SOCRATES. (continued 2)

Now, without maintaining the perfect propriety or sufficiency of all the examples put forward in this argument, the general principles of it state the fundamental axioms of moral philosophy in a way which might have saved a certain modern school of ethical writers volumes of ingenious sophistry, if they had but possessed the natural amount of reverence and knowledge which would have enabled them to appreciate what was good and true in the discourses of the great fathers of their own science. For the unwritten laws whose authority the Athenian evangelist here so eloquently asserts, in goodly harmony with the noble Hebrew prophet (Jeremiah xxxi. 33) before him, and the heroic apostle of the Gentiles (Romans ii. 15) four centuries and a half later, are just the natural and necessary fruit of those innate human actions and divinely implanted instincts in the region of emotion and volition, which Locke, in an evil day for British philosophy, thought it incumbent on him to deny, and by the denial of which a whole school of meagre moralists, from Hume to John Stuart Mill, have either dragged themselves ingloriously in the mire, or entangled themselves in a tissue of the sorriest sophistries. In this dialogue also we see how ably the common sense of the great logical missionary of Greece fought its way through that most inconclusive argument against the immutability of moral distinctions derived from the strange and abnormal habits of certain savage tribes. A law is not the less a law, replied Socrates to the sophistical Hippias, because it may be sometimes or frequently transgressed; and a divine instinct is not the less divine because there are found false instincts and morbid sensibilities in individual men, or even in whole tribes. The type of any race of animals is not to be taken from monsters, nor is the law of the variations of the magnetic needle near ferruginous rocks or in an iron vessel to be paraded as a proof that there is no such thing as magnetic polarity. According to the argument of Socrates, as Aristotle also teaches, the aberrations from the norm of human morality in certain persons or tribes, which so confounded Locke, are no more to be held as arguments against the eternity of innate moral distinctions than the existence of sporadic disease or degenerated types of body can be considered as disproving the fact of health, or the braying of an incidental ass, or even a troop of asses, can be taken as a refutation of one of Beethoven’s symphonies.

On the political opinions and conduct of Socrates a very few words will suffice. We have seen above (p. 14) that, like the apostle Paul, and the preachers of the gospel generally, he kept himself out of all political entanglement; nevertheless as a notable and prominent citizen in what, notwithstanding its great celebrity, we cannot but call a small democratic State, he could not avoid occasionally talking on subjects of public interest, and giving his opinion freely on the conduct of public men. To have done otherwise indeed would have been to have imposed silence on himself in regard to not a few matters which belonged as much to his moral mission as anything that concerned the conduct of private individuals; it would have been also to incur the charge of apathy, indifference and cowardice, than which nothing could have been more hurtful to his influence as a moral teacher. Accordingly, in the book of Xenophon there are not wanting indications of his political tendencies, which we shall here attempt summarily to state.

His fundamental position in regard to all political duties was, as we may have gathered from the conversation with Hippias, the supreme obligation on every good citizen to obey the existing laws. In this sacred, and sometimes, one might feel inclined to think, over scrupulous reverence for law, he agrees with the apostle Paul, but runs directly counter to the received maxims of all democracy, both ancient and modern; for reverence is not an emotion which democracy cherishes; and an impassioned majority is apt to consider every law a usurpation, which applies a drag to its impetuousness or a bridle to its wilfulness.

