I do.

And that by greatness only great things become great and greater

greater, and by smallness the less become less?

True.

Then if a person were to remark that A is taller by a head than B, and

B less by a head than A, you would refuse to admit his statement, and

would stoutly contend that what you mean is only that the greater is

greater by, and by reason of, greatness, and the less is less only by,

and by reason of, smallness; and thus you would avoid the danger of

saying that the greater is greater and the less less by the measure of

the head, which is the same in both, and would also avoid the monstrous

absurdity of supposing that the greater man is greater by reason of the

head, which is small. You would be afraid to draw such an inference,

would you not?

Indeed, I should, said Cebes, laughing.

In like manner you would be afraid to say that ten exceeded eight by,

and by reason of, two; but would say by, and by reason of, number; or

you would say that two cubits exceed one cubit not by a half, but by

magnitude?-for there is the same liability to error in all these cases.

Very true, he said.

Again, would you not be cautious of affirming that the addition of

one to one, or the division of one, is the cause of two? And you would

loudly asseverate that you know of no way in which anything comes

into existence except by participation in its own proper essence,

and consequently, as far as you know, the only cause of two is

the participation in duality--this is the way to make two, and the

participation in one is the way to make one. You would say: I will let

alone puzzles of division and addition--wiser heads than mine may answer

them; inexperienced as I am, and ready to start, as the proverb says,

at my own shadow, I cannot afford to give up the sure ground of a

principle. And if any one assails you there, you would not mind him,

or answer him, until you had seen whether the consequences which follow

agree with one another or not, and when you are further required to give

an explanation of this principle, you would go on to assume a higher

principle, and a higher, until you found a resting-place in the best of

the higher; but you would not confuse the principle and the consequences

in your reasoning, like the Eristics--at least if you wanted to discover

real existence. Not that this confusion signifies to them, who never

care or think about the matter at all, for they have the wit to be well

pleased with themselves however great may be the turmoil of their ideas.

But you, if you are a philosopher, will certainly do as I say.

What you say is most true, said Simmias and Cebes, both speaking at

once.

ECHECRATES: Yes, Phaedo; and I do not wonder at their assenting. Any

one who has the least sense will acknowledge the wonderful clearness of

Socrates' reasoning.

PHAEDO: Certainly, Echecrates; and such was the feeling of the whole

company at the time.

ECHECRATES: Yes, and equally of ourselves, who were not of the company,

and are now listening to your recital. But what followed?

PHAEDO: After all this had been admitted, and they had that ideas exist,

and that other things participate in them and derive their names from

them, Socrates, if I remember rightly, said:--

This is your way of speaking; and yet when you say that Simmias is

greater than Socrates and less than Phaedo, do you not predicate of

Simmias both greatness and smallness?

Yes, I do.

But still you allow that Simmias does not really exceed Socrates, as

the words may seem to imply, because he is Simmias, but by reason of the

size which he has; just as Simmias does not exceed Socrates because he

is Simmias, any more than because Socrates is Socrates, but because he

has smallness when compared with the greatness of Simmias?

True.

And if Phaedo exceeds him in size, this is not because Phaedo is

Phaedo, but because Phaedo has greatness relatively to Simmias, who is

comparatively smaller?

That is true.

And therefore Simmias is said to be great, and is also said to be small,

because he is in a mean between them, exceeding the smallness of the one

by his greatness, and allowing the greatness of the other to exceed his

smallness. He added, laughing, I am speaking like a book, but I believe

that what I am saying is true.

Simmias assented.

I speak as I do because I want you to agree with me in thinking, not

only that absolute greatness will never be great and also small, but

that greatness in us or in the concrete will never admit the small or

admit of being exceeded: instead of this, one of two things will happen,

either the greater will fly or retire before the opposite, which is the

less, or at the approach of the less has already ceased to exist; but

will not, if allowing or admitting of smallness, be changed by that;

even as I, having received and admitted smallness when compared with

Simmias, remain just as I was, and am the same small person. And as the

idea of greatness cannot condescend ever to be or become small, in like

manner the smallness in us cannot be or become great; nor can any other

opposite which remains the same ever be or become its own opposite, but

either passes away or perishes in the change.

