LATO Apologia Critq Phaedo Protagoras H. C ary COR^NELL UNIVERSITY LIBRARY Cornell University Library B358 .C33 Dialogues of Plato. !;,9,ntaini'S9,,I!lS,,,?JP^^ olin 3 1924 028 971 823 Cornell University Library The original of tliis book is in tine Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924028971823 B OHN 'S SELECT LIBRAE Y. PLATO. DIALOGUES OF PLATO: COSTAIHIKa THE APOLOGY OF SOCEATES, CRITO, PHAEDO, PEOTAGOEAS. tS.umhtt'B, &iti}) Sfntrobmttong, BY HENRY OAEY, M.A., WOBCESTEB CX>LLEaE, OXI'OBD. LONDON : GEORGE BELL & SONS, YORK STREET, COVBNT GARDEN. 1888. 3 ^ V//C2 LONDON : FBINTSD BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIIIITED, STAMFOBD STBEKI AND CHASING GBOSS. GENERAL INTRODUCTION. These four dialogues of- Plato are sulDinitted to English, readers as being, on. the whole, the most satisfactory selection that can he given within the limits of such a volume as this. The undying interest which is attached to the story of the trial, imprisonment, and death of Socrates has secured for the first three an easy pre- eminence of popularity. Not only have they the advan- tage of Hographic and dramatic interest, superadded to the more purely didactic merits of the other dialogues, but the drama therein disclosed, by one who was himself a bystander, possesses, in its pathos, the qualification of purest tragedy — the presentment of matter of earnest import and inherent greatness. And still more admirable are these pieces as showing Socrates carrying his own teaching to its most perfect conclusion — a preacher proving on himself his own precepts, — a pre-Christian martyr enduring to the end, and crowning a life spent for humanity by a death for conscience-sake. A short recapitulation of the few facts that are known about Socrates may be acceptable to some readers. He was bom in the year b.c. 468, in the immediate neigh- bourhood of Athens, being the son of Sophroniscus, a working sculptor, and Phwnarete, a midwife. It is supposed that he followed his father's trade, for Pau- sanias, 600 years later, saw au ancient group of the Tl GENEBAL INTRODUCTION. Graces at the entrance of the Acropolis whicli was said to he his work.' In person, Socrates was remarkably strong and robust, and is described as going barefoot at all seasons of the year ; but in face he was extremely ugly, having a flat nose, thick lips, and prominent eyes. He served as a hoplite, or heavy-armed foot-soldier, in the long siege of Potidsea (b.o. 432-429), being then about thirty-six years old, and also in the disastrous Peloponnesian war which followed {Apology, c. 17). It is probable that Socrates married late in life, for his children appear to have been young at the time of his death. His wife, Xanthippe, is reported to have been of a perverse temper, and the supposed domestic troubles of this teacher of mankind have often provided the humour- ous with a jest.* At the age of sixty-two he was a member of the Boule, or Council of 500. This Council was divided into ten- sections, each one of which presided in turns, its members being then called Prytanes. In this capacity Socrates distinguished himself by courageous independence on two occasions, to which he refers (Ajp. c. 20), the first being in resistance to the unjust condemnation of the generals, after the sea-fight of Arginusae. But he had no vocation to meddle, as he says (4p. o. 19), in public politics, and preferred the self-imposed task of a public teacher. At what age he began to do so is not known, but in the Clouds of Aristophanes, which was produced in 423 B.C., when Socrates was forty-five years old, he is ridiculed as a sophist. It is probable that Aristophanes was led to bring on the stage his easily recognised form rather by satiric motives ^han any feeling of personal enmity, for Socrates was no adherent of this new school of • See Pausanias, i. 22, and ix. 35. ' See, for instance, one of the Oolloqiiies of Erasmus. GENERAL IKTKODUCTION. VU tochers, as will be seen in the dialogue named after lis representative, Protagoras. He had no definite school, nor did he teach for money. Tor twenty-five years his face must have been familiar to the people of Athens, in market-place, street, workshop, or private house; round him gathered, not always men, but pro- bably more often youths and boys, in whom he sought to awaken moral feeling, and a knowledge of the true principles of virtuous living. The most notable point in the substance of his teaching is his deference to the divine voice, the so-called daimonion, which he affirmed to have been always present to him, restraining and warning him from doing that which was not to be done by him ; and the chief peculiarity in his method was the dialectic form of argument in which, by means of skilfully applied ques- tions, he forced his opponents to discover and arrive at conclusions, opposed to their own premisses, to which he wished to direct them. This method is somewhat amusingly illustrated in the Protagoras. That Plato largely developed it, and made Socrates in this manner the mouthpiece of his own teaching, is not to be doubted, but it is equally certain that he faithfully represents both the opinions and the methods of his master. The enemies of Socrates, like his friends, were of no particular party. His former pupil, Critias, was at once one of the most accomplished and most cruel of the Thirty Tyrants, and from them he found no favour. Plato, his disciple, was the nephew of Critias. After the overthrow of the oligarchy by Thrasybulus, and the re-establishment of the democracy, Socrates was still obnoxious to the ruling powers. Philosophers found no favour with the mob, and it is possible that a renewed respect for the ancient religion of the State may have prompted a desire to silence one whose teaching was full of new ideas. A powerful popular leader named Anytus, who was VIU GENERAL INTEODUOTION. distinguislied by his prowess in the expulsion of the tyrants, a demagogic orator of some skill named Lycon, and a poet named Melitus (or Meletus), who was probably put forward by Lycon, impeached Socrates on the grounds (amongst others) of corrupting the youth, and introducing new gods in place of the ancient divinities. The defence of Socrates is the Apologia preserved by Plato, who was present at the trial. Being condemned by a majority of six only in a court composed of about 500 dikastai, or jurors, and allowed to plead in mitigation of the penalty, he declined to ask for banishment or imprison- ment, and refused to assent to more than a fine of thirty rttinae.' The court, incensed by his independence, sentenced him to death by a majority of eighty. He was to die by drinking hemlock ; but, owing to the mission of the Theoris or sacred ship to Delos,* the execution of the sentence was long delayed. The return of the ship was the signal for his death. Of this, and his refusal to escape, we read in the Grito. The record of his last day, and his last discourse, in which he avows his conviction of the soul's immortality, and the final scene of death, are given in the Phsedo. Socrates died in the year 399 B.C., in the seventy-first year of his age. It is said that the Athenians repented of their folly, and banished two of his accusers, the third, Melitus, being stoned to death. His disciple Plato was born at Athens about 429, and was therefore forty years younger than Socrates. He • About 1251., but probably a much larger sum relatively. * See below, Phssdo, § 3. The Ionian festival in honour of Apollo, held in the island of Delos, had