Phædo; Or, The Immortality Of The Soul.

FIRST ECHECRATES, PHÆDO.

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

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

Phæd. I was there myself, Echecrates.

2. Phæd. And did you not hear about the trial—how it went off?

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

Phæd. An accidental circumstance happened in his favor, Echecrates; for the poop of the ship which the Athenians send to Delos chanced to be crowned on the day before the trial.

Ech. But what is this ship?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ech. How should I not?

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

Ech. But who were present, Phædo?

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

Ech. Were any strangers present?

Phæd. Yes; Simmias, the Theban, Cebes and Phædondes; and from Megara, Euclides and Terpsion.

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

Phæd. No, for they were said to be at Ægina.

Ech. Was any one else there?

Phæd. I think that these were nearly all who were present.

Ech. Well, now, what do you say was the subject of conversation?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What, then," said he, "is not Evenus a philosopher?"

"To me he seems to be so," said Simmias.

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

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

"Nothing very clearly, Socrates."

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

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

"It does," replied Cebes.

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

"Certainly," he replied.

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

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

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

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

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

"Certainly," replied Simmias.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Never mind him," he rejoined.

"But now I wish to render an account to you, my judges, of the reason why a man who has really devoted his life to philosophy, when he is about to die, appears to me, on good grounds, to have confidence, and to entertain a firm hope that the greatest good will 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."

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

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

"Certainly," replied Simmias.

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

"No, but this," he replied.

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

"By no means, Socrates," said Simmias.

"But what? about the pleasures of love?"

"Not at all."

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

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

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

"It does."

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

"It appears so."

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

"You speak very truly."

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

"Certainly," he replied.

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

"You say truly."

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

"Yes."

"And surely the soul then reasons best when none of these things disturb it—neither hearing, nor sight, nor pain, nor pleasure of any kind; but it retires as much as possible within itself, taking leave of the body; and, so 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."

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

"We say it is something, by Jupiter!"

"And that beauty and goodness are something?"

"How not?"

"Now, then, have you ever seen any thing of this kind with your eyes?"

"By no means," he replied.

"Did you ever lay hold of them by any other bodily sense? But I speak generally, as of magnitude, health, strength and, in a word, of the essence of every thing; that is to say, what each is. Is, then, the exact truth of these perceived by means of the body, or is it thus, whoever 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."

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

29. "You speak with wonderful truth, Socrates," replied Simmias.

"Wherefore," he said, "it necessarily follows from all this that some such opinion as this should be entertained by genuine philosophers, so that they should speak among themselves as follows: 'A by-path, as it were, seems to lead us on in our researches undertaken by reason,' because so 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. 30. For nothing else than the body and its desires occasion 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 any thing purely, we must be separated from the body, and contemplate the things themselves by the mere soul; and then, as it seems, we shall obtain that which we desire, and which we profess ourselves to be lovers of—wisdom—when we are dead, as reason shows, but not while we are alive. 31. For if it is not possible to know any thing purely in conjunction with the body, one of these two things must follow, either that we can never acquire knowledge, or only after we are dead; for then the soul will subsist apart by itself, separate from the body, but not before. And while we live we shall thus, as it seems, approach nearest to knowledge, if we hold no intercourse or communion at all with the body, except what absolute necessity requires, nor suffer ourselves to be polluted by its nature, but purify ourselves from it, until God himself shall release us. And thus being pure, and freed from the folly of body, we shall in all likelihood be with others like ourselves, and shall of ourselves know the whole real essence, and that probably is truth; for it is not allowable for the impure to attain to the pure. Such things, I think, Simmias, all true lovers of wisdom must both think and say to one another. Does it not seem so to you?"

"Most assuredly, Socrates."

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

"Certainly," said Simmias.

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

"Certainly," he replied.

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

"Assuredly," he answered.

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

"It appears so."

"Then, as I said at first, would it not be ridiculous for a man who has endeavored throughout his life to live as near as possible to death, then, when death arrives, to grieve? would not this be ridiculous?"

"How should it not?"

"In reality, then, Simmias," he continued, "those who pursue philosophy rightly, study to die; and to them, of all men, death is least formidable. Judge from this. Since they altogether hate the body and desire to keep the soul by itself, would it not be irrational if, when this comes to pass, they should be afraid and grieve, and not be glad to go to that place where, on their arrival, they may hope to obtain that which they longed for throughout life? But they longed for wisdom, and to be freed from association with that which they hated. 34. Have many of their own accord wished to descend into Hades, on account of human objects of affection, their wives and sons, induced by this very hope of their seeing and being with those whom they have loved? and shall one who really loves wisdom, and firmly cherishes this very hope, that he shall nowhere else attain it in a manner worthy of the name, except in Hades, be grieved at dying, and not gladly go there? We must think that he would gladly go, my friend, if he be in truth a philosopher; for he will be firmly persuaded of this, that he will nowhere else than there attain wisdom in its purity; and if this be so, would it not be very irrational, as I just now said, if such a man were to be afraid of death?"

"Very much so, by Jupiter!" he replied.

35. "Would not this, then," he resumed, "be a sufficient proof to you with respect to a man whom you should see grieved when about to die, that he was not a lover of wisdom, but a lover of his body? And this same person is probably a lover of riches and a lover of honor, one or both of these."

"It certainly is as you say," he replied.

"Does not, then," he said, "that which is called fortitude, Simmias, eminently belong to philosophers?"

"By all means," he answered.

"And temperance, also, which even the multitude call temperance, and which consists in not being carried away by the passions, but in holding them in contempt, and keeping them in subjection, does not this belong to those only who most despise the body, and live in the study of philosophy?"

"Necessarily so," he replied.

36. "For," he continued, "if you will consider the fortitude and temperance of others, they will appear to you to be absurd."

"How so, Socrates?"

"Do you know," he said, "that all others consider death among the great evils?"

"They do indeed," he answered.

"Then, do the brave among them endure death when they do endure it, through dread of greater evils?"

"It is so."

"All men, therefore, except philosophers, are brave through being afraid and fear; though it is absurd that any one should be brave through fear and cowardice."

"Certainly."

"But what, are not those among them who keep their passions in subjection affected in the same way? and are they not temperate through a kind of intemperance? And although we may say, perhaps, that this is impossible, nevertheless the manner in which they are affected with respect to this silly temperance resembles this, for, fearing to be deprived of other pleasures, and desiring them, they abstain from some, being mastered by others. And though they call intemperance the being governed by pleasures, yet it happens to them that, by being mastered by some pleasures, they master others, and this is similar to what was just now said, that in a certain manner they become temperate through intemperance."