That, replied Cebes, is quite my notion.

Hereupon one of the company, though I do not exactly remember which of

them, said: In heaven's name, is not this the direct contrary of what

was admitted before--that out of the greater came the less and out of

the less the greater, and that opposites were simply generated from

opposites; but now this principle seems to be utterly denied.

Socrates inclined his head to the speaker and listened. I like your

courage, he said, in reminding us of this. But you do not observe that

there is a difference in the two cases. For then we were speaking of

opposites in the concrete, and now of the essential opposite which, as

is affirmed, neither in us nor in nature can ever be at variance with

itself: then, my friend, we were speaking of things in which opposites

are inherent and which are called after them, but now about the

opposites which are inherent in them and which give their name to them;

and these essential opposites will never, as we maintain, admit of

generation into or out of one another. At the same time, turning to

Cebes, he said: Are you at all disconcerted, Cebes, at our friend's

objection?

No, I do not feel so, said Cebes; and yet I cannot deny that I am often

disturbed by objections.

Then we are agreed after all, said Socrates, that the opposite will

never in any case be opposed to itself?

To that we are quite agreed, he replied.

Yet once more let me ask you to consider the question from another point

of view, and see whether you agree with me:--There is a thing which you

term heat, and another thing which you term cold?

Certainly.

But are they the same as fire and snow?

Most assuredly not.

Heat is a thing different from fire, and cold is not the same with snow?

Yes.

And yet you will surely admit, that when snow, as was before said, is

under the influence of heat, they will not remain snow and heat; but at

the advance of the heat, the snow will either retire or perish?

Very true, he replied.

And the fire too at the advance of the cold will either retire or

perish; and when the fire is under the influence of the cold, they will

not remain as before, fire and cold.

That is true, he said.

And in some cases the name of the idea is not only attached to the idea

in an eternal connection, but anything else which, not being the idea,

exists only in the form of the idea, may also lay claim to it. I will

try to make this clearer by an example:--The odd number is always called

by the name of odd?

Very true.

But is this the only thing which is called odd? Are there not other

things which have their own name, and yet are called odd, because,

although not the same as oddness, they are never without oddness?--that

is what I mean to ask--whether numbers such as the number three are not

of the class of odd. And there are many other examples: would you not

say, for example, that three may be called by its proper name, and also

be called odd, which is not the same with three? and this may be said

not only of three but also of five, and of every alternate number--each

of them without being oddness is odd, and in the same way two and

four, and the other series of alternate numbers, has every number even,

without being evenness. Do you agree?

Of course.

Then now mark the point at which I am aiming:--not only do essential

opposites exclude one another, but also concrete things, which, although

not in themselves opposed, contain opposites; these, I say, likewise

reject the idea which is opposed to that which is contained in them,

and when it approaches them they either perish or withdraw. For example;

Will not the number three endure annihilation or anything sooner than be

converted into an even number, while remaining three?

Very true, said Cebes.

And yet, he said, the number two is certainly not opposed to the number

three?

It is not.

Then not only do opposite ideas repel the advance of one another, but

also there are other natures which repel the approach of opposites.

Very true, he said.

Suppose, he said, that we endeavour, if possible, to determine what

these are.

By all means.

Are they not, Cebes, such as compel the things of which they have

possession, not only to take their own form, but also the form of some

opposite?

What do you mean?

I mean, as I was just now saying, and as I am sure that you know, that

those things which are possessed by the number three must not only be

three in number, but must also be odd.

Quite true.

And on this oddness, of which the number three has the impress, the

opposite idea will never intrude?

No.

And this impress was given by the odd principle?

Yes.

And to the odd is opposed the even?

True.

Then the idea of the even number will never arrive at three?

No.

Then three has no part in the even?

None.

Then the triad or number three is uneven?

Very true.