existed in very early times. After ceasing for some period, it was revived by the Athenians in 426 e.g., and they henceforward took the chief part in it. (See Diet, of Ant., art. Delia.) GENEEAL INTRODUCTION. IX was of illustrious birth, his father being descended from CodruB, and his mother, the sister of Cirtias, being of the family of Solon. After the death of Socrates, Plato went to Megara, where he probably composed several of the dialogues. He is supposed to have travelled extensively — and certainly visited the elder Dionysius, tyrant of Syracuse — before his return to Athens, where he ulti- mately established his famous school of philosophy, teaching partly in the gymnasium of the Academy, and partly in his own house. He went twice to Sicily to visit the younger Dionysius, through whom it was supposed he wished to realise in Syracuse his philosophic conception of a state ; if so, he was singularly unsuccessful in his object. From this time he devoted himself to his school ia the Academy, and to writing his philosophic works, which have come down to us complete. Plato died in B.C. 347, in the eighty-second year of his age. E. B. March 1888. CONTENTS. rAos The Apology op Socrates 1 Obito; ob, The Duty op a CrnzBN 31 Pbabdo; ob, The Immobtality op the Soul . . ,46 Fbotagiobas; ob, The Sophists 123 INTRODUCTION TO THE APOLOGY OF SOCRATES. Two charges were brought against Socrates, one, that he did not believe in the gods received by the state, the other, that he corrupted the Athenian youth by teaching them not to believe. Plato, who was present at the trial, probably gives us the very arguments employed by the accused on that occasion. Socrates disdained to have recourse to the usual methods adopted by the popular orators of the day to secure an acquit- tal ; and, having devoted his whole life to the search after and the inculcation of religious, philosophical, and moral truA, resolved to bear himself in this extremity in a manner con- sistent with his established character, and to take his stand on his own integrity and innocence, utterly uninfluenced by that imaginary evil, death. From this cause it is that his defence is so little artificial. In his discussions with others, on what- ever subject, it was his constant habit to keep his opponents to the question before them, and he would never suffer them to evade it, but by a connected series of the most subtle questions or arguments compelled them to retract any erroneous opinion they might have advanced : whereas, in defending himself, he never once fairly grapples with either of the charges brought against him. With regard to the first accusation, that he did not believe in the established religion, he neither confesses nor denies it, but shews that he bad in some instances conformed to the religious customs of his country, and that he did believe B 2 INTRODUCTION. in God, so much so indeed that even if they would acquit him on condition of his ahiindoning his practice of teaching others, he could not consent to such terms, hut must persevere in ful- filling the mission on which the Deity had sent him, for that he feared God rather than man. With reference to the second charge which he meets first, by his usual method of a brief but close cross-examination of his accuser Mehtus, he brings him to this dilemma, that he must either charge him with cor- rupting the youth designedly, which would be absurd, or with doing so undesignedly, for which he could not be liable to punishment. The Defence itself properly ends with the twenty-fourth section. The second division to the twenty-ninth section re- lates only to the sentence which ought to be passed on him. And in the third and concluding part, with a dignity and fulness of hope worthy even of a Christian, he expresses his belief that the death to which he is going is only a passage to a better and a happier life. THE APOLOGY OF SOCRATES. I KNOW not, O Athenians, how far you have been Influenced by my accusers : i for my part, in listening to them I almost forgot myself, so plausible were their arguments : however, so to speak, they have said nothing true. But of the many false- hoods which they uttered I wondered at one of them espe- cially, that in which they said that you ought to be on youi guard lest you should be deceived by me, as being eloquent in speech. For that they are not ashamed of being forthwith convicted by me in fact, when I shall shew tha't I am not by any means eloquent, this seemed to me the most shameless thing in them, unless indeed they call him eloquent who speaks the truth. For, if they mean this, then I would allow that I am an orator, but not after their fashion : for they, as I affirm, have said nothing true ; but from me you shall hear the whole truth. Not indeed, Athenians, arguments highly wrought, as theirs were, with choice phrases and expressions, nor adorned, but you shall hear a speech uttered without premeditation, in such words as first present themselves. For I am confident that what I say will be just, and let none of you expect other- wise : for surely it would not become my time of life to come before you like a youth with a got up speech. Above all things therefore I beg and implore this of you, O Athenians, if you hear me defending myself in the same language as that in which I am accustomed to speak both in the forum at the counters, where many of you have heard -me, and elsewhere, not to be surprised or disturbed on this account. For the case is this : I now for the first time come before a court of justice, though more than seventy years old ; I am therefore utterly a stranger to the language here. As, then, if I were really a , stranger, you would have pardoned me if I spoke in the lan- guage and the manner in which I had been educated, so now I ask this of you as an act of justice, as it appears to me, to 4 THE APOLOGY OV SOOBATES. disregard the manner of my speech, for perhaps it may be somewhat worse, and perhaps better, and to consider this only, and to give your attention to this, whether I speak what is just 01 not ; for this is the virtue of a judge, but of an orator to spsak the truth. 2. First then, O Athenians, I am right in defending myself against the first false accusations alleged against me, and my first accusers, and then against the latest accusations, and the Atest accusers. For many have been accusers of me to you, and for many years, who have asserted nothing true, of whom I am more afraid than of Anytus and his party, although they too are formidable ; but those are still more formidable, Athe- nians, who laying hold of many of you from childhood, have persuaded you, and accused me of what is not true : — " that there is one Socrates, a wise man, who occupies himself about celestial matters, and has explored every thing under the earth, and linakes the worse appear the better reason." Those, O Athenians, who have spread abroad this report are my formid- able accusers : for they who hear them think that such as search into these things do not believe that there are gods. In the next place, these accusers are numerous, and have accused me now for a long time ; moreover they said these things to you at that time of life in which you were most credulous, when you were boys and some of you youths, and they accused me altogether in my absence, when there was no one to defend me. But the most unreasonable thing of all is, that it is not possible to learn and mention their names, except that one of them happens to be a comic poet*. Such, however, as influenced