"So it seems,"

37. "My dear Simmias, consider that this is not a right exchange for virtue, to barter pleasures for pleasures, pains for pains, fear for fear, and the greater for the lesser, like pieces of money, but that that alone is the right coin, for which we ought to barter all these things, wisdom, and for this and with this everything is in reality bought and sold Fortitude, temperance and justice, and, in a word true virtue, subsist with wisdom, whether pleasures and fears, and everything else of the kind, are present or absent, but when separated from wisdom and changed one for another, consider whether such virtue is not a mere outline and in reality servile, possessing neither soundness nor truth. But the really true virtue is a purification from all such things, and temperance, justice, fortitude and wisdom itself, are a kind of initiatory purification 38. And those who instituted the mysteries for us appear to have been by no means contemptible, but in reality to have intimated long since that whoever shall arrive in Hades unexpiated and uninitiated shall lie in mud, but he that arrives there purified and initiated shall dwell with the gods 'For there are,' say those who preside at the mysteries, 'many wand-bearers, but few inspired'. These last, in my opinion, are no other than those who have pursued philosophy rightly that I might be of their number. I have to the utmost of my ability left no means untried, but have endeavored to the utmost of my power. But whether I have endeavored rightly, and have in any respect succeeded, on arriving there I shall know clearly, if it please God—very shortly, as it appears to me."

39. "Such, then, Simmias and Cebes," he added, "is the defense I make, for that I, on good grounds, do not repine or grieve at leaving you and my masters here, being persuaded that there, no less than here, I shall meet with good masters and friends. But to the multitude this is incredible If, however, I have succeeded better with you in my defense than I did with the Athenian judges, it is well."

When Socrates had thus spoken, Cebes, taking up the discussion, said "Socrates, all the rest appears to me to be said rightly, but what you have said respecting the soul will occasion much incredulity in many from the apprehension that when it is separated from the body it no longer exists anywhere, but is destroyed and perishes on the very day in which a man dies, and that immediately it is separated and goes out from the body it is dispersed, and vanishes like breath or smoke, and is no longer anywhere, since if it remained anywhere united in itself, and freed from those evils which you have just now enumerated, there would be an abundant and good hope, Socrates, that what you say is true 40. But this probably needs no little persuasion and proof, that the soul of a man who dies exists, and possesses activity and intelligence."

"You say truly, Cebes," said Socrates, "but what shall we do? Are you willing that we should converse on these points, whether such is probably the case or not?"

"Indeed," replied Cebes, "I should gladly hear your opinion on these matters."

"I do not think," said Socrates, "that any one who should now hear us, even though he were a comic poet, would say that I am talking idly, or discoursing on subjects that do not concern me. If you please, then, we will examine into it. Let us consider it in this point of view, whether the souls of men who are dead exist in Hades, or not. This is an ancient saying, which we now call to mind, that souls departing hence exist there, and return hither again, and are produced from the dead. 41. And if this is so, that the living are produced again from the dead, can there be any other consequence than that our souls are there? for surely they could not be produced again if they did not exist; and this would be sufficient proof that these things are so, if it should in reality be evident that the living are produced from no other source than the dead. But if this is not the case, there will be need of other arguments."

"Certainly," said Cebes.

"You must not, then," he continued, "consider this only with respect to men, if you wish to ascertain it with greater certainty, but also with respect to all animals and plants, and, in a word, with respect to every thing that is subject to generation. Let us see whether they are not all so produced, no otherwise than contraries from contraries, wherever they have any such quality; as, for instance, the honorable is contrary to the base, and the just to the unjust, and so with ten thousand other things. 42. Let us consider this, then, whether it is necessary that all things which have a contrary should be produced from nothing else than their contrary. As, for instance, when any thing becomes greater, is it not necessary that, from being previously smaller, it afterward became greater?"

"Yes."

"And if it becomes smaller, will it not, from being previously greater, afterward become smaller?"

"It is so," he replied.

"And from stronger, weaker? and from slower, swifter?"

"Certainly."

"What, then? If any thing becomes worse, must it not become so from better? and if more just, from more unjust?"

"How should it not?"

"We have then," he said, "sufficiently determined this, that all things are thus produced, contraries from contraries?"

"Certainly."

"What next? Is there also something of this kind in them; for instance, between all two contraries a mutual twofold production, from one to the other, and from that other back again? for between a greater thing and a smaller there are increase and decrease, and do we not accordingly call the one to increase, the other to decrease?"

"Yes," he replied.

43. "And must not to be separated and commingled, to grow cold and to grow warm, and every thing in the same manner, even though sometimes we have not names to designate them, yet in fact be everywhere thus circumstanced, of necessity, as to be produced from each other, and be subject to a reciprocal generation?"

"Certainly," he replied.

"What, then?" said Socrates, "has life any contrary, as waking has its contrary, sleeping?"

"Certainly," he answered.

"What?"

"Death," he replied.

"Are not these, then, produced from each other, since they are contraries; and are not the modes by which they are produced two-fold intervening between these two?"

"How should it be otherwise?"

"I then," continued Socrates, "will describe to you one pair of the contraries which I have just now mentioned, both what it is and its mode of production: and do you describe to me the other. I say that one is to sleep, the other to awake; and from sleeping awaking is produced, and from awaking sleeping, and that the modes of their production are, the one to fall asleep, the other to be roused. 44. Have I sufficiently explained this to you or not?"

"Certainly."

"Do you, then," he said, "describe to me in the same manner with respect to life and death? Do you not say that life is contrary to death?"

"I do."

"And that they are produced from each other?"

"Yes."

"What, then, is produced from life?"

"Death," he replied.

"What, then," said he "is produced from death?"

"I must needs confess," he replied, "that life is."

"From the dead, then, O Cebes! living things and living men are produced."

"It appears so," he said.

"Our souls, therefore," said Socrates, "exist in Hades."

"So it seems."

"With respect, then, to their mode of production, is not one of them very clear? for to die surely is clear, is it not?"

"Certainly," he replied.

"What, then, shall we do?" he continued; "shall we not find a corresponding contrary mode of production, or will nature be defective in this? Or must we discover a contrary mode of production to dying?"

"By all means," he said.

"What is this?"

"To revive."

"Therefore," he proceeded, "if there is such a thing as to revive, will not this reviving be a mode of production from the dead to the living?"

"Certainly."

"Thus, then, we have agreed that the living are produced from the dead, no less than the dead from the living; but, this being the case, there appears to me sufficient proof that the souls of the dead must necessarily exist somewhere, from whence they are again produced."

45. "It appears to me, Socrates," he said "that this must necessarily follow from what has been admitted."

"See now, O Cebes!" he said, "that we have not agreed on these things improperly, as it appears to me; for if one class of things were not constantly given back in the place of another, revolving, as it were, in a circle, but generation were direct from one thing alone into its opposite, and did not turn round again to the other, or retrace its course, do you know that all things would at length have the same form, be in the same state, and cease to be produced?"