The prosecution and death of Socrates, which we must now sketch, is one of the most interesting events in history,—useful also in a special degree as a warning to that large class of persons who are inclined to follow the multitude in all things, with unlimited faith in the motto Vox populi vox Dei. Never did a people, in this case a particularly shrewd and intelligent people, cased in the hard panoply of unreasoned tradition, under the distorting influence of prejudice, the exaggerations of personal spite, and the smooth seductions of popular oratory, commit an act of more daring defiance to every principle of truth and justice. Happily we possess evidence of the most distinct and indubitable description with regard both to the nature of the charges brought against the philosopher and the delusions which blinded his judges. In reference to the first point, we have the very words of the indictment, given in the same terms by both Plato and Xenophon. With regard to the second point, wherein the real key to his condemnation lies, we have an ancient comedy—the Clouds of Aristophanes—in which the state of public feeling and popular prejudice in Athens in reference to the philosopher is brought as vividly before us as if it had been a matter of yesterday. In this play—one of the wisest certainly, and one of the most humorous, that ever was written—Socrates is put forward as representing the Sophists; and a picture is drawn of that class of persons, calculated to stir up a whole host of indignant feelings, patriotic and personal, against the philosopher. No doubt the whole affair, so far as Socrates was concerned, was a tissue of the grossest lies; but neither those whose business it is to make jokes for the public, nor the public, who find their pleasure in these jokes, have ever displayed any very scrupulous care in sifting the materials of their mirth. A popular comedy on any event of the day is popular, not because it is true, but because it cleverly tricks out that view of the matter which the multitude delights to think is true; it is the proper pabulum of popular prejudice; and as such there can be no doubt that the gross caricature of Socrates represented in Athens 423 B.C. with great applause, was one of the principal feeders of those local feelings and prejudices by which, twenty-three years afterwards, the great preacher of righteousness was condemned. For we must bear in mind that Socrates was not condemned by a bench of cool lawyers, such as decide cases of heresy in the English Church, but by a jury or popular assembly, most of whom had already prejudged the case; and trial by jury, as large experience in this country has shown, may as readily be made the willing instrument of popular passion, as the strong bulwark against autocratic or oligarchic oppression. And all these sources of evidence bring us to a conclusion which agrees exactly with what might a priori have been predicated from what we know both of the special proclivities of the Athenian people and the general tendencies of human beings, when acting in masses, under the spur of great political or religious excitement.

To state the matter more articulately, the view of the philosopher’s guilt taken by his accusers and the majority of the jury who condemned him, may be comprised under the following five points:—

(1.) Socrates was one of the Sophists; and to the superficial undistinguishing eye of the general public of Athens, like any other public, constitutionally impatient of distinctions, it was as natural to confound the philosopher with his antagonists as it was to Tacitus and other intelligent Romans to confound the first Christians with their greatest enemies, the Jews. Whatever odium therefore in public estimation attached to the profession and principles of a Sophist, necessarily attached to Socrates, as one of the most prominent of the class. He was accordingly assumed to be guilty under the following heads of offence, all of which were truly applicable to the majority of the class of men with whom he was identified.

(2.) The Sophists generally did not believe in the gods of their country, and, more than that, they were sceptical, and even atheistical, in their whole tone and attitude.

(3.) They did not believe in the immutability of moral distinctions, teaching that all morality is based on positive law, custom, fashion, association, or habit.

(4.) And their profession of these principles was the more dangerous, that it was supported by a specious and plausible art of logic and rhetoric, of which the professed object was, with an utter disregard of truth, to make the worse appear the better reason.

(5.) The natural and actual effect of this teaching was to corrupt the youth and undermine both domestic and civic morality.

This is the full view of the case, as one may gather it from the whole pleadings; but more definitely and succinctly the actual indictment is given by Xenophon in this single sentence:—“Socrates behaves wrongfully in not acknowledging those as gods whom the State holds to be gods, and in introducing new gods of his own; he acts wrongfully also in corrupting the youth.”

Now the first question which arises on this charge is, whether such a prosecution, according to the law of Athens, was justifiable at all; and on this head we are happy to agree with the view of the case so ably stated by Professor Zeller in his excellent work on the Philosophy of the Greeks. The prosecution, we think, was not justifiable; that is, even though the points had been proven, there was no indictable offence. For though unquestionably both by Hellenic and Roman law a public action lay in theory against all who did not acknowledge the gods of the country, and no man was entitled to entertain private gods without State authority; and though as a matter of fact several eminent persons, such as Anaxagoras and Diagoras, had even in the lifetime of Socrates been tried and banished for the offence of impiety, yet the spirit of toleration was now so large, and the license everywhere assumed had been so great, that to condemn an honest thinker to death for simple heterodoxy, in the year 399 B.C., in Athens, was altogether inexcusable, and could be attributed only to intense personal spite on the part of his prosecutors, and to the crassest prejudice on the part of the jury who tried him.