by envy and calumny have persuaded you, and those who, being themselves persuaded, have persuaded others, all these are most difficult to deal with ; for it is not possible to bring any of them forward here, nor to confute any ; but it is altogether necessary, to fight as it were with a shadow, in making my defence, and to convict when there is no one to answer. Consider, therefore, as I have said, that my accusers are twofold, some who have lately accused me, and others long since, whom I have made mention of; and believe that I ought to defend myself against these first; for you heard them accusing me first, and much more than these last. Well. I must make my defence then, O Athenians, and * Aristopiianei. THE APOLOGY OP SOCRATES. $ endeavour in this so short a space of time to remove from your minds the calumny which you have long entertained. I wish, indeed, it might be so, if it were at all better both for you and me, and that in making my defence I could effect some- thing more advantageous still : I think however that it will be difficult, and I am not entirely ignorant what the difficulty is. Nevertheless let this turn out as may be pleasing to God, I must obey the law, and make my defence. 3. Let us then repeat from the beginning what the accusa- tion is from which the calumny against me has arisen, and relying on which Melitus has preferred this indictment against me. Well. What then do they who charge me say in their charge ? For it is necessaiy to read their deposition as of public accusers. " Socrates acts wickedly, and is criminally curious in searching into things under the earth, and in the heavens, and in making the worse appear the better cause, and in teaching these same things to others." Such is the accusa- tion : for such things you have yourselves seen in the comedy of Aristophanes, one Socrates there carried about, saying that lie walks in the air, and acting many other buffooneries, of which I understand nothing whatever// Nor do I say this as disparaging such a science, if there be any one skilled in such things, only let me not be prosecuted by Melitus on a charge of this kind ; but I say it, O Athenians, because I have no- thing to do with such matters. And I call upon most of you as witnesses of this, and require you to inform and tell each other, as many of you as have ever heard me conversing ; and there are many such among you. Therefore tell each other, if any one of you has ever heard me conversing little or much on such subjects. And from this you will know that other things also, which the multitude assert of me, are of a similar nature. 4. However not one of these things is true ; nor, if you have heard from any one that I attempt to teach men, and require pay- ment, is this true. Though this indeed appears to me to be an honourable thing, if one should be able to instruct men, like Giorgias the Leontine, Frodicusthe Cean, and Hippias the Elean. For each of these, O Athenians, is able, by going through the several cities, to persuade the young men, who can attach them- selves gratuitously to such of their own fellow citizens as they please, to abandon their fellow citizens and associate with them, giving them money and thanks besides. There is al^o another e THK APOLOGY OF SOCRATES. wise man here, a Parian, who I hear is slaying in the city. For I happened to visit a person who spends more money on the sophists than all others together, I mean Callias, son of Hip. ponicus. I therefore asked him, for he has two sons, " Callias," I said, " if your two sons were colts or calves, we should have had to choose a master for them and hire a person who would make them excel in such qualities as belong to their nature : and' he would have been a groom or an agricultural labourer. But now, since your sons are men, what master do you intend to choose for them ? Who is there skilled in the qualities that become a man and a citizen ? For I suppose you must have considered this, since you have sons. Is there any one," I said, " or not ?" " Certainly," he answered. " Who is he ?" said I, " and whence does he come ? and on what terms does he teach ?" He replied, " Evenus the Parian, Socrates, for five minse." And I deemed Evenus happy, if he really possesses this art, and teaches so admirably. And I too should think highly of myself and be very proud, if I possessed this know- ledge ; but I possess it not, O Athenians. 5. Perhaps, one of you may now object : " But, Socrates, what have you done then? Whence have' these calumnies against you arisen? For surely if you had not busied yourself more than others, such a report and story would never have got abroad, unless you had done something different from what most men do. Tell us, therefore, what it is, that we may not pass a hasty judgment on you." He who speaks thus appears to me to speak justly, and I will endeavour to shew you what it is that has occasioned 'me this character and imputation. Listen then : to some of you perhaps I shall appear to jest, yet be assured that I shall tell you the whole' truth. For I, O Athenians, have acquired this character through nothing else than a certain wisdom. Of what kind, then, is this wisdom ? Perhaps it is merely human wisdom. For in this, in truth I appear to be wise/ They probably, whom I just now men- tioned, possessed a wisdom more than human, otherwise I know not what to say about it; for I am not acquainted with it, and whosoever says I am, speaks falsely and for the purpose of calumniating me. But, O Atheniaiis, do not cry out against me, evei though I should seem to you to speak somewhat arrogantly. For the account which I am going to {five you, is not my own, but I shall refer to an authority whom THE APOLOGY OF SOCRATES, 7 you will doem worthy of credit. For I shall adduce to you the god at Delphi as a witness of my wisdom, if I have any, and of w^at it is. You doubtless know ChiErepho : he was my asso- ciate from youth, and the associate of most of you ; he accom* panied you in your late exile and returned with you. You know, then, what kind of a man Chsrepho was, how earnest in what, ever he undertook. Having once gone to Delphi, he ventured to make the following inquiry of the oracle, (and, as I said, O Athenians, do not cry out,) for he asked if there was any one wiser than me. The JPythian thereupon answered that there was not one wiser: and of this, his brother here will give you proofs, since he himself is dead. 6. Consider then why I mention these things : it is because I am going to shew you whence the calumny against me arose. For when I heard this, I reasoned thus with myself. What does the god mean ? What enigma is this ? For I am not conscious to myaelf that I am wise, either much or little. What then does he mean by saying that I am the wisest ? For assuredly he does not speak falsely : that he cannot do. And for a long time, I was in doubt what he meant; afterwards with con- siderable diflBculty I had recourse to the following method of searching cut his meaning. I went to one of those who have the character of being wise, thinking that there, if any where, I should confute the oracle, and shew in answer to the response that This man is wiser than I, though you affirmed that I was the wisest. Having then examined, this man, (for , there is no occasion to mention his name, he was however one of our great politicians, in examiping whom I felt as I-proceed to describe, O Athenians,) having fallen into, conversation with him, this man appeared to me to be wise in the opinion of most other men, and especially in his own opinion, though in fact he was not so. I thereupon endeavoured to shew him that he fancied himself to be wise, but really was not. Hence I became odious both to him, and to many others who were present. When I left him, I reasoned thus with myself, I am wiser than this man, for neither of us appear to know any thing great and good : but he fancies he knows something, although he knows nothing, whereas I, as I do not know any thing, so I do not fancy I do. In this trifling particular, then, I appear to be wiser than him, because I do not fancy I know what I do not know. After that I went to another who was thought to 8 THE APOLOGY OF SOCRATES. be wiser than the former, and formed the veiy same opinion. Hence I became odious to him and to many others. 