"How say you?" he asked.

"It is by no means difficult," he replied, "to understand what I mean; if, for instance, there should be such a thing as falling asleep, but no reciprocal waking again produced from a state of sleep, you know that at length all things would show the fable of Endymion to be a jest, and it would be thought nothing at all of, because everything else would be in the same state as he—namely, asleep. And if all things were mingled together, but never separated, that doctrine of Anaxagoras would soon be verified, 'all things would be together.' 46. Likewise, my dear Cebes, if all things that partake of life should die, and after they are dead should remain in this state of death, and not revive again, would it not necessarily follow that at length all things should be dead, and nothing alive? For if living beings are produced from other things, and living beings die, what could prevent their being all absorbed in death?"

"Nothing whatever, I think, Socrates," replied Cebes; "but you appear to me to speak the exact truth."

"For, Cebes," he continued, "as it seems to me, such undoubtedly is the case, and we have not admitted these things under a delusion, for it is in reality true that there is a reviving again, that the living are produced from the dead, that the souls of the dead exist, and that the condition of the good is better, and of the evil worse."

47. "And, indeed," said Cebes, interrupting him, "according to that doctrine, Socrates, which you are frequently in the habit of advancing, if it is true, that our learning is nothing else than reminiscence, according to this it is surely necessary that we must at some former time have learned what we now remember. But this is impossible, unless our soul existed somewhere before it came into this human form; so that from hence, also, the soul appears to be something immortal."

"But, Cebes," said Simmias, interrupting him, "what proofs are there of these things? Remind me of them, for I do not very well remember them at present."

48. "It is proved," said Cebes, "by one argument, and that a most beautiful one, that men, when questioned (if one questions them properly) of themselves, describe all things as they are, however, if they had not innate knowledge and right reason, they would never be able to do this. Moreover, if one leads them to diagrams, or any thing else of the kind, it is then most clearly apparent that this is the case."

"But if you are not persuaded in this way, Simmias," said Socrates, "see if you will agree with us in considering the matter thus. For do you doubt how that which is called learning is reminiscence?"

"I do not doubt," said Simmias; "but I require this very thing of which we are speaking, to be reminded; and, indeed, from what Cebes has begun to say, I almost now remember, and am persuaded; nevertheless, however, I should like to hear now how you would attempt to prove it."

"I do it thus" he replied: "we admit, surely, that if any one be reminded of any thing, he must needs have known that thing at some time or other before."

"Certainly," he said.

49. "Do we, then, admit this also, that when knowledge comes in a certain manner it is reminiscence? But the manner I mean is this: if any one, upon seeing or hearing, or perceiving through the medium of any other sense, some particular thing, should not only know that, but also form an idea of something else, of which the knowledge is not the same, but different, should we not justly say that he remembered that of which he received the idea?"

"How mean you?"

"For instance, the knowledge of a man is different from that of a lyre."

"How not?"

"Do you not know, then, that lovers when they see a lyre, or a garment, or any thing else which their favorite is accustomed to use, are thus affected; they both recognize the lyre, and receive in their minds the form of the person to whom the lyre belonged? This is reminiscence: just as any one, seeing Simmias, is often reminded of Cebes, and so in an infinite number of similar instances."

"An infinite number, indeed, by Jupiter!" said Simmias.

"Is not, then," he said, "something of this sort a kind of reminiscence, especially when one is thus affected with respect to things which, from lapse of time, and not thinking of them, one has now forgotten?"

"Certainly," he replied.

50. "But what?" he continued. "Does it happen that when one sees a painted horse or a painted lyre one is reminded of a man, and that when one sees a picture of Simmias one is reminded of Cebes?"

"Certainly."

"And does it not also happen that on seeing a picture of Simmias one is reminded of Simmias himself?"

"It does, indeed," he replied.

"Does it not happen, then, according to all this, that reminiscence arises partly from things like, and partly from things unlike?"

"It does."

"But when one is reminded by things like, is it not necessary that one should be thus further affected, so as to perceive whether, as regards likeness, this falls short or not of the thing of which one has been reminded?"

"It is necessary," he replied.

"Consider, then," said Socrates, "if the case is thus. Do we allow that there is such a thing as equality? I do not mean of one log with another, nor one stone with another, nor any thing else of this kind, but something altogether different from all these—abstract equality; do we allow that there is any such thing, or not?"

"By Jupiter! we most assuredly do allow it," replied Simmias.

51. "And do we know what it is itself?"

"Certainly," he replied.

"Whence have we derived the knowledge of it? Is it not from the things we have just now mentioned, and that from seeing logs, or stones, or other things of the kind, equal, we have from these formed an idea of that which is different from these—for does it not appear to you to be different? Consider the matter thus. Do not stones that are equal, and logs sometimes that are the same, appear at one time equal, and at another not?"

"Certainly."

"But what? Does abstract equality ever appear to you unequal? or equality inequality?"

"Never, Socrates, at any time."

"These equal things, then," he said, "and abstract equality, are not the same?"

"By no means, Socrates, as it appears."

"However, from these equal things," he said, "which are different from that abstract equality, have you not formed your idea and derived your knowledge of it?"

"You speak most truly," he replied.

"Is it not, therefore, from its being like or unlike them?"

"Certainly."

"But it makes no difference," he said. "When, therefore, on seeing one thing, you form, from the sight of it, the notion of another, whether like or unlike, this," he said, "must necessarily be reminiscence."

"Certainly."

52. "What, then, as to this?" he continued. "Are we affected in any such way with regard to logs and the equal things we have just now spoken of? And do they appear to us to be equal in the same manner as abstract equality itself is, or do they fall short in some degree, or not at all, of being such as equality itself is?"

"They fall far short," he replied.

"Do we admit, then, that when one, on beholding some particular thing, perceives that it aims, as that which I now see, at being like something else that exists, but falls short of it, and can not become such as that is, but is inferior to it—do we admit that he who perceives this must necessarily have had a previous knowledge of that which he says it resembles, though imperfectly?"

"It is necessary."

"What, then? Are we affected in some such way, or not, with respect to things equal and abstract equality itself?"

"Assuredly."

"It is necessary, therefore, that we must have known abstract equality before the time when, on first seeing equal things, we perceived that they all aimed at resembling equality, but failed in doing so."

"Such is the case."

53. "Moreover, we admit this too, that we perceived this, and could not possibly perceive it by any other means than the sight, or touch, or some other of the senses, for I say the same of them all."

"For they are the same, Socrates, so far as, our argument is concerned."

"However, we must perceive, by means of the senses, that all things which come under the senses aim at that abstract equality, and yet fall short of it; or how shall we say it is?"