But the case assumes a much more serious aspect, when it stands proven in the most distinct terms that, even had the prosecution in point of legal practice been justifiable, the defendant as a matter of fact was entirely innocent of all the charges in the indictment. Of this ample evidence shines out in almost every page of the above sketch; and more may be found by whoso cares to seek in almost every chapter of Xenophon. There is no philosopher of antiquity in whom a cheerful piety, according to the traditions of his country, and a reasonable morality, were so happily combined. In this view he stands out in remarkable completeness when compared whether with Confucius in the far east, or with Aristotle in his own country. He stands also as a representative man in this respect above Plato, and incarnates fully both the piety and the philosophy of Athens, just as Chalmers was the incarnation of the religion, the science, the fervour and the practical sagacity of Scotland. Plato, on the other hand, though a man of profound piety, as a transcendental speculator was too lofty in his point of view to be able to reconcile himself to the familiar and sensuous theology of Homer; while Aristotle was defective altogether in the emotional part of his nature, and, like a true encyclopædist, was content to register the gods whom he had not the heart to worship. As to the new gods whom Socrates was said to have introduced, this charge could only have arisen from some gross popular blunder about the δαίμων or genius by whom he used to assert his conduct was often guided. What this δαίμων really was we shall see by and by; but even had it been a real familiar spirit, as was crudely supposed, there was nothing in the idea of such spiritual intercourse contrary to the orthodox conceptions of heathen piety. The third charge against him of corrupting the youth, was merely an application of the charge of irreligion, with the obvious intention of rousing the tender apprehensions of Athenian fathers who believed in the stout old Marathonian sturdiness, and hated the subtle glibness of the rising generation; for in fact, like the late distinguished Baron Bunsen, Socrates was peculiarly the friend of young men, and specially zealous for their good. The answer to such a charge was plain, and was similar to that which might have been made by the Methodists of the last century, when they were charged with leading away the people from the Established Church: If you, the Churchmen, had taken care of the people in the remote corners of Cornwall and Wales, we certainly should never have interfered. So Socrates might well ask his accusers, as we find in Plato’s Apology he did: “If I corrupt the young men, who improves them? It was simply because there was no person who cared to instruct them in the principles of right that there was room for me to come forward as a teacher at all. Your accusation of me is a proof that you neglected your own work.” Why then, we are now prepared to ask, was he condemned? The answer to this is unfortunately only too obvious. The causes of his condemnation were five:—

(1.) Because his freedom of speech as a preacher of righteousness had made him not a few enemies in influential quarters. Though entirely free from every taint of bitterness or ill-will, and even playfully tolerant to human weaknesses, the very reverse, as we have seen, of a modern Calvin, the moment an argument was started he spared no party, who, by the application of the searching logical test, was found to be a dealer in hollow superficialities or pretentious shams; poets, orators, and politicians equally were made to feel the keen edge of his reproof. Against all and each of these he had spoken more truth than they could easily bear; and of that dangerous seed he was now to reap the natural fruit. Truth, which was a jewel of great price to him, was a nauseous drug to many; and the man who administered it could not be looked on with friendly eyes. “Am I become your enemy because I tell you the truth?” was the question directed more than four hundred years afterwards by the great apostle of the Gentiles to some of his perverted churches. So it was also in the days of Socrates, and so it must ever be. Men are by nature not lovers of truth, in the first place, but lovers of themselves, of their own wishes, of their own fancies, of their own belongings. To become lovers of the pure truth they must undergo a process of moral and intellectual regeneration—the new birth of oriental philosophy and of evangelical doctrine.