7. After this I went to others in turn, perceiving indeed and grieving and alarmed that I was making myself odious ; how- ever it appeared necessary to regard the oracle of the god as of the greatest moment, and that in order to discover its mean- ing, I must go to all who had the reputation of possessing any knowledge. And by the dog, O Athenians, for I must tell you the truth, I came to some such conclusion as this : those who bore the highest reputation appeared to me to be most deficient, in my researches in obedience to the god, and others who were considered inferior, more nearly approaching to the possession of understanding. But I must relate to you my wandering, and the labours which I underwent, in order that the oracle might prove incontrovertible. For after the politi- cians I went to the poets as well the tragic as the dithyrambic and others, expecting that here I should in very fact Slid my- self more ignorant than them. Taking up, therefore, some of their poems, which appeared to me most elaborately finished, I questioned them as to their meaning, that at the same time I might learn something from them. I am ashamed, O Athe- nians, to tell you the truth ; however it must be told. For, in a word, almost all who were present could have given a better account of them than those by whom they had been composed. I soon discovered this, therefore, with regard to the poets, that they do not efi^ect their object by wisdom, but by a certain natural inspiration and under the infiuence of enthusiasm like prophets and seers; for these also say many fine things, but they understand nothing that they Say. The poets appeared- to me to be afiected in a similar manner : and at the same time I perceived that they considered themselves, on account of their poetry, to be the wisest of men in other things, in which they were not. I left them, therefore, under the persuasion that I was superior to them, in the same way that I was to the poli- ticians. 8. At last, therefoi'e, I went to the artizans. For I was conscious to myself that I knew scarcely any thing, but I was sure that I should find them possessed of much beautiful know- ledge. And in this I was not deceived ; for they knew things which I did not, and in this respect they were wiser than me. But, O Athenians, even the best workmen appeared to me to THE APOLOGY OF SOCRATES. 9 have fallen into the same error as the poets : for each, because he excelled in the practice of his art, thought that he ■was very wise in other most important matters, and this mistake of theirs ob- scured the wisdom that they really possessed'. I therefore asked myself in behalf of the oracle, whether I shoiild prefer to con- tinue as I am, possessing none either of their wisdom or their ignorance, or to have both as they have. I answered, therefore, to myself and to the oracle, that it was better for me to con- tinue as I am. 9. From this investigation, then, O Athenians, many enmities have arisen against me, and those the most grievous and severe, so that many calumnies have sprung from them and amongst them this appellation of being wise. For those who are from time to time present think that I am wise in those things, with respect to which I expose the ignorance of others. The god how- ever, 0_Athenians, appears to be really wise, and to mean this by his oilicle, that human wisdom is worth little or nothing ; and it is clear that he did not say this of Socrates, but made use of my name, putting me forward as an example, as if he had said, that man is the wisest among you, who, like Socrates, knows that he is in reality worth nothing with respect to wisdom'. Still there- fore I go about and search and inquire into these things, in obedience to the god, both among citizens and strangers, if I think any one of tliem is wise ; and when he appears to me not to be so, I take the part of the god, and shew that he is not wise. And in consequence of this occupation I have no leisure to attend in any considerable degree to the affairs of the state or my own ; but I am in the greatest poverty through my devo- tion to the service of the god. 10. In addition to this, young men, who have much leisure and belong to the wealthiest families, following me of their own accord, take great delight in hearing men put to the test, and often imitate me, and themselves attempt to put others to the test: and then, I think, they find a great abundance of men v.'ho fancy they know something, although they know little or nothing. Hence those who are put to the test by them are angry with me, and not with them, and say that " there is one Socrates, a most pestilent fellow, who corrupts the youth." And when any one asks them by doing or teaching what, they have nothing to say, for they do not know : but that they may uct seem to be at a loss, they say such things as are ready &t 10 THE APOLOGY OF SOCRATES. hand against all philosophers ; " that he searches into things in heaven and things under the earth, that he does not believe there are gods, and that he makes the worse appear the better reason." For they would not, I think, be willing to tell the truth, that they have been detected in pretending to possess knowledge, whereas they know nothing. Therefore, I think, being ambitious and vehement and numerous, and speaking systematically and persuasively about me, they have filled your ears, for a long time and diligently calumniating me. From amongst these, Melitus, Anytus, and Lycon, have attacked me ; Melitus being angry on account of the poets, Anytus on account of the artizans and politicians, and Lycon on account of the rhetoricians. So that as I said in the beginning, I should wonder if I were able in so short a time to remove from your minds a calumny that has prevailed so long. This, O Athe- nians, is the truth ; and I speak it without concealing or dis- guising any thing from -you, much or little ; though I very well know that by so doing I shall expose myself to odium. This however is a proof that I speak the trutli, and that this is the nature of the calumny against me, and that these are its causes, And if you will investigate the matter, either now or hereafter, you will find it to be so. 1 1 . With respect then to the charges which my first accusers have alleged against me, let this be a sufiicient apology to you. To Melitus, that good and patriotic man, as he says, and to my later accusers, I will next endeavour to give an answer ; and here again, as there are different accusers let us take up their deposition. It is pretty much as follows : " Socrates," it says, " acts unjustly in corrupting the youth, and in not believing in those gods in whom the city believes, but in other strange divinities." Such is the accusation ; let us examine each par- ticular of it. It says that I act unjustly in corrupting the youth. But I, O Athenians, say that Melitus acts unjustly, because he jests on serious subjects, rashly putting men upon trial, under pretence of being zealous and solicitous about things in which he never at any time took any concern. But that this is the case I will endeavour to prove to you. 12. Come then, Melitus, tell me ; do you not consider it of the greatest importance that the yputh should be made as vir- tuous as possible f Mel. I do, THE APOLOGY OF SOCBATES. 