"Even so."

"Before, then, we began to see, and hear, and use our other senses, we must have had a knowledge of equality itself—what it is, if we were to refer to it those equal things that come under the senses, and observe that all such things aim at resembling that, but fall far short of it."

"This necessarily follows, Socrates, from what has been already said."

"But did we not, as soon as we were born, see and hear, and possess our other senses?"

"Certainly."

"But, we have said, before we possessed these, we must have had a knowledge of abstract equality?"

"Yes."

"We must have had it, then, as it seems, before we were born."

"It seems so."

54. "If, therefore, having this before we were born, we were born possessing it, we knew, both before we were born and as soon as we were born, not only the equal and the greater and smaller, but all things of the kind; for our present discussion is not more respecting equality than the beautiful itself, the good, the just, and the holy, and, in one word, respecting every thing which we mark with the seal of existence, both in the questions we ask and the answers we give. So that we must necessarily have had a knowledge of all these before we were born."

"Such is the case."

"And if, having once had it, we did not constantly forget it, we should always be born with this knowledge, and should always retain it through life. For to know is this, when one has got a knowledge of any thing, to retain and not lose it; for do we not call this oblivion, Simmias, the loss of knowledge?"

"Assuredly, Socrates," he replied.

55. "But if, having had it before we were born, we lose it at our birth, and afterward, through exercising the senses about these things, we recover the knowledge which we once before possessed, would not that which we call learning be a recovery of our own knowledge? And in saying that this is to remember, should we not say rightly?"

"Certainly."

"For this appeared to be possible, for one having perceived any thing, either by seeing or hearing, or employing any other sense, to form an idea of something different from this, which he had forgotten, and with which this was connected by being unlike or like. So that, as I said, one of these two things must follow: either we are all born with this knowledge, and we retain it through life, or those whom we say learn afterward do nothing else than remember, and this learning will be reminiscence."

"Such, certainly, is the case, Socrates."

56. "Which, then, do you choose, Simmias: that we are born with knowledge, or that we afterward remember what we had formerly known?"

"At present, Socrates, I am unable to choose."

"But what? Are you able to choose in this case, and what do you think about it? Can a man who possesses knowledge give a reason for the things that he knows, or not?"

"He needs must be able to do so, Socrates," he replied.

"And do all men appear to you to be able to give a reason for the things of which we have just now been speaking?"

"I wish they could," said Simmias; "but I am much more afraid that at this time to-morrow there will no longer be any one able to do this properly."

"Do not all men, then, Simmias," he said, "seem to you to know these things?"

"By no means."

"Do they remember, then, what they once learned?"

"Necessarily so."

"When did our souls receive this knowledge? Not surely, since we were born into the world."

"Assuredly not."

"Before, then?"

"Yes."

"Our souls, therefore, Simmias, existed before they were in a human form, separate from bodies, and possessed intelligence."

57. "Unless, Socrates, we receive this knowledge at our birth, for this period yet remains."

"Be it so, my friend. But at what other time do we lose it? for we are not born with it, as we have just now admitted. Do we lose it, then, at the very time in which we receive it? Or can you mention any other time?"

"By no means, Socrates; I was not aware that I was saying nothing to the purpose."

"Does the case then stand thus with us, Simmias?" he proceeded: "If those things which we are continually talking about really exist, the beautiful, the good, and every such essence, and to this we refer all things that come under the senses, as finding it to have a prior existence, and to be our own, and if we compare these things to it, it necessarily follows, that as these exist, so likewise our soul exists even before we are born; but if these do not exist, this discussion will have been undertaken in vain, is it not so? And is there not an equal necessity both that these things should exist, and our souls also, before we are born; and if not the former, neither the latter?"

58. "Most assuredly, Socrates," said Simmias, "there appears to me to be the same necessity; and the argument admirably tends to prove that our souls exist before we are born, just as that essence does which you have now mentioned. For I hold nothing so clear to me as this, that all such things most certainly exist, as the beautiful, the good, and all the rest that you just now spoke of; and, so far as I am concerned, the case is sufficiently demonstrated."

"But how does it appear to Cebes?" said Socrates; "for it is necessary to persuade Cebes too."

"He is sufficiently persuaded, I think," said Simmias, "although he is the most pertinacious of men in distrusting arguments. Yet I think he is sufficiently persuaded of this, that our soul existed before we were born. But whether, when we are dead, it will still exist does not appear to me to have been demonstrated, Socrates," he continued; "but that popular doubt, which Cebes just now mentioned, still stands in our way, whether, when a man dies, the soul is not dispersed, and this is the end of its existence. 59. For what hinders it being born, and formed from some other source, and existing before it came into a human body, and yet, when it has come, and is separated from this body, its then also dying itself, and being destroyed?"

"You say well, Simmias," said Cebes; "for it appears that only one half of what is necessary has been demonstrated—namely, that our soul existed before we were born; but it is necessary to demonstrate further, that when we are dead it will exist no less than before we were born, if the demonstration is to be made complete."

"This has been even now demonstrated, Simmias and Cebes," said Socrates, "if you will only connect this last argument with that which we before assented to, that every thing living is produced from that which is dead. For if the soul exists before, and it is necessary for it when it enters into life, and is born, to be produced from nothing else than death, and from being dead, how is it not necessary for it also to exist after death, since it must needs be produced again? 60. What you require, then, has been already demonstrated. However, both you and Simmias appear to me as if you wished to sift this argument more thoroughly, and to be afraid, like children, lest, on the soul's departure from the body, the winds should blow it away and disperse it, especially if one should happen to die, not in a calm, but in a violent storm."

"But you must charm him every day," said Socrates, "until you have quieted his fears."

"But whence, Socrates," he said, "can we procure a skillful charmer for such a case, now that you are about to leave us?"

61. "Greece is wide, Cebes," he replied, "and in it surely there are skillful men. There are also many barbarous nations, all of which you should search through, seeking such a charmer, sparing neither money nor toil, as there is nothing on which you can more seasonably spend your money. You should also seek for him among yourselves; for perhaps you could not easily find any more competent than yourselves to do this."

"This shall be done," said Cebes; "but, if it is agreeable to you, let us return to the point from whence we digressed."

"It will be agreeable to me, for how should it not?"

"You say well," rejoined Cebes.

"We ought, then," said Socrates, "to ask ourselves some such question as this: to what kind of thing it appertains to be thus affected—namely, to be dispersed—and for what we ought to fear, lest it should be so affected, and for what not. And after this we should consider which of the two the soul is, and in the result should either be confident or fearful for our soul."

"You speak truly," said he.