To return then to my distinction of natures which are not opposed, and

yet do not admit opposites--as, in the instance given, three, although

not opposed to the even, does not any the more admit of the even, but

always brings the opposite into play on the other side; or as two does

not receive the odd, or fire the cold--from these examples (and there

are many more of them) perhaps you may be able to arrive at the general

conclusion, that not only opposites will not receive opposites, but also

that nothing which brings the opposite will admit the opposite of

that which it brings, in that to which it is brought. And here let me

recapitulate--for there is no harm in repetition. The number five will

not admit the nature of the even, any more than ten, which is the

double of five, will admit the nature of the odd. The double has another

opposite, and is not strictly opposed to the odd, but nevertheless

rejects the odd altogether. Nor again will parts in the ratio 3:2, nor

any fraction in which there is a half, nor again in which there is a

third, admit the notion of the whole, although they are not opposed to

the whole: You will agree?

Yes, he said, I entirely agree and go along with you in that.

And now, he said, let us begin again; and do not you answer my question

in the words in which I ask it: let me have not the old safe answer of

which I spoke at first, but another equally safe, of which the truth

will be inferred by you from what has been just said. I mean that if any

one asks you 'what that is, of which the inherence makes the body

hot,' you will reply not heat (this is what I call the safe and

stupid answer), but fire, a far superior answer, which we are now in a

condition to give. Or if any one asks you 'why a body is diseased,' you

will not say from disease, but from fever; and instead of saying that

oddness is the cause of odd numbers, you will say that the monad is the

cause of them: and so of things in general, as I dare say that you will

understand sufficiently without my adducing any further examples.

Yes, he said, I quite understand you.

Tell me, then, what is that of which the inherence will render the body

alive?

The soul, he replied.

And is this always the case?

Yes, he said, of course.

Then whatever the soul possesses, to that she comes bearing life?

Yes, certainly.

And is there any opposite to life?

There is, he said.

And what is that?

Death.

Then the soul, as has been acknowledged, will never receive the opposite

of what she brings.

Impossible, replied Cebes.

And now, he said, what did we just now call that principle which repels

the even?

The odd.

And that principle which repels the musical, or the just?

The unmusical, he said, and the unjust.

And what do we call the principle which does not admit of death?

The immortal, he said.

And does the soul admit of death?

No.

Then the soul is immortal?

Yes, he said.

And may we say that this has been proven?

Yes, abundantly proven, Socrates, he replied.

Supposing that the odd were imperishable, must not three be

imperishable?

Of course.

And if that which is cold were imperishable, when the warm principle

came attacking the snow, must not the snow have retired whole and

unmelted--for it could never have perished, nor could it have remained

and admitted the heat?

True, he said.

Again, if the uncooling or warm principle were imperishable, the fire

when assailed by cold would not have perished or have been extinguished,

but would have gone away unaffected?

Certainly, he said.

And the same may be said of the immortal: if the immortal is also

imperishable, the soul when attacked by death cannot perish; for the

preceding argument shows that the soul will not admit of death, or ever

be dead, any more than three or the odd number will admit of the even,

or fire or the heat in the fire, of the cold. Yet a person may say: 'But

although the odd will not become even at the approach of the even, why

may not the odd perish and the even take the place of the odd?' Now to

him who makes this objection, we cannot answer that the odd principle is

imperishable; for this has not been acknowledged, but if this had been

acknowledged, there would have been no difficulty in contending that

at the approach of the even the odd principle and the number three took

their departure; and the same argument would have held good of fire and

heat and any other thing.

Very true.

And the same may be said of the immortal: if the immortal is also

imperishable, then the soul will be imperishable as well as immortal;

but if not, some other proof of her imperishableness will have to be

given.

No other proof is needed, he said; for if the immortal, being eternal,

is liable to perish, then nothing is imperishable.

Yes, replied Socrates, and yet all men will agree that God, and the

essential form of life, and the immortal in general, will never perish.

Yes, all men, he said--that is true; and what is more, gods, if I am not

mistaken, as well as men.

Seeing then that the immortal is indestructible, must not the soul, if

she is immortal, be also imperishable?

Most certainly.

Then when death attacks a man, the mortal portion of him may be supposed

to die, but the immortal retires at the approach of death and is

preserved safe and sound?

True.

Then, Cebes, beyond question, the soul is immortal and imperishable, and

our souls will truly exist in another world!

I am convinced, Socrates, said Cebes, and have nothing more to object;

but if my friend Simmias, or any one else, has any further objection to

make, he had better speak out, and not keep silence, since I do not know

to what other season he can defer the discussion, if there is anything

which he wants to say or to have said.