11 Soer. Well now, tell the judges who it is that makes them better, for it is evident that you know, since ft concerns you so much : for, having detected me in corrupting them, as you say, you have cited me here and accused me ; come then, say, and inform the judges who it is that makes them better. Do you see, Melitus, that you are silent, and have nothing to say? Bat does it not appear to you to be disgraceful and a suificient proof of what I say, that you never took any concern about the matter ? But tell me, friend, who makes them better ? Mel. The laws. Soer. I do not ask this, most excellent sir, but what man, who surely must first know this very thing, the laws ? Mel. These, Socrates, the judges. Soer. How say you, Melitus ? Are these able to instruct the youth, and make them better ? Mel. Certainly. Soer. Whether all, or some of them, and others not? Mel. All. Soer. You say well, by Juno, and have found a great abundance of those that confer benefit. But what further? Can these hearers make them better, or not? Mel. They too can. Soer. And what of the senators ? Mel. The senators also. Soer. But, Melitus, do those who attend the public assemblies corrupt the younger men? or do they all make them better? Mel. They too. Soer. All the Athenians therefore, as it seems, make them honourable and good, except me,, but I alone corrupt them. Do you say so ? Mel. I do assert this very thing. Soer. You charge me with great ill-fortune. But answer me : does it appear to you to be the same with respect to horses ? do all men make them better, and is there only some one that spoils them ? or does quite the contrary of this take place ? is there some one person who can makt them better, or very few, that is the trainers? but if the generality of men should meddle with and make use of horses, do they spoil them .' Is not this the case, Melitus, both with respect to horses and all other animals? It certainly is so, whether you and Auytus deny it or not. For it would be a great gopd-fortunQ 12 THE APOLOGY OP SOCKATES. for the youth if only one person corrupted, and the rest bene, fited them. However, Melitus, you have sufficiently shewn that you never bestowed any care upon youth ; and you clearly evince your own negligence, in that you have never paid any attention to the things with respect to which you accuse me. 1 3. Tell us further, Melitus, in the name of Jupiter, whether is it better to dwell with good or bad citizens? Answer, my friend : for I ask you nothing difficult. Do not the bad work some evil to those that are continually near them, but the good some good ? Md, Certainly. Socr. Is thei'e any one that wishes to be injured rather than benefited by his associates ? Answer, good man : for the law requires you to answer. Is there any one who wishes to be injured? Mel. No, surely. Socr. Come then, whether do you accuse me here, as one that corrupts the youth, and makes them more depraved, designedly or undesignedly ? Mel. Designedly, I say. Socr. What then, Melitus, are you at your time of life so much wiser than me at my time of life, as to know that the evil aie always working some evil to those, that are most near to them, and the good some good ; but I have arrived at such a pitch of ignorance as not to know, that if I make any one of my associates depraved, I shall be in danger of receiving some evil from him, and yet I designedly bring about this so great evil, as you say ? In this I cannot believe you, Melitus, nor do I think would any other man in the world : but either I do not corrupt the youth, or if I do corrupt them, I do it unde- signedly: so that in both cases you speak falsely. But if I corrupt them undesignedly, for such involuntary oflfe;)ces it is not usual to accuse one here, but to take one apart and teach and admonish one. For it is evident that if I am taught, I shall cease doing what I do undesignedly. But you shunned me, and were not willing to associate with and instruct me, but you accuse me here, where it is usual to accuse those who need punishment, and not instruction. 14. Thus, then, O Athenians, this now is clear that I Lave said, that Melitus never paid any attention to these matters, much or little. However tell usi Melitus, how you say I cor* THE APOLOGY OF SOGBATES. 18 rupt the youth ? Is it not evidently, according to the indict- ment which you have preferred,' by teaching them not to be- lieve in the gods in whom the city believes, but in other strange deities ? Do you not say that by teaching ttese things, I corrupt the youth ? Mel. Certainly I do say so, &ocr. By those very gods, therefore, Melitus, of whom the discussion now is, speak still more clearly both to me and to these men. For I cannot understand whether you say that I leach them to believe that there are certain gods, (and in that case I do believe that there are gods, and am not altogether an atheist, nor in this respect to blame,) not however those which the city believes in, but others, and this it is that you accuse me of, that I introduce others ; or do you say outright that I do not myself believe that there are gods, and that I teach others the same ? Mel. I say this, that you do not believe in any gods at all. Socr. O wonderful Melitus, how come you to say this ? Do I not then like the rest of mankind, believe that the sun and moon are gods ? Mel. No, by Jupiter, O judges : for he says that the sun is a stone, and the moon an earth. "*^ow-. You fancy that you are accusing Anaxagoras^ my dear Melitus, and thus you put a slight on these men, and suppose them to be so illiterate, as not to know that the books of Anax- agoras of Clazomene are full of such assertions. And the young, moreover, learn these things from me, which they might pur- chase for a drachma, at most, in the orchestra, and so ridicule Socnates, if he pretended they were his own, especially since they are so absurd "i I ask then, by Jupiter, do I appear to you to believe that there is no god ? ^-JkfeJ. No, by Jupiter, none whatever. Soar. You say what is incredible, Melitus, and that, as ap- pears to me, even to yourself. For this man, O Athenians, appears to me to be very insolent and intemperate, and to have preferred this indictment through downright insolence, intem- perance and wantonness. For he seems, as it were, to have composed an enigma for the purpose of making an experiment. Whether will Socrates the wise know that I am jesting, and contradict myself, or shall I deceive him and all who hear me ? For in my opinion he clearly contradicts himself in the 14 THE APOLOGY OP SOCRATES. indictinent, as if he should say, Socrates is guilty of wrong ill not believing that there are gods, and in believing that there are gods. And this, surely, is the act of one who is trifling. 