(2.) Because the religious antipathies of an orthodox public (and the Athenians prided themselves specially on their religiousness) towards a person accused of heterodoxy, scepticism, and atheism are so strong as readily to overbear any evidence that may be adduced to prove the personal piety, and even the literal orthodoxy, of the accused party.

(3.) Because in a democracy, where the judges, or, as we would say, the jury, are a mixed multitude of ignorant and prejudiced people, such motives are apt to be particularly strong.

(4.) Because Socrates, as a man of high principle, and of a perhaps over-strained sense of honour, would not condescend to use any of those intrigues, tricks, and supple artifices which are often applied successfully to overcome the prejudices of an adverse jury. Nay, his attitude seemed more that of a man willing to find in death a noble opportunity for putting a seal upon the great work of his life. He pleaded his own case, which no prudent man does who is anxious merely to gain his case; and his speech is rather a proud assertion of himself against his judges than a politic deprecation of their displeasure.

(5.) Because, no doubt, a certain excitement of the public mind arising out of the troubles of the recent revolutionary government established by the Spartans, and the restoration of the democracy by Thrasybulus, was favourable to the bringing of a charge against a person belonging to a class generally suspected by the people, and one who had unquestionably at times spoken his mind freely enough on the defects, absurdities, and blunders of the local democracy. This political element may certainly have helped; but the charge against the philosopher was not mainly—formally indeed not at all—political, as the pleadings both in Xenophon and Plato sufficiently show.

Taking all these things together, remembering how many follies and ferocities have everywhere been perpetrated in the name of religion, and impressed with the full force of what the poet says of the reward wont to be paid by the world to persistent speakers of truth—

“Die wenigen die von der Wahrheit was erkannt Und thöricht genug ihr volles Herz nicht wahrten Dem Pöbel ihr Gefühl, ihr Schauen offenbarten Hat man von je gekreuzigt und verbrannt,”—

some persons may perhaps feel inclined to think with Mr. Grote that “the wonder rather is that the wise man was not prosecuted sooner. It was only the extraordinary toleration of the Greek people that prevented this.” There is a great amount of truth in this remark; but the exercise of polytheistic toleration in the case of Socrates was rendered more easy by the undoubted innocency of the accused, and the host of friends whom his wisdom and goodness had created for him as his champions. Had Socrates really been as heterodox in Athenian theology as Michael Servetus was in the theology of the Christian world at the period when, in harmony with universal European law, he was burnt by the Genevese Calvinists, we might then have drawn a contrast between monotheistic intolerance and polytheistic toleration in two perfectly similar cases; but as matters really stand, while the execution of Servetus was only a great legal and theological mistake, the death of Socrates must be stamped by the impartial historian as a great social crime. It was equally against local law and human right, a rude invasion of blind prejudice, overbearing insolence, and paltry spite against the holiest sanctities of human life.

The details of the death of Socrates, sketched with such graceful power and kindly simplicity by Plato in the concluding chapters of the Phædo, are well known; but the present paper would seem imperfect without some glimpse of that last and most beautiful scene of the philosopher’s career. We shall therefore conclude with that extract; and to make the picture of his last days as complete as possible, introduce it by an extract from Plato’s Apology, in which the dignified self-reliance and serene courage of the sage is described with all that rich fulness and easy grace of which the writer was so consummate a master:—

