because the stones there are pure, and not
eaten up and decayed, like those here, by rottenness and saltness, which
flow down hither together, and which produce deformity and disease in
the stones and the earth, and in other things, even animals and plants.
But that earth is adorned with all these, and moreover with gold and
silver, and other things of the kind: for they are naturally
conspicuous, being numerous and large, and in all parts of the earth; so
that to behold it is a sight for the blessed. There are also many other
animals and men upon it, some dwelling in mid-earth, others about the
air, as we do about the sea, and others in islands which the air flows
round, and which are near the continent: and in one word, what water and
the sea are to us for our necessities, the air is to them; and what air
is to us, that ether is to them.
"But their seasons are of such a temperament that they are free from
disease, and live for a much longer time than those here, and surpass us
in sight, hearing, and smelling, and everything of this kind, as much as
air excels water, and ether air, in purity. Moreover, they have abodes
and temples of the gods, in which gods really dwell, and voices and
oracles, and sensible visions of the gods, and such-like intercourse
with them; the sun, too, and moon, and stars, are seen by them such as
they really are, and their felicity in other respects is correspondent
with these things.
"And such, indeed, is the nature of the whole earth and the parts about
the earth; but there are many places all round it throughout its
cavities, some deeper and more open than that in which we dwell: but
others that are deeper have less chasm than in our region, and other are
shallower in depth than they are here, and broader.
"But all these are in many places perforated one into another under the
earth, some with narrower and some with wider channels, and have
passages through, by which a great quantity of water flows from one into
another, as into basins, and there are immense bulks of ever-flowing
rivers under the earth, both of hot and cold water, and a great quantity
of fire, and mighty rivers of fire, and many of liquid mire, some purer
and some more miry, as in Sicily there are rivers of mud that flow
before the lava, and the lava itself, and from these the several places
are filled, according as the overflow from time to time happens to come
to each of them. But all these move up and down as it were by a certain
oscillation existing in the earth. And this oscillation proceeds from
such natural cause as this: one of the chasms of the earth is
exceedingly large, and perforated through the entire earth, and is that
which Homer[43] speaks of, 'very far off, where is the most profound
abyss beneath the earth,' which elsewhere both he and many other poets
have called Tartarus. For into this chasm all rivers flow together, and
from it flow out again, but they severally derive their character from
the earth through which they flow."
[Footnote 43: _Iliad_, lib. viii., v. 14.]
"And the reason why all streams flow out from thence and flow into it is
because this liquid has neither bottom nor base. Therefore it oscillates
and fluctuates up and down, and the air and the wind around it do the
same; for they accompany it, both when it rushes to those parts of the
earth, and when to these. And as in respiration the flowing breath is
continually breathed out and drawn in, so there the wind, oscillating
with the liquid, causes certain vehement and irresistible winds both as
it enters and goes out. When, therefore, the water rushing in descends
to the place which we call the lower region, it flows through the earth
into the streams there and fills them, just as men pump up water. But
when again it leaves those regions and rushes hither, it again fills the
rivers here, and these, when filled, flow through channels and through
the earth, and having severally reached the several places to which they
are journeying, they make seas, lakes, rivers, and fountains.
"Then sinking again from thence beneath the earth, some of them having
gone round longer and more numerous places, and others round fewer and
shorter, they again discharge themselves into Tartarus, some much lower
than they were drawn up, others only a little so, but all of them flow
in again beneath the point at which they flowed out. And some issue out
directly opposite the place by which they flow in, others on the same
side: there are also some which having gone round altogether in a
circle, folding themselves once or several times round the earth, like
serpents, when they had descended as low as possible, discharge
themselves again; and it is possible for them to descend on either side
as far as the middle, but not beyond; for in each direction there is an
acclivity to the streams both ways.
"Now there are many other large and various streams, and among this
great number there are four certain streams, of which the largest, and
that which flows most outwardly round the earth, is called Ocean, but
directly opposite this, and flowing in a contrary direction, is Acheron,
which flows through other desert places, and moreover passing under the
earth, reaches the Acherusian lake, where the souls of most who die
arrive, and having remained there for certain destined periods, some
longer and some shorter, are again sent forth into the generations of
animals. A third river issues midway between these, and near its source
falls into a vast region, burning with abundance of fire, and forms a
lake larger than our sea, boiling with water and mud; from hence it
proceeds in a circle, turbulent and muddy, and folding itself round it
reaches both other places and the extremity of the Acherusian lake, but
does not mingle with its water; but folding itself oftentimes beneath
the earth, it discharges itself into the lower parts of Tartarus. And
this is the river which they call Pyriphlegethon, whose burning streams
emit dissevered fragments in whatever part of the earth they happen to
be. Opposite to this again the fourth river first falls into a place
dreadful and savage, as it is said, having its whole color like
_cyanus_: this they call Stygian, and the lake which the river forms by
its discharge, Styx. This river having fallen in here, and received
awful power in the water, sinking beneath the earth, proceeds, folding
itself round, in an opposite course to Pyriphlegethon, and meets it in
the Acherusian lake from a contrary direction. Neither does the water of
this river mingle with any other, but it, too, having gone round in a
circle, discharges itself into Tartarus opposite to Pyriphlegethon. Its
name, as the poets say, is Cocytus.
