And that by greatness only great things become great and
greater greater, and by smallness the less become less?
True.
[Sidenote: We thus escape certain contradictions of relation.]
[Sidenote: _The puzzles of relation._]
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 101
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 102
a philosopher, will certainly do as I say.
[Sidenote: _The effect of the argument on the company._]
What you say is most true, said Simmias and Cebes, both
speaking at once.
_Ech._ 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.
_Phaed._ Certainly, Echecrates; and such was the feeling
of the whole company at the time.
_Ech._ Yes, and equally of ourselves, who were not of the
company, and are now listening to your recital. But what
followed?
_Phaed._ After all this had been admitted, and they had
agreed that ideas exist, and that other things participate in
them and derive their names from them, Socrates, if I
remember rightly, said:—
[Sidenote: There may still remain the contradiction of the same person
being both greater and less, but this is only because he has greatness or
smallness relatively to another person.]
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.
[Sidenote: _Greatness absolute and relative._]
[Sidenote: The idea of greatness can never be small; and the greatness in
us drives out smallness.]
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 103
perishes in the change.
That, replied Cebes, is quite my notion.
[Sidenote: Yet the greater comes from the less, and the less from the
greater.]
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.
[Sidenote: Distinguish:—The things in which the opposites inhere generate
into and out of one another: never the opposites themselves.]
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?
[Sidenote: _A seeming contradiction solved._]
To that we are quite agreed, he replied.
[Sidenote: Snow may be converted into water at the approach of heat, but
not cold into heat.]
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 104
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?
[Sidenote: _Essential opposites and things which admit opposites._]
Of course.
[Sidenote: Not only essential opposites, but some concrete things which
contain opposites, exclude each other.]
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.
[Sidenote: That is to say the opposites which give an impress to other
things.]
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.
[Sidenote: _Recapitulation._]
Then three has no part in the even?
None.
Then the triad or number three is uneven?
Very true.
[Sidenote: Natures may not be opposed, and yet may not admit of
opposites; e. g. three is not opposed to two, and yet does not admit the
even any more than two admits of the odd.]
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 105
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.
[Sidenote: The merely verbal truth may be replaced by a higher one.]
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.
[Sidenote: _Application of the argument to the soul._]
Yes, he said, I quite understand you.
Tell me, then, what is that of which the inherence will
render the body alive?
[Sidenote: We may now say, not life makes alive, but the soul makes
alive; and the soul has a life-giving power which does not admit of death
and is therefore immortal.]
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 that 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.
[Sidenote: Illustrations.]
Supposing that the odd were imperishable, must not three 106
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.
[Sidenote: _The mortal and immortal principles._]
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.
[Sidenote: The immortal is imperishable, and therefore the soul is
imperishable.]
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.
[Sidenote: At death the soul retires into another world.]
Then, Cebes, beyond question, the soul is immortal and
imperishable, and our souls will truly exist in another 107
world!
[Sidenote: _Revelation in a myth._]
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.
[Sidenote: ‘Wherefore, seeing all these things, what manner of persons
ought we to be?’]
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.
[Sidenote: The attendant genius of each brings him after death to the
judgment.]
[Sidenote: _The purgation of souls._]
[Sidenote: The different destinies of pure and impure souls.]
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 Æschylus says in the Telephus, a 108
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.
[Sidenote: Description of the divers regions of earth.]
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.
[Sidenote: _The lower regions of earth._]
[Sidenote: The earth is a round body kept in her place by equipoise and
the equability of the surrounding element.]
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 of any similar force to be a support, but is 109
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.
[Sidenote: _The earth seen from above._]
[Sidenote: Mankind lives only in a small portion of the earth at a
distance from the surface.]
[Sidenote: If, like fishes who now and then put their heads out of the
water, we could rise to the top of the atmosphere, we should behold the
true heaven and the true earth.]
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 110
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.
[Sidenote: The upper earth is in every respect far fairer than the lower.
There is gold and purple, and pure light, and trees and flowers lovelier
far than our own, and all the stones are more precious than our precious
stones.]
[Sidenote: The blessed gods dwell there and hold converse with the
inhabitants.]
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[28]. 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 111
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.
[Sidenote: _The chasm of Tartarus._]
[Sidenote: Description of the interior of the earth and of the
subterranean seas and rivers.]
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 112
describes in the words,—
‘Far off, where is the inmost depth beneath the earth;’
[Sidenote: _The four rivers of the world below._]
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.
[Sidenote: Oceanus, Acheron, Pyriphlegethon, and Styx (or Cocytus).]
[Sidenote: _The geography of the world below._]
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 113
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.
[Sidenote: The judgment of the dead.]
[Sidenote: _The mansions of the blessed._]
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 some violence to a father or a mother, and have
repented for the remainder of their lives, or, who have taken 114
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!
[Sidenote: These descriptions are not true to the letter, but something
like them is true.]
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 115
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 a 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.
[Sidenote: _The last words of Socrates and his friends._]
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?
[Sidenote: The dead body which remains is not the true Socrates.]
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 116
think best.
[Sidenote: _Socrates is ready to depart._]
[Sidenote: He takes leave of his family.]
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.
[Sidenote: The humanity of the jailer.]
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.
[Sidenote: Crito would detain Socrates a little while.]
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.
[Sidenote: _The closing scene._]
[Sidenote: Socrates thinks that there is nothing to be gained by delay.]
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 117
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.
[Sidenote: The poison is brought.]
[Sidenote: He drinks the poison.]
[Sidenote: The company of friends are unable to control themselves.]
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.
[Sidenote: Says Socrates, ‘A man should die in peace.’]
[Sidenote: The debt to Asclepius.]
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 118
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.
[Sidenote: _The end._]
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.