“I should have done what was decidedly wrong, O Athenians, if, when the archons whom you elected ordered me, at Potidæa, at Amphipolis, and at Delium, to accept the post given me in the war, and stand where I was ordered to stand at the risk of death,—if then, I say, I had not obeyed the command, and exposed my life willingly for the good of my country; but when the order comes from a god—as I had the best reason to believe that a god did order me to spend my life in philosophizing, and in proving myself and others, whether we were living according to right reason,—if in such circumstances I should now, from fear of death, or from any other motive, leave my post, and become a deserter, this were indeed a sin; and for such an offence any one might justly bring me before this court on a charge of impiety, saying that I had disobeyed the voice of the god by flinching from death, and conceiting myself to be wise when I was not wise. For to be afraid of death, O Athenians, is in fact nothing else than to seem to be wise when a man is not wise: for it is to seem to have a knowledge of things which a man does not know. For no man really knows whether death may not be to mortal men of all blessings perhaps the greatest; and yet they do fear it, as if they knew that it is the greatest of evils. And how, I ask, can this be other than the most shameful folly to imagine that a man knows what he does not know? or perhaps do I differ from most other men in this, and if I am wiser at all than any one, am I wiser in this, that, while not possessing any exact knowledge of the state of matters in Hades, I do not imagine that I possess such knowledge; but as to right and wrong, I know for certain, that to disobey a better than myself whether man or god, is both bad and base. On no account therefore will I ever fear and seek to avoid what may or may not be an evil, rather than that which I most certainly know to be bad; in so much that if, on the present occasion, you should be willing to acquit me, and refuse to listen to Anytus, who maintained that I either should never have been brought before you at all, or you could not do otherwise than condemn me to death, because your sons, putting in practice the lessons of Socrates, must needs go on without redemption to their ruin—if, notwithstanding this declaration of my prosecutor, you should still be unconvinced, and say—O Socrates, for the present we discharge you, but on this condition, that for the future you shall not go on philosophizing and proving, as you have hitherto done; and, if you are caught doing so, then you shall die—if on these conditions you were now willing to acquit me, I should say to you, O Athenians, that, while I cherish all loyal respect and love for you, I choose to obey the gods rather than men, and so long as I live and breathe I will never cease philosophizing: and exhorting any of you with whom I may happen to converse, and addressing him as I have been wont, thus,—O my excellent fellow-citizen, the citizen of a State the most famous for wisdom and for resources, is it seemly in you to feel no shame if, while you are spending your strength in the accumulation of money, and in the acquisition of civic reputation, you bestow not the slightest pains to have your soul as well furnished with intelligence as your life is with prosperity? And if any man to this question should reply, that, so far as he is concerned, he really does bestow as much care on wisdom as on wealth, then I will not forthwith let him go, but will proceed, as I was wont, to interrogate, and to prove, and to argue; and if, as the result of the discussion, he shall appear to me not to possess virtue, but merely to say that he possesses it, I will then go on to reprove him in that by his deeds he prefers what is base to what is noble, and foolishly sets the highest value upon that which has the least worth. And in this wise I will speak to every man whom I shall converse with, be he citizen, or be he stranger, and the rather if he be a fellow-citizen to whom I am bound by nearer and more indissoluble ties. For this is precisely what I am commanded to do by the god; and if the god did indeed give forth this command, then must I distinctly declare that no greater blessing could be to this city than that, so long as I do live, I should live to execute the divine command. For what I do day after day treading your streets is simply this, that, speaking to both young and old, I exhort them not to seek in the first place money or anything material, but to stretch every nerve that their soul may be as excellent as possible; for that virtue and all excellence grow not from gold, but rather that gold and all things truly good, both in private and public life, grow to men from the possession of virtue as the root of all good. If by preaching this doctrine I corrupt the youth, let such teaching be declared corrupt: but if any one asserts that I teach other doctrine than this, he is talking unreason. Therefore, O Athenians, do as seemeth you good; listen to Anytus, or listen to him not; acquit me or acquit me not, I can do no otherwise than I have done, though I should die a hundred times.

(At these words murmurs of dissent and disapprobation are heard from the jury.)