62. "Does it not, then, appertain to that which is formed by composition, and is naturally compounded, to be thus affected, to be dissolved in the same manner as that in which it was compounded; and if there is any thing not compounded, does it not appertain to this alone, if to any thing, not to be thus affected?"

"It appears to me to be so," said Cebes.

"Is it not most probable, then, that things which are always the same, and in the same state, are uncompounded, but that things which are constantly changing, and are never in the same state, are compounded?"

"To me it appears so."

"Let us return, then," he said, "to the subjects on which we before discoursed. Whether is essence itself, of which we gave this account that it exists, both in our questions and answers, always the same, or does it sometimes change? Does equality itself, the beautiful itself, and each several thing which is, ever undergo any change, however small? Or does each of them which exists, being an unmixed essence by itself, continue always the same, and in the same state, and never undergo any variation at all under any circumstances?"

"They must of necessity continue the same and in the same state, Socrates," said Cebes.

63. "But what shall we say of the many beautiful things, such as men, horses, garments, or other things of the kind, whether equal or beautiful, or of all things synonymous with them? Do they continue the same, or, quite contrary to the former, are they never at any time, so to say, the same, either with respect to themselves or one another?"

"These, on the other hand," replied Cebes, "never continue the same."

"These, then, you can touch, or see, or perceive by the other senses; but those that continue the same, you can not apprehend in any other way than by the exercise of thought; for such things are invisible, and are not seen?"

"You say what is strictly true," replied Cebes.

64. "We may assume, then, if you please," he continued, "that there are two species of things; the one visible, the other invisible?"

"We may," he said.

"And the invisible always continuing the same, but the visible never the same?"

"This, too," he said, "we may assume."

"Come, then," he asked, "is there anything else belonging to us than, on the one hand, body, and, on the other, soul?"

"Nothing else," he replied.

"To which species, then, shall we say the body is more like, and more nearly allied?"

"It is clear to everyone," he said, "that it is to the visible."

"But what of the soul? Is it visible or invisible?"

"It is not visible to men, Socrates," he replied.

"But we speak of things which are visible, or not so, to the nature of men; or to some other nature, think you?"

"To that of men."

"What, then, shall we say of the soul—that it is visible, or not visible?"

"Not visible."

"Is it, then, invisible?"

"Yes."

"The soul, then, is more like the invisible than the body; and the body, the visible?"

"It must needs be so, Socrates."

65. "And did we not, some time since, say this too, that the soul, when it employs the body to examine any thing, either by means of the sight or hearing, or any other sense (for to examine any thing by means of the body is to do so by the senses), is then drawn by the body to things that never continue the same, and wanders and is confused, and reels as if intoxicated, through coming into contact with things of this kind?"

"Certainly."

"But when it examines anything by itself, does it approach that which is pure, eternal, immortal, and unchangeable, and, as being allied to it, continue constantly with it, so long as it subsists by itself, and has the power, and does it cease from its wandering, and constantly continue the same with respect to those things, through coming into contact with things of this kind? And is this affection of the soul called wisdom?"

"You speak," he said, "in every respect, well and truly, Socrates."

"To which species of the two, then, both from what was before and now said, does the soul appear to you to be more like and more nearly allied?"

66. "Every one, I think, would allow, Socrates," he replied, "even the dullest person, from this method of reasoning, that the soul is in every respect more like that which continues constantly the same than that which does not so."

"But what as to the body?"

"It is more like the other."

"Consider it also thus, that, when soul and body are together, nature enjoins the latter to be subservient and obey, the former to rule and exercise dominion. And, in this way, which of the two appears to you to be like the divine, and which the mortal? Does it not appear to you to be natural that the divine should rule and command, but the mortal obey and be subservient?"

"To me it does so."

"Which, then, does the soul resemble?"

"It is clear, Socrates, that the soul resembles the divine; but the body, the mortal."

"Consider, then, Cebes," said he, "whether, from all that has been said, these conclusions follow, that the soul is most like that which is divine, immortal, intelligent, uniform, indissoluble, and which always continues in the same state; but that the body, on the other hand, is most like that which is human, mortal, unintelligent, multiform, dissoluble, and which never continues in the same state. Can we say any thing against this, my dear Cebes, to show that it is not so?"

"We can not."

67. "What, then? Since these things are so, does it not appertain to the body to be quickly dissolved, but to the soul, on the contrary, to be altogether indissoluble or nearly so?"

"How not?"

"Yes."

"Most assuredly."

"Does not the soul, then, when in this state, depart to that which resembles itself, the invisible, the divine, immortal and wise? And on its arrival there, is it not its lot to be happy, free from error, ignorance, fears, wild passions, and all the other evils to which human nature is subject; and, as is said of the initiated, does it not in truth pass the rest of its time with the gods? Must we affirm that it is so, Cebes, or otherwise?"

"So, by Jupiter!" said Cebes.

69. "But, I think, if it departs from the body polluted and impure, as having constantly held communion with the body, and having served and loved it, and been bewitched by it, through desires and pleasures, so as to think that there is nothing real except what is corporeal, which one can touch and see, and drink and eat, and employ for sensual purposes; but what is dark and invisible to the eyes, which is intellectual and apprehended by philosophy, having been accustomed to hate, fear, and shun this, do you think that a soul thus affected can depart from the body by itself, and uncontaminated?"

"By no means whatever," he replied.

"But I think it will be impressed with that which is corporeal, which the intercourse and communion of the body, through constant association and great attention, have made natural to it."

"Certainly."

"We must think, my dear Cebes, that this is ponderous and heavy, earthly and visible, by possessing which such a soul is weighed down, and drawn again into the visible world through dread of the invisible and of Hades, wandering, as it is said, among monuments and tombs, about which, indeed, certain shadowy phantoms of souls have been seen, being such images as those souls produced which have not departed pure from the body, but which partake of the visible; on which account, also, they are visible."

"That is probable, Socrates."

70. "Probable indeed, Cebes; and not that these are the souls of the good, but of the wicked, which are compelled to wander about such places, paying the penalty of their former conduct, which was evil; and they wander about so long until, through the desire of the corporeal nature that accompanies them, they are again united to a body; and they are united, as is probable, to animals having the same habits as those they have given themselves up to during life."

"But what do you say these are, Socrates?"

"For instance, those who have given themselves up to gluttony, wantonness and drinking, and have put no restraint on themselves, will probably be clothed in the form of asses and brutes of that kind. Do you not think so?"

"You say what is very probable."

"And that such as have set great value on injustice, tyranny and rapine, will be clothed in the species of wolves, hawks and kites! Where else can we say such souls go?"

"Without doubt," said Cebes, "into such as these."

"Is it not, then, evident," he continued, "as to the rest, whither each will go, according to the resemblances of their several pursuits?"

71. "It is evident," he replied. "How not?"