But I have nothing more to say, replied Simmias; nor can I see any

reason for doubt after what has been said. But I still feel and cannot

help feeling uncertain in my own mind, when I think of the greatness of

the subject and the feebleness of man.

Yes, Simmias, replied Socrates, that is well said: and I may add that

first principles, even if they appear certain, should be carefully

considered; and when they are satisfactorily ascertained, then, with a

sort of hesitating confidence in human reason, you may, I think, follow

the course of the argument; and if that be plain and clear, there will

be no need for any further enquiry.

Very true.

But then, O my friends, he said, if the soul is really immortal, what

care should be taken of her, not only in respect of the portion of time

which is called life, but of eternity! And the danger of neglecting her

from this point of view does indeed appear to be awful. If death had

only been the end of all, the wicked would have had a good bargain in

dying, for they would have been happily quit not only of their body, but

of their own evil together with their souls. But now, inasmuch as the

soul is manifestly immortal, there is no release or salvation from evil

except the attainment of the highest virtue and wisdom. For the soul

when on her progress to the world below takes nothing with her but

nurture and education; and these are said greatly to benefit or greatly

to injure the departed, at the very beginning of his journey thither.

For after death, as they say, the genius of each individual, to whom

he belonged in life, leads him to a certain place in which the dead are

gathered together, whence after judgment has been given they pass into

the world below, following the guide, who is appointed to conduct them

from this world to the other: and when they have there received their

due and remained their time, another guide brings them back again after

many revolutions of ages. Now this way to the other world is not, as

Aeschylus says in the Telephus, a single and straight path--if that were

so no guide would be needed, for no one could miss it; but there are

many partings of the road, and windings, as I infer from the rites and

sacrifices which are offered to the gods below in places where three

ways meet on earth. The wise and orderly soul follows in the straight

path and is conscious of her surroundings; but the soul which desires

the body, and which, as I was relating before, has long been fluttering

about the lifeless frame and the world of sight, is after many struggles

and many sufferings hardly and with violence carried away by her

attendant genius, and when she arrives at the place where the other

souls are gathered, if she be impure and have done impure deeds, whether

foul murders or other crimes which are the brothers of these, and the

works of brothers in crime--from that soul every one flees and turns

away; no one will be her companion, no one her guide, but alone she

wanders in extremity of evil until certain times are fulfilled, and

when they are fulfilled, she is borne irresistibly to her own fitting

habitation; as every pure and just soul which has passed through life in

the company and under the guidance of the gods has also her own proper

home.

Now the earth has divers wonderful regions, and is indeed in nature

and extent very unlike the notions of geographers, as I believe on the

authority of one who shall be nameless.

What do you mean, Socrates? said Simmias. I have myself heard many

descriptions of the earth, but I do not know, and I should very much

like to know, in which of these you put faith.

And I, Simmias, replied Socrates, if I had the art of Glaucus would tell

you; although I know not that the art of Glaucus could prove the truth

of my tale, which I myself should never be able to prove, and even if

I could, I fear, Simmias, that my life would come to an end before the

argument was completed. I may describe to you, however, the form and

regions of the earth according to my conception of them.

That, said Simmias, will be enough.

Well, then, he said, my conviction is, that the earth is a round body

in the centre of the heavens, and therefore has no need of air or any

similar force to be a support, but is kept there and hindered from

falling or inclining any way by the equability of the surrounding heaven

and by her own equipoise. For that which, being in equipoise, is in the

centre of that which is equably diffused, will not incline any way in

any degree, but will always remain in the same state and not deviate.

And this is my first notion.

Which is surely a correct one, said Simmias.