“Be not surprised, O Athenians, nor express displeasure at what I have said; listen rather and hear, for you will be the better and not the worse for anything that I have said, and I have some other things to say also of a nature to bring out similar expressions of your dissent; but hear me, I beseech you, with patience. This I must plainly tell you, that if you put me to death, being such an one as I have described, and doing such things as I do, you will not hurt me so much as you will hurt yourselves; or, more properly speaking, no man can hurt me, neither Anytus nor Meletus nor any one else; for it is not in the nature of things that a better man should receive essential harm from a worse. No doubt a worse man may kill me, or banish me, or brand me with statutable infamy—evils these the greatest possible in the estimation of some, but not certainly in my conviction, who hold the greatest infamy to be even that which this man has brought upon himself, in that wrongfully he endeavours to take away the life of his fellow. I am not therefore, in making this present defence, pleading my own cause so much as speaking in your behalf, O Athenians, lest ye should be found sinning against the god in condemning a just man unjustly. For if you put me aside you will not easily find another (though it may excite a smile when I say so) who may be able or willing to perform the same service for the public good; for even as a large and mettlesome, though from the size of its body somewhat slow, horse requires a goad to make it run, even so the god seems to have attached me to you, that by spurring and goading, and exhorting and reproving you day after day with a pious persistency, I should rouse you to the performance of what your dignity requires. Such an honest counsellor, and one who shall as faithfully apply when necessary the profitable pain that belongs to the successful treatment of your malady, you may not so readily find again; for which reason I say, fellow-citizens, hear me and spare my life; but if, as is natural enough, you take offence, and, like other sleepers, begin to kick and to butt at the man who rouses you from your lethargy, nothing is easier than killing me; and then when I am gone you will be allowed to sleep on in uninterrupted sloth, unless indeed the god shall be pleased to send some other messenger of grace to pluck you from destruction. And that I truly am such a person as I here profess to be, a real messenger of the gods to you, you may gather from hence that no mere human motive could have induced me now for so many years to have neglected my own affairs, and devoted myself to your good, looking upon every man as my father or my brother, and exhorting him by every possible suasion to seek for virtue as the only good. And this also I may say, that if in the exercise of this my vocation I had exacted any payment or received any pecuniary reward my accusers might have had some ground for their charge; but as the case stands you perceive plainly that, while my enemies have brought forward every possible charge against me with the most shameless effrontery, to substantiate which they might imagine themselves in possession of some shadow of proof, none of them has produced a single witness to the effect that I ever either received or sought a wage of any kind for the instructions which I imparted. But there is one witness which I can produce to rebut such a charge if it were made, a witness which will not fail to silence even the bitterest of my accusers,—even that poverty in which I have lived and in which I shall die.

This is not the tone certainly which any accused person anxious to save his life in pleading before a democratic jury would have adopted, whether at Athens or New York. By the majority of his judges, who came predisposed to condemn him, such language could only be interpreted as adding insult to injury. If he thinks himself too good to live amongst us, why, then, let him die! And in accordance with this sentiment a verdict was brought in—only by a small majority however—that he was guilty of the charge. This verdict, according to Athenian law, did not necessarily determine the punishment; the accuser asked for death; but from the smallness of the majority there was every reason to believe that a less punishment would have satisfied the jury, if only the accused had shown any willingness to accept it. But in the short address which he made after the verdict of guilty had been given in, though he professed himself willing to pay a fine of thirty minæ, which his friends had guaranteed, for himself was too poor, yet he made this declaration with such an air of calm superiority, and accompanied it with such a proud claim of reward for great public services as his proper civic due, instead of punishment for any public offence, that his judges, being, as they were, made of the common human stuff, under the feelings of the moment could scarcely do otherwise than take it as an insult, and so they passed sentence of death upon the philosopher for contumacy towards themselves, not less than for blasphemy against the gods.