15. Consider with me now, Athenians, in what respect he ap- pears to me to say so. And do you, Melitus, answer me ; and do ye, as I besought you at the outset, remember not to make an uproar if I speak after my usual manner. Is there any man, Melitus, who believes that there are human affairs, but does not believe that there are men ? Let him answer, judges, and not make so much noise. Is there any one who does not believe that there are horses, but that there are things pertaining to horses ? or who does not believe that there are pipers, but that there are things pertaining to pipes ? There is not, O best of men : for since you are not willing to answer, I say it to you and to all here present. But answer to this at least : is there any one who believes that there are things relating to demons, but does not believp that there are demons'I Mel. There is not. Socr, How obliging you are in having hardly answered, though compelled by these judges. You assert then that I do believe and teach things relating to demons, whether they be new or old ; therefore, according to your admission, I do believe in things relating to demons, and this you have sworn in the bill of indictment. If then I believe in things relating to demons, there is surely an absolute necessity that I should believe that there are demons. Is it not so ? It is. For I suppose you to assent, since you do not answer. But with respect to demons, do we not allow that they are gods, or the children of gods ? Do you admit this or not ? Mel. Certainly. Socr. Since then I allow that there are demons as you ad- mit, if demons are a kind of gods, this is the point in which I say you speak enigmatically and divert yourself in saying that I do not allow there are gods, and again that I do allow there are, since I allow that there are demons ? But if demons are the children of gods, spurious ones, either from nymphs or any others, of whom they are reported to be, what man can think that there are sons of gods, and yet that there are not gods ? For it would be just as absurd, as if any one should think that there are mules the offspring of horses and asses, but should not think there are horses and asses. However, Melitus. it • The Greek word daimon means a spiritual ageucy, and is not used by Socrates in a bad sense. THE APOLOGY OP SOCRAtES. 15 cannot be otherwise than that yau have preferred this indict- ment for the purpose of trying me, or because you were at a loss what real crime to allege against me : for that you should persuade any man who has the smallest degree of sense, that the same person can think that there are things relating to demons and to gods, and yet that there are neither demons, nor gods', nor heroes, is utterly impossible. 16. That I am not guilty then, O Athenians, according to the indictment of Melitus, appears to me not to require a length- ened defence ; but what I have said is sufficient. And as to what I said at the beginning, that there is a great enmity to- wards me among the multitude, be assured it is true. And this it is which will condemn me, if I am condemned, not Melitus, nor Anytus, but the calumny and envy of the multitude, which have already condemned many others, and those good men, and will I think condemn others also ; for there is no danger that it will stop with me. Perhaps, however, some one may say, " Are you not ashamed, Socrates, to have pursued a study, from which you are now in danger of dying?" To such a person I should answer with good reasonfYou do not say well, friend, if you think that a man, who is even of the least value, ought to take into the account the risk of life or death, and ought not to consider that alone when he performs any action, whether he is acting justly or unjustly, and the part of a good man or bad man. For accord- ing to your reasoning, all those demi-gods that died at Troy would be vile characters, as well all the rest as the son of Thetis, who so far despised danger in comparison of submitting to dis- grace, that when his mother, who was a goddess, spoke to him, in his impatienbe to kill Hector, something to this effect, as I think ^, " My son, if you revenge the death of your friend Patroclus, and slay Hector, you will yourself die, for," she said, " death awaits you immediately after Hector." But he, on hearing this, despised death and danger, and dreading much more to live as a coward, and not avenge his friends said ; " May I die immediately, when I have inflicted punish- ment on the guilty, that I may not stay here an object of ridi- cule, by the curved ships, a burden to the ground ?" Do you think that he cared for death and danger ? For thus it is, O Athenians, in truth ; wherever any one has posted himself, " Iliad lib. xviii. ver 9i, &c. 18 THE APOLOGY OF SOCRATES. eithei thinking it to be better, or has been posted by his chief, there, as it appears to me, he ought to remain and meet danger taking no account either of death or any thing else in compari- son with disgrace. 17. I tlien should be acting strangely, O Athenians, if, when the generals whom you chose to command me assigned me my post at Potidsea, at Amphipolis, and at Delium, I then remained where they posted me, like any other person, and encountered the danger of death, but when the deity as I thought and be- lieved, assigned it as my duty to pass my life in the study of philosophy, and in examming myself and others, I should on that occasion, through fear of death or any thing else whatso- ever, desert my post. Strange indeed would it be, and then in truth any one ^ight justly bring me to trial, and accuse me of not believing in the gods, from disobeying the oracle, fearing death, and thinking myself to be wise when I am not. For to fear death, O Athenians, is nothing else than to appear to be wise, without being so ; for it is to appear to know what one does notknow. For no one knows but that death is the greatest of all goods to man ; but men fear it, as if they well knew that it is the greatest of evils. And how is not this the most repre- hensible ignorance, to think that one knows what one does not know ? But I, O Athenians, in this perhaps differ from most men ; and if 1 should say that I am in any thing wiser than another, it would be in this, that not having a competent know- ledge of the things in Hades, I also think that I have not such knowledge. But to act unjustly, and to disobey my superior, whether God or man, I know is evil and base. I shall never, therefore, fear or shun things which, for aught I know, may be good, before evils which I know to be evils./ So that even if you should now dismiss me, not yielding to the instances of Anytus, who said that either I should not" appear here at all, or that, if I did appear, it was impossible not to put me to death, telling you that if I escaped, your sons, studying what Socrates teaches,' would all be utterly corrupted; if ycu should address me thus, " Socrates, we shall not now yield to Anytus, but dismiss you, on this condition however, that you no longer persevere in your researches nor study philosophy, and if here, after you are detected in so doing, you shall die," — if, as I said, yuu should dismiss me on these terms, I should say to you^: • See the Ciito s. 5. THE APOLOGY OF SOCBATES. 