Also I believe that the earth is very vast, and that we who dwell in

the region extending from the river Phasis to the Pillars of Heracles

inhabit a small portion only about the sea, like ants or frogs about a

marsh, and that there are other inhabitants of many other like places;

for everywhere on the face of the earth there are hollows of various

forms and sizes, into which the water and the mist and the lower

air collect. But the true earth is pure and situated in the pure

heaven--there are the stars also; and it is the heaven which is commonly

spoken of by us as the ether, and of which our own earth is the sediment

gathering in the hollows beneath. But we who live in these hollows are

deceived into the notion that we are dwelling above on the surface of

the earth; which is just as if a creature who was at the bottom of the

sea were to fancy that he was on the surface of the water, and that the

sea was the heaven through which he saw the sun and the other stars,

he having never come to the surface by reason of his feebleness and

sluggishness, and having never lifted up his head and seen, nor ever

heard from one who had seen, how much purer and fairer the world above

is than his own. And such is exactly our case: for we are dwelling in a

hollow of the earth, and fancy that we are on the surface; and the air

we call the heaven, in which we imagine that the stars move. But the

fact is, that owing to our feebleness and sluggishness we are prevented

from reaching the surface of the air: for if any man could arrive at the

exterior limit, or take the wings of a bird and come to the top, then

like a fish who puts his head out of the water and sees this world, he

would see a world beyond; and, if the nature of man could sustain the

sight, he would acknowledge that this other world was the place of the

true heaven and the true light and the true earth. For our earth, and

the stones, and the entire region which surrounds us, are spoilt and

corroded, as in the sea all things are corroded by the brine, neither

is there any noble or perfect growth, but caverns only, and sand, and an

endless slough of mud: and even the shore is not to be compared to the

fairer sights of this world. And still less is this our world to be

compared with the other. Of that upper earth which is under the heaven,

I can tell you a charming tale, Simmias, which is well worth hearing.

And we, Socrates, replied Simmias, shall be charmed to listen to you.

The tale, my friend, he said, is as follows:--In the first place, the

earth, when looked at from above, is in appearance streaked like one of

those balls which have leather coverings in twelve pieces, and is decked

with various colours, of which the colours used by painters on earth are

in a manner samples. But there the whole earth is made up of them,

and they are brighter far and clearer than ours; there is a purple of

wonderful lustre, also the radiance of gold, and the white which is in

the earth is whiter than any chalk or snow. Of these and other colours

the earth is made up, and they are more in number and fairer than the

eye of man has ever seen; the very hollows (of which I was speaking)

filled with air and water have a colour of their own, and are seen like

light gleaming amid the diversity of the other colours, so that the

whole presents a single and continuous appearance of variety in unity.

And in this fair region everything that grows--trees, and flowers, and

fruits--are in a like degree fairer than any here; and there are hills,

having stones in them in a like degree smoother, and more transparent,

and fairer in colour than our highly-valued emeralds and sardonyxes and

jaspers, and other gems, which are but minute fragments of them: for

there all the stones are like our precious stones, and fairer still

(compare Republic). The reason is, that they are pure, and not, like

our precious stones, infected or corroded by the corrupt briny elements

which coagulate among us, and which breed foulness and disease both in

earth and stones, as well as in animals and plants. They are the jewels

of the upper earth, which also shines with gold and silver and the like,

and they are set in the light of day and are large and abundant and in

all places, making the earth a sight to gladden the beholder's eye.

And there are animals and men, some in a middle region, others dwelling

about the air as we dwell about the sea; others in islands which the air

flows round, near the continent: and in a word, the air is used by them

as the water and the sea are by us, and the ether is to them what the

air is to us. Moreover, the temperament of their seasons is such that

they have no disease, and live much longer than we do, and have

sight and hearing and smell, and all the other senses, in far greater

perfection, in the same proportion that air is purer than water or the

ether than air. Also they have temples and sacred places in which the

gods really dwell, and they hear their voices and receive their answers,

and are conscious of them and hold converse with them, and they see the

sun, moon, and stars as they truly are, and their other blessedness is

of a piece with this.

Such is the nature of the whole earth, and of the things which are

around the earth; and there are divers regions in the hollows on the

face of the globe everywhere, some of them deeper and more extended than

that which we inhabit, others deeper but with a narrower opening

than ours, and some are shallower and also wider. All have numerous

perforations, and there are passages broad and narrow in the interior of

the earth, connecting them with one another; and there flows out of and

into them, as into basins, a vast tide of water, and huge subterranean

streams of perennial rivers, and springs hot and cold, and a great fire,

and great rivers of fire, and streams of liquid mud, thin or thick (like

the rivers of mud in Sicily, and the lava streams which follow them),

and the regions about which they happen to flow are filled up with them.