The fate of Socrates was now fixed; nor did he show any desire to have it altered. To such a strict observer of the laws, and a person to whom his moral position before men was of infinitely more consequence than his life, any attempt to escape from prison could have been suggested only to provoke refusal; so he remained in ward thirty days, till the sacred ship should return from the Delian festival, during the absence of which Attic usage forbade the infliction of capital punishment on any citizen. Through all this period he is represented as preserving the same tone of cheerful seriousness and playful dignity which characterized him in his defence before the judges. He discoursed with his friends on the immortality of the soul; and the record of this conversation, no doubt, in the argumentative part largely Platonized, but in the fundamental scheme substantially true, has been preserved to the world in the well-known dialogue of the Phædo; the closing chapters of which, exhibiting with a graceful and graphic simplicity, never surpassed, the last moments of the revered teacher’s mortal career, supply all that is further required to complete the present sketch:—“Well, friends, we have been discoursing for this last hour on the immortality of the soul, and there are many points about that matter on which he were a bold man who should readily dogmatize; but one thing I seem to know full certainly, that whosoever during his earthly life has flung sensual pleasures behind him, and been studious to adorn his soul, not with conventional and adventitious trappings, but with its own proper decoration, temperance and justice, and courage and freedom and truth,—the person so prepared waits cheerfully to perform the journey to the unseen world at whatever period Fate may choose to call him. You, Simmias, and Cebes, and the rest of you, my dear friends, will go that road some day, when your hour comes: as for me, to use the phrase of the tragic poets, ‘Destiny even now calls me,’ and it is about the hour that I should be going to the bath; for I think it better to take a bath first before I drink the drug, so that the women may not have the trouble to wash my body when I am gone.

“Here Crito interposed and said, Be it so! but have you no last commands to give to these your friends or to me, in relation to your children, or any matter by attending to which we might do you a pleasure? Nothing but what I am always saying, O Crito: if you will seriously attend to your own lives and characters, you will do what is most pleasurable to me and mine, and to yourselves, even though you should not be able to agree with me in all that we have been discoursing; but if you live at random, and neglect yourselves, and do not strive to follow in the traces of a virtuous life, such as we have marked out now, and in many former conversations, you will do no good either to me or to yourselves. Well then, said Crito, we will apply ourselves with all our hearts to this matter; but in what way do you wish that we should bury you? Any way you like, said he, if you can only get hold of me! then with a quiet smile, and looking round upon us, he said: I cannot persuade this good Crito that I who am now talking to him, and marshalling the heads of my argument, am the veritable Socrates; but he persists in thinking Socrates is that body which he will see by and by stretched out on the floor, and he asks how he is to bury me? but as to what I have been asserting with many words, that after I have drunk the hemlock I shall be with you no longer, but shall depart to some blessedness of the blest, this I seem to have spoken all in vain, so far as he is concerned. Only, for a little comfort to you, and to myself, I beseech you, dear friends, give Crito security for me, and pledge yourself to the opposite effect of the pledge he gave in my behalf before the jury. For he stood guarantee that I should remain and wait the result of the trial; but from you I request that you give him security that, after I die, I shall not remain, but forthwith depart, that, in this way, my excellent friend may suffer less grief, and when he sees my body either burnt or inhumated, may not grieve for me, as if I were suffering maltreatment, nor say in reference to my body, that they are either laying out Socrates on a bier, or carrying him forth to the place of the dead, or laying him in the ground. For be assured of this, most excellent Crito, that to use words in an improper sense is not only a bad thing in itself, but it generates a bad habit in the soul. Be of good cheer therefore, and talk about burying my body, not burying me; and as to the manner, manage this business as it shall seem best to you, or as may be most in accordance with law and custom.