17 " O Athenians, I honour and love you : hut I shall obey God rather than you ; and as long as I breathe and am able, I shall not cease studying philosophy, and exhorting you and warning any one of you I may happen to meet, saying as I have been ac- customed to do : ' O best of men, seeing you are an Athenian, of a city the most powerful and most renowned for wisdom and strength, are yOu not ashamed of being careful for riches, how you may acquire them in greatest abundance, and for glory and honour, but care not nor take any thought for wisdom and truth, and for your soul, how it may be made most perfect ?' " And if any one of you should question my assertion, and affirm that he does care for these things, I shall not at once let him go, nor depart, but I shall question him, sift -and prove him. And if he should appear to me not to possess virtue, but to pretend that he does, I shall reproach him for that he sets the least value on things of the greatest worth, but the highest on things that are worthless. Thus I shall act to all whom I meet, both young and old, stranger and citizen, but rather to you my fellow citizens, because ye are more nearly allied to me. For be well assured, this the deity commands. And I think that no greater good has ever befallen you in the city, than my zeal for the service of the god. For I go about doing nothing else than persuading you, both young and old, to. take no care either for the body, or for riches, prior to or so much as for the soul, how it may be made most perfect, telling you that virtue does not spring from riches, but riches and all other human blessings, both private and public, from virtue. If, then, by saying these things, I corrupt the youth, these things must be mischievous ; but if any one says that I speak other things than these, he misleads you"*. Therefore I must say, O Athenians, either yield to Anytus or do not, either dismiss me or not, since I shall not act otherwise, even though I must die many deaths. 18. Murmur not, O Athenians, but continue to attend to my request, not to murmur at what I say, but to listen, for aS' I think, you will derive benefit from listening. For I am going to say other things to you, at which perhaps you will raise a clamour ; but on no account do so. Be well assured, then, it you put me to death, being such a man as I say I am, you will OvSev \eyei, liteially " he Bays nothing:" gu se trompe, o;i I'cn vous impose, Cousin, 18 THE APOLOGY OP SOCEATES. not injure me more than yourselves. For neither will IMeli&uc nor Anytus harn me ; nor have they the power : for I do not think that it is possible for a better man to be injured by a worse. He may perhaps have me condemned to death, or banished or deprived of civil rights ; and he or others may per- haps consider these as mighty evils : I however do not consider them so, but that it is much more so to do what he in now doing, to endeavour to put a man to death unjustly. ^Now, therefore, O Athenians, I am far from making a defence on my own behalf, as any one might think, but I do so on your behalf, lest by condemning me you should offend at all with respect to the gift of the deity to you. For, if you should put me to death, you will not easily find such another, though it may be ridi- culous to say so, altogether attached by the deity to this city as to a powerful and generous horse, somewhat sluggish from his size, and requiring to be roused hy a gad-flji^ so the deity appears to have united me, being. such a person as I am, to the city, that I may rouse you, and persuade and reprove eveiy one of you, nor ever cease besetting you throughout the whole day. Such another man, O Athenians, will not easily be found, there- fore, if you will take my advice, you will spare me. But you, perhaps,being irritated, like drowsy persons who are roused from sleep, will strike me, and, yielding to Anytus, will unthinkinglj* condemn me to death ; and then you will pass the rest of your life in sleep, unless the deity, caring for you, should send some one else to you. But that I am a person who has been given by the deity to this city, you may discern from hence; for it is not like the ordinary conduct of men, that I should have neglected all my own affairs and suffered my private interest to be neglect- ' ed for so many years, and that I should constantly attend to your concerns, addressing myself to each of you separately, like a ' father, or elder brother, persuading you to the pursuit of virtue And if I had derived any profit from this course, and had re- ceived pay for my exhortations, there would have been some reason for my conduct ; but now you see yourselves, that my accusers, who have so shamelessly calumniated me in every thing else, have not had the impudence to -charge me with this, and to bring witnesses to prove that I ever either exacted or demanded any reward. And I think I produce a sufficient proof that I speak the truth, namely, my poverty. 19. Perhaps, however, it may appear absurd, that I, going THE APOLOGY OF SOCRATES. 19 about, thus jwvise you in private and make myself busy, but never venture to present myself in public before your assem- blies and give advice to the city. The cause of this is that which you have often and in many places heard me mention : baeause I am moved by a certain divine and spiritual influence, vHiich also Melitus, through mockery, has set out in the indict- ment. This began with me from childhood, being a kind of voice which, when present, always diverts me from what I am about to do, but never urges me on. This it is which opposed my meddling in public politics ; and it appears to me to have opposed me vesy properly. For be well assured, O Athenians, if I had long since attempted to intermeddle with politics, I should have perished long ago, and should not have at all bene- filed you or myself. And be not angry with me for speaking the truth. For it is not possible that any man should be safe, who sincerely opposes either you, or any other multitude, and who prevents many unjust and illegal actions from being com- • mitted in a city ; but it is necessaiy that he who in earnest contends for justice, if he will be safe for but a short time, should live privately, and take no part in public afiairs. 20. I wiU give you strong proofs of this, not words, but, what you value, facts. Hear then what has happened to me, that you may know that I would not yield to any one contrary to what is just, through fear of death, at the same time that, by not yielding, I must perish. I shall tell you what will be displeas- ing and wearisome'', yet true. For I, O Athenians, never bore any other magisterial office in the city, but have been a senator: and our Antiochean tribe happened to, supply the Prytanes when you chose to condemn in a body the ten generals, who had not taken off those that perished in the sea-fight, in viola- tion of the lay, as you afterwards all thought. At that time I alone of the Prytanes opposed your doing any thing con^ trary to the laws, and I voted against you ; and when the orators were ready to denounce me, and to carry me before a magis- trate, and you urged and cheered them on, I thought I ought rather to meet the danger with law and justice on my side, than through fear of imprisonment or death to take part with you in your unjust designs! And this happened while the city was " But for the authority of Stallbaum, I should have translated SiKavm.* " forensic," that is, such arguments as an advocate would use in a court of justice. 20 THE APOLOGY OF SOCRATES. governed by a democracy. But when it became an oligarchy the Thirty, having sent for me with four others to the TholuSj ordered us to bring Leon the Salaminian from Salamis, that he might be put to death; and they gave many similar orders to many others, wishing to involve as many as they could in guilt. Then however I shewed, not in word but in deed, that I did not care for death, if the expression be not too rude, in the smallest degree, but that aU my care was to do nothing unjust or unholy. For that government, strong as it was, did not so overawe me as to make me commit an unjust action ; but when we came out from the Tholus, the four went to Salamis, and brought back Leon ; but I went away home. And perhaps for this I should have been put to deatli, if that government had not been speedily broken up. And of this you can have many wit- nesses. 