And there is a swinging or see-saw in the interior of the earth which

moves all this up and down, and is due to the following cause:--There is

a chasm which is the vastest of them all, and pierces right through the

whole earth; this is that chasm which Homer describes in the words,--

'Far off, where is the inmost depth beneath the earth;'

and which he in other places, and many other poets, have called

Tartarus. And the see-saw is caused by the streams flowing into and out

of this chasm, and they each have the nature of the soil through which

they flow. And the reason why the streams are always flowing in and out,

is that the watery element has no bed or bottom, but is swinging and

surging up and down, and the surrounding wind and air do the same; they

follow the water up and down, hither and thither, over the earth--just

as in the act of respiration the air is always in process of inhalation

and exhalation;--and the wind swinging with the water in and out

produces fearful and irresistible blasts: when the waters retire with

a rush into the lower parts of the earth, as they are called, they flow

through the earth in those regions, and fill them up like water raised

by a pump, and then when they leave those regions and rush back hither,

they again fill the hollows here, and when these are filled, flow

through subterranean channels and find their way to their several

places, forming seas, and lakes, and rivers, and springs. Thence they

again enter the earth, some of them making a long circuit into many

lands, others going to a few places and not so distant; and again fall

into Tartarus, some at a point a good deal lower than that at which they

rose, and others not much lower, but all in some degree lower than the

point from which they came. And some burst forth again on the opposite

side, and some on the same side, and some wind round the earth with one

or many folds like the coils of a serpent, and descend as far as they

can, but always return and fall into the chasm. The rivers flowing in

either direction can descend only to the centre and no further, for

opposite to the rivers is a precipice.

Now these rivers are many, and mighty, and diverse, and there are four

principal ones, of which the greatest and outermost is that called

Oceanus, which flows round the earth in a circle; and in the opposite

direction flows Acheron, which passes under the earth through desert

places into the Acherusian lake: this is the lake to the shores of

which the souls of the many go when they are dead, and after waiting an

appointed time, which is to some a longer and to some a shorter time,

they are sent back to be born again as animals. The third river passes

out between the two, and near the place of outlet pours into a vast

region of fire, and forms a lake larger than the Mediterranean Sea,

boiling with water and mud; and proceeding muddy and turbid, and winding

about the earth, comes, among other places, to the extremities of the

Acherusian Lake, but mingles not with the waters of the lake, and after

making many coils about the earth plunges into Tartarus at a deeper

level. This is that Pyriphlegethon, as the stream is called, which

throws up jets of fire in different parts of the earth. The fourth river

goes out on the opposite side, and falls first of all into a wild and

savage region, which is all of a dark-blue colour, like lapis lazuli;

and this is that river which is called the Stygian river, and falls into

and forms the Lake Styx, and after falling into the lake and receiving

strange powers in the waters, passes under the earth, winding round

in the opposite direction, and comes near the Acherusian lake from the

opposite side to Pyriphlegethon. And the water of this river too mingles

with no other, but flows round in a circle and falls into Tartarus over

against Pyriphlegethon; and the name of the river, as the poets say, is

Cocytus.