"Of these, then," he said, "are not they the most happy, and do they not go to the best place, who have practiced that social and civilized virtue which they call temperance and justice, and which is produced from habit and exercise, without philosophy and reflection?"

"In what respect are these the most happy?"

"Because it is probable that these should again migrate into a corresponding civilized and peaceable kind of animals, such as bees perhaps, or wasps, or ants, or even into the same human species again, and from these become moderate men."

"It is probable."

"But it is not lawful for any one who has not studied philosophy, and departed this life perfectly pure, to pass into the rank of gods, but only for the true lover of wisdom. And on this account, my friends Simmias and Cebes, those who philosophize rightly, abstain from all bodily desires, and persevere in doing so, and do not give themselves up to them, not fearing the loss of property and poverty, as the generality of men and the lovers of wealth; nor, again, dreading disgrace and ignominy, like those who are lovers of power and honor, do they then abstain from them."

"For it would not become them to do so, Socrates," says Cebes.

72. "It would not, by Jupiter!" he rejoined. "Wherefore, Cebes, they who care at all for their soul, and do not spend their lives in the culture of their bodies, despising all these, proceed not in the same way with them, as being ignorant whither they are going, but, being convinced that they ought not to act contrary to philosophy, but in accordance with the freedom and purification she affords, they give themselves up to her direction, following her wherever she leads."

"How, Socrates?"

"But what is this evil, Socrates?" said Cebes.

74. "That the soul of every man is compelled to be either vehemently delighted or grieved about some particular thing, and, at the same time, to consider that the thing about which it is thus strongly affected is most real and most true, though it is not so. But these are chiefly visible objects, are they not?"

"Certainly."

"In this state of affection, then, is not the soul especially shackled by the body?"

"How so?"

"Because each pleasure and pain, having a nail, as it were, nails the soul to the body, and fastens it to it, and causes it to become corporeal, deeming those things to be true whatever the body asserts to be so. For, in consequence of its forming the same opinions with the body, and delighting in the same things, it is compelled, I think, to possess similar manners, and to be similarly nourished; so that it can never pass into Hades in a pure state, but must ever depart polluted by the body, and so quickly falls again into another body, and grows up as if it were sown, and consequently is deprived of all association with that which is divine, and pure, and uniform."

"You speak most truly, Socrates," said Cebes.

75. "For these reasons, therefore, Cebes, those who are truly lovers of wisdom are moderate and resolute, and not for the reasons that most people say. Do you think as they do?"

"Assuredly not."

"No, truly. But the soul of a philosopher would reason thus, and would not think that philosophy ought to set it free, and that when it is freed it should give itself up again to pleasures and pains, to bind it down again, and make her work void, weaving a kind of Penelope's web the reverse way. On the contrary, effecting a calm of the passions, and following the guidance of reason, and being always intent on this, contemplating that which is true and divine, and not subject to opinion; and being nourished by it, it thinks that it ought to live in this manner as long as it does live, and that when it dies it shall go to a kindred essence, and one like itself, and shall be free from human evils. From such a regimen as this the soul has no occasion to fear, Simmias and Cebes, while it strictly attends to these things, lest, being torn to pieces at its departure from the body, it should be blown about and dissipated by the winds, and no longer have an existence anywhere."

76. When Socrates had thus spoken, a long silence ensued; and Socrates himself was pondering upon what had been said, as he appeared, and so did most of us; but Cebes and Simmias were conversing a little while with each other. At length Socrates, perceiving them, said, "What think you of what has been said? Does it appear to you to have been proved sufficiently? for many doubts and objections still remain if any one will examine them thoroughly. If, then, you are considering some other subject, I have nothing to say; but if you are doubting about this, do not hesitate both yourselves to speak and express your opinion, if it appears to you in any respect that it might have been argued better, and to call me in again to your assistance, if you think you can be at all benefited by my help."

Upon this Simmias said, "Indeed, Socrates, I will tell you the truth: for some time each of us, being in doubt, has been urging and exhorting the other to question you, from a desire to hear our doubts solved; but we were afraid of giving you trouble, lest it should be disagreeable to you in your present circumstances."

77. But he, upon hearing this, gently smiled, and said, "Bless me, Simmias; with difficulty, indeed, could I persuade other men that I do not consider my present condition a calamity, since I am not able to persuade even you; but you are afraid lest I should be more morose now than during the former part of my life. And, as it seems, I appear to you to be inferior to swans with respect to divination, who, when they perceive that they must needs die, though they have been used to sing before, sing then more than ever, rejoicing that they are about to depart to that deity whose servants they are. But men, through their own fear of death, belie the swans too, and say that they, lamenting their death, sing their last song through grief; and they do not consider that no bird sings when it is hungry or cold, or is afflicted with any other pain, not even the nightingale, or swallow, or the hoopoes, which, they say, sing lamenting through grief. But neither do these birds appear to me to sing through sorrow, nor yet do swans; but, in my opinion, belonging to Apollo, they are prophetic, and, foreseeing the blessings of Hades, they sing and rejoice on that day more excellently than at any preceding time. 78. But I, too, consider myself to be a fellow-servant of the swans, and sacred to the same god; and that I have received the power of divination from our common master no less than they, and that I do not depart from this life with less spirits than they. On this account, therefore, it is right that you should both speak and ask whatever you please, so long as the Athenian Eleven permit."

"You say well," said Simmias, "and both I will tell you what are my doubts, and he, in turn, how far he does not assent to what has been said. For it appears to me, Socrates, probably as it does to you with respect to these matters, that to know them clearly in the present life is either impossible or very difficult: on the other hand, however, not to test what has been said of them in every possible way, so as not to desist until, on examining them in every point of view, one has exhausted every effort, is the part of a very weak man. For we ought, with respect to these things, either to learn from others how they stand or to discover them for one's self; or, if both these are impossible, then, taking the best of human reasonings and that which is the most difficult to be confuted, and embarking on this, as one who risks himself on a raft, so to sail through life, unless one could be carried more safely, and with less risk, on a surer conveyance, or some divine reason. 79. I, therefore, shall not now be ashamed to question you, since you bid me do so, nor shall I blame myself hereafter for not having now told you what I think; for to me, Socrates, when I consider the matter, both with myself and with Cebes, what has been said does not appear to have been sufficiently proved."

Then said Socrates, "Perhaps, my friend, you have the truth on your side; but tell me in what respect it was not sufficiently proved."