"These things being thus constituted, when the dead arrive at the place
to which their demon leads them severally, first of all they are judged,
as well those who have lived well and piously as those who have not. And
those who appear to have passed a middle kind of life, proceeding to
Acheron, and embarking in the vessels they have, on these arrive at the
lake, and there dwell, and when they are purified, and have suffered
punishment for the iniquities they may have committed, they are set
free, and each receives the reward of his good deeds, according to his
deserts: but those who appear to be incurable, through the magnitude of
their offences, either from having committed many and great sacrileges,
or many unjust and lawless murders, or other similar crimes, these a
suitable destiny hurls into Tartarus, whence they never come forth.
"But those who appear to have been guilty of curable yet great offences,
such as those who through anger have committed any violence against
father or mother, and have lived the remainder of their life in a state
of penitence, or they who have become homicides in a similar manner,
these must of necessity fall into Tartarus, but after they have fallen,
and have been there for a year, the wave casts them forth, the homicides
into Cocytus, but the parricides and matricides into Pyriphlegethon: but
when, being borne along, they arrive at the Acherusian lake, there they
cry out to and invoke, some those whom they slew, others those whom they
injured, and invoking them they entreat and implore them to suffer them
to go out into the lake, and to receive them, and if they persuade them
they go out and are freed from their sufferings; but if not, they are
borne back to Tartarus, and thence again to the rivers, and they do not
cease from suffering this until they have persuaded those whom they have
injured, for this sentence was imposed on them by the judges.
"But those who are found to have lived an eminently holy life, these are
they who, being freed and set at large from these regions in the earth,
as from a prison, arrive at the pure abode above, and dwell on the upper
parts of the earth. And among these, they who have sufficiently purified
themselves by philosophy shall live without bodies, throughout all
future time, and shall arrive at habitations yet more beautiful than
these, which it is neither easy to describe nor at present is there
sufficient time for the purpose.
"But for the sake of these things which we have described, we should use
every endeavor, Simmias, so as to acquire virtue and wisdom in this
life; for the reward is noble, and the hope great.
"To affirm positively, indeed, that these things are exactly as I have
described them does not become a man of sense; that however either this
or something of the kind takes place with respect to our souls and their
habitations--since our soul is certainly immortal--this appears to me
most fitting to be believed, and worthy the hazard for one who trusts in
its reality; for the hazard is noble, and it is right to allure
ourselves with such things, as with enchantments; for which reason I
have prolonged my story to such a length.
"On account of these things, then, a man ought to be confident about his
soul who during this life has disregarded all the pleasures and
ornaments of the body as foreign from his nature, and who, having
thought that they do more harm than good, has zealously applied himself
to the acquirement of knowledge, and who having adorned his soul not
with a foreign but its own proper ornament--temperance, justice,
fortitude, freedom, and truth--thus waits for his passage to Hades, as
one who is ready to depart whenever destiny shall summon him. You,
then," he continued, "Simmias and Cebes, and the rest, will each of you
depart at some future time; but now 'destiny summons me,' as a tragic
writer would say, and it is nearly time for me to betake myself to the
bath; for it appears to me to be better to drink the poison after I have
bathed myself, and not to trouble the women with washing my dead body."
When he had thus spoken, Crito said: "So be it, Socrates, but what
commands have you to give to these or to me, either respecting your
children or any other matter, in attending to which we can most oblige
you?"
"What I always say, Crito," he replied, "nothing new; that by taking
care of yourselves you will oblige both me and mine and yourselves,
whatever you do, though you should not now promise it; but if you
neglect yourselves, and will not live as it were in the footsteps of
what has been now and formerly said, even though you should promise much
at present, and that earnestly, you will do no good at all."
"We will endeavor then so to do," he said; "but how shall we bury you?"
"Just as you please," he said, "if only you can catch me, and I do not
escape from you." And at the same time smiling gently, and looking round
on us, he said: "I cannot persuade Crito, my friends, that I am that
Socrates who is now conversing with you, and who methodizes each part of
the discourse; but he thinks that I am he whom he will shortly behold
dead, and asks how he should bury me. But that which I some time since
argued at length, that when I have drunk the poison I shall no longer
remain with you, but shall depart to some happy state of the blessed,
this I seem to have urged to him in vain, though I meant at the same
time to console both you and myself. Be ye then my sureties to Crito,"
he said, "in an obligation contrary to that which he made to the judges;
for he undertook that I should remain; but do you be sureties that, when
I die, I shall not remain, but shall depart, that Crito may more easily
bear it, and when he sees my body either burnt or buried, may not be
afflicted for me, as if I suffered some dreadful thing, nor say at my
interment that Socrates is laid out, or is carried out, or is buried.
"For be well assured," he said, "most excellent Crito, that to speak
improperly is not only culpable as to the thing itself, but likewise
occasions some injury to our souls. You must have a good courage, then,
and say that you bury my body, and bury it in such a manner as is
pleasing to you, and as you think is most agreeable to our laws."