Such is the nature of the other world; and when the dead arrive at the

place to which the genius of each severally guides them, first of all,

they have sentence passed upon them, as they have lived well and piously

or not. And those who appear to have lived neither well nor ill, go to

the river Acheron, and embarking in any vessels which they may find, are

carried in them to the lake, and there they dwell and are purified of

their evil deeds, and having suffered the penalty of the wrongs which

they have done to others, they are absolved, and receive the rewards of

their good deeds, each of them according to his deserts. But those who

appear to be incurable by reason of the greatness of their crimes--who

have committed many and terrible deeds of sacrilege, murders foul and

violent, or the like--such are hurled into Tartarus which is their

suitable destiny, and they never come out. Those again who have

committed crimes, which, although great, are not irremediable--who in

a moment of anger, for example, have done violence to a father or a

mother, and have repented for the remainder of their lives, or, who

have taken the life of another under the like extenuating

circumstances--these are plunged into Tartarus, the pains of which they

are compelled to undergo for a year, but at the end of the year the

wave casts them forth--mere homicides by way of Cocytus, parricides and

matricides by Pyriphlegethon--and they are borne to the Acherusian lake,

and there they lift up their voices and call upon the victims whom they

have slain or wronged, to have pity on them, and to be kind to them,

and let them come out into the lake. And if they prevail, then they come

forth and cease from their troubles; but if not, they are carried back

again into Tartarus and from thence into the rivers unceasingly, until

they obtain mercy from those whom they have wronged: for that is the

sentence inflicted upon them by their judges. Those too who have been

pre-eminent for holiness of life are released from this earthly prison,

and go to their pure home which is above, and dwell in the purer earth;

and of these, such as have duly purified themselves with philosophy live

henceforth altogether without the body, in mansions fairer still which

may not be described, and of which the time would fail me to tell.

Wherefore, Simmias, seeing all these things, what ought not we to do

that we may obtain virtue and wisdom in this life? Fair is the prize,

and the hope great!

A man of sense ought not to say, nor will I be very confident, that the

description which I have given of the soul and her mansions is exactly

true. But I do say that, inasmuch as the soul is shown to be immortal,

he may venture to think, not improperly or unworthily, that something of

the kind is true. The venture is a glorious one, and he ought to comfort

himself with words like these, which is the reason why I lengthen out

the tale. Wherefore, I say, let a man be of good cheer about his soul,

who having cast away the pleasures and ornaments of the body as alien to

him and working harm rather than good, has sought after the pleasures of

knowledge; and has arrayed the soul, not in some foreign attire, but

in her own proper jewels, temperance, and justice, and courage, and

nobility, and truth--in these adorned she is ready to go on her journey

to the world below, when her hour comes. You, Simmias and Cebes, and all

other men, will depart at some time or other. Me already, as the tragic

poet would say, the voice of fate calls. Soon I must drink the poison;

and I think that I had better repair to the bath first, in order that

the women may not have the trouble of washing my body after I am dead.

When he had done speaking, Crito said: And have you any commands for us,

Socrates--anything to say about your children, or any other matter in

which we can serve you?

Nothing particular, Crito, he replied: only, as I have always told

you, take care of yourselves; that is a service which you may be ever

rendering to me and mine and to all of us, whether you promise to do so

or not. But if you have no thought for yourselves, and care not to walk

according to the rule which I have prescribed for you, not now for the

first time, however much you may profess or promise at the moment, it

will be of no avail.

We will do our best, said Crito: And in what way shall we bury you?

In any way that you like; but you must get hold of me, and take care

that I do not run away from you. Then he turned to us, and added with a

smile:--I cannot make Crito believe that I am the same Socrates who have

been talking and conducting the argument; he fancies that I am the other

Socrates whom he will soon see, a dead body--and he asks, How shall he

bury me? And though I have spoken many words in the endeavour to show

that when I have drunk the poison I shall leave you and go to the joys

of the blessed,--these words of mine, with which I was comforting you

and myself, have had, as I perceive, no effect upon Crito. And therefore

I want you to be surety for me to him now, as at the trial he was surety

to the judges for me: but let the promise be of another sort; for he

was surety for me to the judges that I would remain, and you must be my

surety to him that I shall not remain, but go away and depart; and then

he will suffer less at my death, and not be grieved when he sees my body

being burned or buried. I would not have him sorrow at my hard lot, or

say at the burial, Thus we lay out Socrates, or, Thus we follow him to

the grave or bury him; for false words are not only evil in themselves,

but they infect the soul with evil. Be of good cheer, then, my dear

Crito, and say that you are burying my body only, and do with that

whatever is usual, and what you think best.

When he had spoken these words, he arose and went into a chamber to

bathe; Crito followed him and told us to wait. So we remained behind,

talking and thinking of the subject of discourse, and also of the

greatness of our sorrow; he was like a father of whom we were being

bereaved, and we were about to pass the rest of our lives as orphans.

When he had taken the bath his children were brought to him--(he had two

young sons and an elder one); and the women of his family also came,

and he talked to them and gave them a few directions in the presence of

Crito; then he dismissed them and returned to us.