"In this," he answered, "because any one might use the same argument with respect to harmony, and a lyre, and its chords, that harmony is something invisible and incorporeal, very beautiful and divine, in a well-modulated lyre; but the lyre and its chords are bodies, and of corporeal form, compounded and earthly, and akin to that which is mortal. When any one, then, has either broken the lyre, or cut or burst the chords, he might maintain from the same reasoning as yours that it is necessary the harmony should still exist and not be destroyed; for there could be no possibility that the lyre should subsist any longer when the chords are burst; and that the chords, which are of a mortal nature, should subsist, but that the harmony, which is of the same nature and akin to that which is divine and immortal, should become extinct, and perish before that which is mortal; but he might say that the harmony must needs subsist somewhere, and that the wood and chords must decay before it can undergo any change. 80. For I think, Socrates, that you yourself have arrived at this conclusion, that we consider the soul to be pretty much of this kind—namely, that our body being compacted and held together by heat and cold, dryness and moisture, and other such qualities, our soul is the fusion and harmony of these, when they are well and duly combined with each other. If, then, the soul is a kind of harmony, it is evident that when our bodies are unduly relaxed or strained, through diseases and other maladies, the soul must, of necessity, immediately perish, although it is most divine, just as other harmonies which subsist in sounds or in the various works of artisans; but that the remains of the body of each person last for a long time, till they are either burned or decayed. Consider, then, what we shall say to this reasoning, if any one should maintain that the soul, being a fusion of the several qualities in the body, perishes first in that which is called death."

81. Socrates, therefore, looking steadfastly at us, as he was generally accustomed to do, and smiling, said, "Simmias indeed speaks justly. If, then, any one of you is more prompt than I am, why does he not answer, for he seems to have handled my argument not badly? It appears to me, however, that before we make our reply we should first hear from Cebes, what he, too, objects to our argument, in order that, some time intervening, we may consider what we shall say, and then when we have heard them, we may give up to them, if they appear to speak agreeably to truth; or, if not, we may then uphold our own argument. Come, then, Cebes," he continued, "say what it is that disturbs you, so as to cause your unbelief."

"I will tell you," said Cebes; "the argument seems to me to rest where it was, and to be liable to the same objection that we mentioned before. For, that our soul existed even before It came into this present form, I do not deny has been very elegantly, and, if it is not too much to say so, very fully, demonstrated; but that it still exists anywhere when we are dead does not appear to me to have been clearly proved; nor do I give in to the objection of Simmias, that the soul is not stronger and more durable than the body, for it appears to me to excel very far all things of this kind. 82. 'Why, then,' reason might say, 'do you still disbelieve? for, since you see that when a man dies his weaker part still exists, does it not appear to you to be necessary that the more durable part should still be preserved during this period?' Consider, then, whether I say any thing to the purpose in reply to this. For I, too, as well as Simmias, as it seems, stand in need of an illustration; for the argument appears to me to have been put thus, as if any one should advance this argument about an aged weaver who had died, that the man has not yet perished, but perhaps still exists somewhere; and, as a proof, should exhibit the garment which he wore and had woven himself, that it is entire and has not perished; and if any one should disbelieve him, he would ask, which of the two is the more durable, the species of a man or of a garment, that is constantly in use and being worn; then, should any one answer that the species of man is much more durable, he would think it demonstrated that, beyond all question, the man is preserved, since that which is less durable has not perished. 83. But I do not think, Simmias, that this is the case, and do you consider what I say, for every one must think that he who argues thus argues, foolishly. For this weaver, having worn and woven many such garments, perished after almost all of them, but before the last, I suppose; and yet it does not on this account follow any the more that a man is inferior to or weaker than a garment. And I think, the soul might admit this same illustration with respect to the body, and he who should say the same things concerning them would appear to me to speak correctly, that the soul is more durable, but the body weaker and less durable; for he would say that each soul wears out many bodies, especially if it lives many years; for if the body wastes and is dissolved while the man still lives, but the soul continually weaves anew what is worn out, it must necessarily follow that when the soul is dissolved it must then have on its last garment, and perish before this alone; but when the soul has perished the body would show the weakness of its nature, and quickly rot and vanish. 84. So that it is not by any means right to place implicit reliance on this argument, and to believe that when we die our soul still exists somewhere. For, if any one should concede to him who admits even more than you do, and should grant to him that not only did our soul exist before we were born, but that even when we die nothing hinders the souls of some of us from still existing, and continuing to exist hereafter, and from being often born, and dying again—for so strong is it by nature, that it can hold out against repeated births—if he granted this, he would not yet concede that it does not exhaust itself in its many births, and at length perish altogether in some one of the deaths. But he would say that no one knows this death and dissolution of the body, which brings destruction to the soul; for it is impossible for any one of us to perceive it. If, however, this be the case, it follows that every one who is confident at the approach of death is foolishly confident, unless he is able to prove that the soul is absolutely immortal and imperishable; otherwise it necessarily follows that he who is about to die must be alarmed for his soul, lest in its present disunion from the body it should entirely perish."

85. Upon this, all of us who had heard them speaking were disagreeably affected, as we afterward mentioned to each other; because, after we had been fully persuaded by the former arguments, they seemed to disturb us anew, and to cast us into a distrust, not only of the arguments already adduced, but of such as might afterward be urged, for fear lest we should not be fit judges of anything, or lest the things themselves should be incredible.

Echec. By the gods! Phædo, I can readily excuse you; for, while I am now hearing you, it occurs to me to ask myself some such question as this: What arguments can we any longer believe? since the argument which Socrates advanced, and which was exceedingly credible, has now fallen into discredit. For this argument, that our soul is a kind of harmony, produces a wonderful impression on me, both now and always, and in being mentioned, it has reminded me, as it were, that I, too, was formerly of the same opinion; so that I stand in need again, as if from the very beginning, of some other argument which may persuade me that the soul of one who dies does not die with the body. Tell me, therefore, by Jupiter! how Socrates followed up the argument; and whether he, too, as you confess was the case with yourselves, seemed disconcerted at all, or not, but calmly maintained his position; and maintained it sufficiently or defectively. Relate everything to me as accurately as you can.

86. Phæd. Indeed, Echecrates, though I have often admired Socrates, I was never more delighted than at being with him on that occasion. That he should be able to say something is perhaps not at all surprising; but I especially admired this in him—first of all, that he listened to the argument of the young men so sweetly, affably, and approvingly; in the next place, that he so quickly perceived how we were affected by their arguments; and, lastly, that he cured us so well and recalled us, when we were put to flight, as it were, and vanquished, and encouraged us to accompany him, and consider the argument with him.

Echec. How was that?

Phæd. I will tell you: I happened to be sitting at his right hand, near the bed, upon a low seat, but he himself sat much higher than I. Stroking my head, then, and laying hold of the hair that hung on my neck—for he used, often, to play with my hairs—"To-morrow," he said, "perhaps, Phædo, you will cut off these beautiful locks?"

"It seems likely, Socrates," said I.

87. "Not if you are persuaded by me."