“With these words he rose and went into a side chamber for the bath, with Crito following; but the rest of us he requested to remain. Accordingly we remained, conversing with one another on the subject of the recent discourse, and considering sorrowfully our unhappy condition, destined as we were to spend the rest of our days as orphans deprived of a beloved father. Then after he had bathed, and his children were brought to him—for he had two sons, one full-grown,—and the women also came in—he spoke to them for some time in the presence of Crito, and gave his last commands, and having sent them home, came back to us. And now it was near sunset, for he had been a considerable time within; and he came and sat down, and after that did not speak much; and then the officer of the Eleven came in and said to him, O Socrates, I shall not have to blame you as I am in the way of blaming others, because they reproach me for giving them the draught—me, who have nothing to do with the offence, but who only execute what I am commanded to do by the Archons. But you, as during the whole time that you have been here, you showed a nobility and gentleness of disposition which I never knew in another, so now I am convinced that you will accuse not me but those who are the real authors of your death. Now therefore, for you know my message, farewell! and endeavour to bear what must be borne with a light heart. And with this he wept, and turned and went out. And Socrates, looking after him, said, Fare thou, too, well; and we will do even as you say. Then turning to us. What a kind-hearted fellow this is! During the whole period of my abode here he would often come up to me, like the best of men, and now he weeps for me with such generous tears. But come, let us do his bidding, and let some one bring in the drug, if it is rubbed down; if not, let the man grate it. But I think, said Crito, that the sun is yet on the mountains, and is not set; and I have known others in your condition who delayed the drinking of the draught till the latest moment, and, even after the officer had made his intimation, continued eating and drinking and talking with their friends, whom they desired to have beside them. Be not therefore in a hurry; there is abundance of time. Likely enough, said Socrates; and they did wisely what they did, thinking that they would gain something thereby; but it were not seemly in me to follow their example, for I should gain nothing by delaying the draught for a few moments except to laugh at myself for having clung so eagerly to the remnant of a life that had already run its course. But come, do as I bid you, and not otherwise.

“On this Crito gave a nod to the boy who was standing near; and the boy went out, and after spending some time in grating down the herb, returned, bringing with him the man whose duty it was to administer the drug mingled in a bowl. Well, said Socrates, my good fellow, do you understand this affair, so as to give directions how we are to proceed? You have nothing to do, said the man, but to drink the draught, and to walk about till you feel a heaviness about your limbs, and then lie down; after that the drink will work for itself. And with this he gave the bowl to Socrates; and he, taking it very graciously, and without trembling or changing colour, but in his usual way looking the man broadly in the face, said to him, What do you say as to this draught, may one make a libation of a part of it, or not? We grate down just what we think is a proper measure to drink, and nothing more. I understand, said he; but at all events it is lawful to pray to the gods, that our migration hence may take place with good omens, even as I pray now; and so be it. And with these words, bringing the bowl to his lips, he quaffed the draught lightly and pleasantly to the dregs. Whereupon we, who had hitherto been able to repress our sorrow, now that we saw him drinking the poison, and not a drop remaining in the bowl, in spite of every effort burst into tears; and I, covering my head with my mantle, began to bewail my fate—my fate, not his, considering of what a man and what a friend I was now deprived. But Crito, even before me, not being able to restrain his tears, rose up; and as for Apollodorus, who had been weeping all along, he now broke out into such a piteous wail as to rend the hearts of all present and crush them with sorrow, except only Socrates himself, who quietly remarked—What is this you are about, my good sirs? Did I not send the women away expressly for this purpose, that there might be no extravagant lamentings at my exit, for I have always heard that in a sacrifice it is a good omen when the victim receives the blow peacefully. Be quiet, therefore, and possess your souls in patience. Whereat we, being ashamed, made an effort to restrain our tears. Then he walked up and down, till, feeling his legs become heavy, he came, according to the direction, and laid himself down on his back; whereupon the man who gave the bowl came up to him and touched him, and at short intervals examined his feet, and his legs, and then, pressing his foot closely, inquired if he felt anything, to which he replied, No; then the man gradually brought his hand further and further up, first to his shins and then along the leg, asking always if he had any sensation; and when he gave no sign we saw that his limbs were cold and stiff. Then he himself likewise touched his body with his hand and said, When the numbness comes up to my heart then I shall depart. And after that, when the numbness had reached the lower part of the belly, he suddenly uncovered himself—for when he lay down he had thrown his mantle over his face—and said,—which were the last words he uttered—O Crito, we owe a cock to Æsculapius; pay the vow and do not forget; and with that drew the mantle again over his face. It shall be done, said Crito; have you nothing else to say? But now there was no reply; and, after a short interval, a convulsive motion shook the body, and the man going up uncovered his face, and we saw that his eyes were fixed. Then Crito going up closed his mouth and his eyes. And this, O Echecrates, was the end of our beloved companion and friend, a man of whom we may truly say, Of all men whom we have known, he was the best, the wisest, and the most just.”