Now the hour of sunset was near, for a good deal of time had passed

while he was within. When he came out, he sat down with us again after

his bath, but not much was said. Soon the jailer, who was the servant of

the Eleven, entered and stood by him, saying:--To you, Socrates, whom

I know to be the noblest and gentlest and best of all who ever came to

this place, I will not impute the angry feelings of other men, who rage

and swear at me, when, in obedience to the authorities, I bid them drink

the poison--indeed, I am sure that you will not be angry with me; for

others, as you are aware, and not I, are to blame. And so fare you well,

and try to bear lightly what must needs be--you know my errand. Then

bursting into tears he turned away and went out.

Socrates looked at him and said: I return your good wishes, and will do

as you bid. Then turning to us, he said, How charming the man is: since

I have been in prison he has always been coming to see me, and at times

he would talk to me, and was as good to me as could be, and now see how

generously he sorrows on my account. We must do as he says, Crito; and

therefore let the cup be brought, if the poison is prepared: if not, let

the attendant prepare some.

Yet, said Crito, the sun is still upon the hill-tops, and I know that

many a one has taken the draught late, and after the announcement has

been made to him, he has eaten and drunk, and enjoyed the society of his

beloved; do not hurry--there is time enough.

Socrates said: Yes, Crito, and they of whom you speak are right in so

acting, for they think that they will be gainers by the delay; but I am

right in not following their example, for I do not think that I should

gain anything by drinking the poison a little later; I should only be

ridiculous in my own eyes for sparing and saving a life which is already

forfeit. Please then to do as I say, and not to refuse me.

Crito made a sign to the servant, who was standing by; and he went out,

and having been absent for some time, returned with the jailer

carrying the cup of poison. Socrates said: You, my good friend, who

are experienced in these matters, shall give me directions how I am to

proceed. The man answered: You have only to walk about until your legs

are heavy, and then to lie down, and the poison will act. At the same

time he handed the cup to Socrates, who in the easiest and gentlest

manner, without the least fear or change of colour or feature, looking

at the man with all his eyes, Echecrates, as his manner was, took the

cup and said: What do you say about making a libation out of this cup

to any god? May I, or not? The man answered: We only prepare, Socrates,

just so much as we deem enough. I understand, he said: but I may

and must ask the gods to prosper my journey from this to the other

world--even so--and so be it according to my prayer. Then raising the

cup to his lips, quite readily and cheerfully he drank off the poison.

And hitherto most of us had been able to control our sorrow; but now

when we saw him drinking, and saw too that he had finished the draught,

we could no longer forbear, and in spite of myself my own tears were

flowing fast; so that I covered my face and wept, not for him, but at

the thought of my own calamity in having to part from such a friend. Nor

was I the first; for Crito, when he found himself unable to restrain his

tears, had got up, and I followed; and at that moment, Apollodorus, who

had been weeping all the time, broke out in a loud and passionate cry

which made cowards of us all. Socrates alone retained his calmness: What

is this strange outcry? he said. I sent away the women mainly in order

that they might not misbehave in this way, for I have been told that

a man should die in peace. Be quiet, then, and have patience. When we

heard his words we were ashamed, and refrained our tears; and he walked

about until, as he said, his legs began to fail, and then he lay on his

back, according to the directions, and the man who gave him the poison

now and then looked at his feet and legs; and after a while he pressed

his foot hard, and asked him if he could feel; and he said, No; and then

his leg, and so upwards and upwards, and showed us that he was cold and

stiff. And he felt them himself, and said: When the poison reaches the

heart, that will be the end. He was beginning to grow cold about the

groin, when he uncovered his face, for he had covered himself up,

and said--they were his last words--he said: Crito, I owe a cock to

Asclepius; will you remember to pay the debt? The debt shall be

paid, said Crito; is there anything else? There was no answer to

this question; but in a minute or two a movement was heard, and the

attendants uncovered him; his eyes were set, and Crito closed his eyes

and mouth.

Such was the end, Echecrates, of our friend; concerning whom I may

truly say, that of all the men of his time whom I have known, he was the

wisest and justest and best.