"Why so?" I asked.

"To-day," he replied, "both I ought to cut off mine and you yours, if our argument must die, and we are unable to revive it. And I, if I were you, and the arguments were to escape me, would take an oath, as the Argives do, not to suffer my hair to grow until I had renewed the contest, and vanquished the arguments of Simmias and Cebes."

"But," I said, "even Hercules himself is said not to have been a match for two."

"Call upon me, then," he said, "as your Iolaus, while it is yet day."

"I do call on you, then," I said, "not as Hercules upon Iolaus, but as Iolaus upon Hercules."

"It will make no difference," he replied. "But, first of all, we must beware lest we meet with some mischance."

"What?" I asked.

"That we do not become," he answered, "haters of reasoning, as some become haters of men; for no greater evil can happen to any one than to hate reasoning. 88. But hatred of reasoning and hatred of mankind both spring from the same source. For hatred of mankind is produced in us from having placed too great reliance on some one without sufficient knowledge of him, and from having considered him to be a man altogether true, sincere, and faithful, and then, after a little while, finding him depraved and unfaithful, and after him another. And when a man has often experienced this, and especially from those whom he considered his most intimate and best friends, at length, having frequently stumbled, he hates all men, and thinks that there is no soundness at all in any of them. Have you not perceived that this happens so?"

"Certainly," I replied.

"Is it not a shame?" he said "And is it not evident that such a one attempts to deal with men without sufficient knowledge of human affairs? For if he had dealt with them with competent knowledge, as the case really is, so he would have considered that the good and the bad are each very few in number, and that those between both are most numerous."

89. "How say you?" I asked.

"In the same manner," he replied, "as with things very little and very large Do you think that any thing is more rare than to find a very large on a very little man, or dog, or any thing else? and, again, swift or slow, beautiful or ugly, white or black? Do you not perceive that of all such things the extremes are rare and few, but that the intermediate are abundant and numerous?"

"Certainly," I replied.

"Do you not think, then," he continued, "that if a contest in wickedness were proposed, even here very few would be found pre-eminent?"

"It is probable," I said.

"You speak perfectly true," I said.

90. "Would it not, then, Phædo" he said "be a sad thing if, when there is a true and sound reasoning, and such as one can understand, one should then, through lighting upon such arguments as appear to be at one time true and at another false, not blame one's self and one's own want of skill, but at length, through grief, should anxiously transfer the blame from one's self to the arguments, and thereupon pass the rest of one's life in hating and reviling arguments and so be depraved of the truth and knowledge of things that exist?"

"By Jupiter!" I said, "it would be sad, indeed."

"In the first place, then," he said, "let us beware of this, and let us not admit into our souls the notion that there appears to be nothing sound in reasoning, but much rather that we are not yet in a sound condition, and that we ought vigorously and strenuously to endeavor to become sound, you and the others, on account of your whole future life, but I, on account of my death, since I am in danger, at the present time, of not behaving as becomes a philosopher with respect to this very subject, but as a wrangler, like those who are utterly uninformed 91. For they, when they dispute about any thing, care nothing at all for the subject about which the discussion is, but are anxious about this, that what they have themselves advanced shall appear true to the persons present. And I seem to myself on the present occasion to differ from them only in this respect, for I shall not be anxious to make what I say appear true to those who are present, except that may happen by the way, but that it may appear certainly to be so to myself. For I thus reason, my dear friend, and observe how interestedly. If what I say be true, it is well to be persuaded of it, but if nothing remains to one that is dead, I shall, at least, during the interval before death be less disagreeable to those present by my lamentations. But this ignorance of mine will not continue long, for that would be bad, but will shortly be put an end to. Thus prepared, then, Simmias and Cebes," he continued, "I now proceed to my argument. Do you, however, if you will be persuaded by me, pay little attention to Socrates, but much more to the truth, and if I appear to you to say any thing true, assent to it, but if not, oppose me with all your might, taking good care that in my zeal I do not deceive both myself and you, and, like a bee, depart leaving my sting behind."

92. "But let us proceed," he said "First of all, remind me of what you said, if I should appear to have forgotten it For Simmias, as I think, is in doubt, and fears lest the soul, though more divine and beautiful than the body, should perish before it, as being a species of harmony. But Cebes appeared to me to grant me this, that the soul is more durable than the body, but he argued that it is uncertain to every one, whether when the soul has worn out many bodies and that repeatedly, it does not, on leaving the last body, itself also perish, so that this very thing is death, the destruction of the soul, since the body never ceases decaying Are not these the things, Simmias and Cebes, which we have to inquire into?"

They both agreed that they were.

"Whether, then," he continued "do you reject all our former arguments, or some of them only, and not others?"

"Some we do," they replied, "and others not."

"What, then," he proceeded, "do you say about that argument in which we asserted that knowledge is reminiscence, and that, this being the case, our soul must necessarily have existed somewhere before it was inclosed in the body?"

93. "I, indeed," replied Cebes "was both then wonderfully persuaded by it, and now persist in it, as in no other argument."

"And I, too," said Simmias, "am of the same mind, and should very much wonder if I should ever think otherwise on that point."

"Then," Socrates said, "you must needs think otherwise, my Theban friend, if this opinion holds good, that harmony is something compounded, and that the soul is a kind of harmony that results from the parts compacted together in the body. For surely you will not allow yourself to say that harmony was composed prior to the things from which it required to be composed Would you allow this?"

"By no means, Socrates" he replied.

"Do you perceive, then," he said, "that this result from what you say, when you assert that the soul existed before it came into a human form and body, but that it was composed from things that did not yet exist? For harmony is not such as that to which you compare it, but first the lyre, and the chords, and the sounds yet unharmonized, exist, and, last of all, harmony is produced, and first perishes. How, then, will this argument accord with that?"

"Not at all," said Simmias.

94. "And yet," he said, "if in any argument, there ought to be an accordance in one respecting harmony."

"There ought," said Simmias.

"This of yours, however," he said, "is not in accordance. Consider, then, which of these two statements do you prefer—that knowledge is reminiscence, or the soul harmony?"

"The former by far, Socrates," he replied; "for the latter occurred to me without demonstration, through a certain probability and speciousness whence most men derive their opinions. But I am well aware that arguments which draw their demonstrations from probabilities are idle; and, unless one is on one's guard against them, they are very deceptive, both in geometry and all other subjects. But the argument respecting reminiscence and knowledge may be said to have been demonstrated by a satisfactory hypothesis. For in this way it was said that our soul existed before it came into the body, because the essence that bears the appellation of 'that which is' belongs to it. But of this, as I persuade myself, I am fully and rightly convinced. It is therefore necessary, as it seems, that I should neither allow myself nor any one else to maintain that the soul is harmony."