21. Do you think, then, that I should have survived so many years, if I had engaged in public affairs, and, acting as becomes a good man, had Elided the cause of justice, and, as I ought, had deemed this of the highest importance ? Far from it, O Athenians : nor would any other man have done so. But I, through the whole of my life, if I have done any thing in public, shall be found to be a man, and the very same in private, who has never made a concession to any one contrary to justice, neither to any other, nor to any one of these whom my calum- niators say are my' disciples. I however was never the pre- ceptor of any one ; but if any one desired to hear me speaking and to see me busied about my own mission, whether he were young or old, I never refused him. Nor do I discourse when I receive money, and not when I do not receive any, but I allow both rich and poor alike to question me, and, if any one wishes it, to answer me and hear what I have to say. And for these, whether any one proves to be a good man or not, I cannot justly be responsible, because I never either promised them any in- struction or taught them at all. But if any one sayg that he has eve'r learnt or heard any thing from me in private, which all others have not, be well assured that he does not speak the truth. 22. But why do some delight to spend so long a time with me ? Ye have heard, O Athenians. I have told you the whole truth, tliat they delight to hear those closely questioned who think that they are wise but are not : for this is by no means THE APOLOGY OF SOCRATES. 21 disagreeable. But this duty, as I say, has been enjoined me J)y the deity, by oracles, by dreams, and by every mode by which any other divine decree has ever enjoined any thing to man to do. These things, O Athenians, are both true, and easily confuted if not true. For if I am now corrupting some of the youths, and have already corrupted others, it were fitting, surely, that if any of them, having become advanced in life, had aiscovered that I gave them bad advice when they were young, they should now rise up against me, accuse me, and have me punished ; or if they were themselves unwilling to do this, some of their kindred, their fathers, or brothers, or other relatives, if their kinsmen have ever sustained any damage from me, should uow call it to i^d. Many of them however are here present, whom I see-.y^^t, Crito, my contemporary and fellow-burgher, father of this Critobulus; then, Lysanias of Sphettus, father of this .ffischines ; again, Antiphon of Cephisus, father of Epi- genes ; there are those others too, whose brothers maintained the same intimacy with me, namely, Nicostratus, son of Theos- dotidus, brother of Theodotus — Theodotus indeed is dead, so that he could not deprecate his brother's proceedings, and Paralus here, son of Demodocus, whose brother was Theages ; and Adimantus son of Ariston, whose brother is this Plato ; and ^antodorus, whose brother is this Apollodoru^ I could also mention many others to you, some one of whom certainly Melitus ought to have adduced in his speech as a witness. If however he then forgot to do so, let him now adduce them, I give him leave to do so, and let him say it, if he has any thing of the kind to allege. But quite contrary to this, you will find, Athenians, all ready tp assist me, who have corrupted and injured their relatives, as Melitus and Anytus say. For those who have been themselves corrupted might perhaps have some reason for assisting me ; but those who have not been corrupted, men now advanced in life, their relatives, what other reason can they have for assisting me, except that right and just one, that they know that Melitus speaks falsely, and that I speak the truth. 23. Well then, Athenians ; these are pretty much the things 1 have to say in my defence, and others perhaps of the same Kind. Perhaps, however, some among you will be indignant on recollecting his own case, if he, when engaged in a cause far less than this, implored and besought the judges with many 22 THE A?6L0GV OF SOCRATES tears, bringing forward his children in order that he might e5t- cite their utmost compassion, and many others of his relatives and friends, whereas I do none of these things, although I may appear to be incurring the extremity of danger. Perhaps, therefore, some one, taking notice of this, may become more determined against me, and, being enraged at this very con- duct of mine, may give his vote under the influence of anger. If then a,ny one of you is thus affected, — I do not however suppose that there is, — ^but if there should be, I think I may reasonably say to him ; "I too, O best of men, have relatives ; for to make use of that saying of Homer, I am not sprung from an oak, nor from a rock, but, from men, so that I too, O Athe- nians, have relatives, and three sons, one now grown up,.and two boys : I shall not however bring any one of them forward and implore you to acquit me. Why then shall I not do this ' Not from contumacy, O Athenians, nor disrespect towards you. Whether or not I am undaunted at the prospect of death, is another question, but out of regard to my own character, and yours, and that of the whole city, it does not appear to me to be honourable that I should do any thing of this kind at my age, and with the reputation I have, whether true or false, Por it is commonly agreed that Socrates in some respects excels the generality of men. If, then, those among you who appear to excel eidier in wisdom, or fortitude, or any other virtue whatsoever, should act in such a manner as I have often seen some when they have been brought to trial, it would be shameful, who appearing indeed to be something, have con- ducted themselves in a surprising manner, as thinking they should suffer something dreadful by dying, and as if they would he immortal if you did not put them to death. Such men appear to me to bring disgrace on the city, so that any stranger might suppose that such of the Athenians as exqel in virtue, and whom they themselves choose in preference to them- selves for magistracies and other honours, are in no respect superior to women. For these things, O Athenians, neither ought we to do who have attained to any height of reputa- tion, nor, should we do them, ought you to suffer us ; but you should make this manifest, that you will much rather condemn him who introduces these piteous dramas, and makes the city Ridiculous, than him who quietly awaits your decision. Sd. But reputation apart, Athenians, it does sot appear THE AfOLOGY 01* SOCllATES. 63 to me to be right to entreat a judge, or to escape by en- treaty, but one ought to inform and persuade him. For a judge does not sit for the purpose of administering justipe out of favour,- but that he may judge r-ightly, and he is sworn not to shew favour to whom he pleases, but that he will decide ac- cording to the laws. It is therefore right that neither should we accustom you, nor should you accustom yourselves to violate your oaths ; for in so doing neither of us would act righteously. Thinh; not then, O Athenians, that I ought to adopt such a course towards you as I neither consider honourable, nor just, nor holy, as well, by Jupiter, on any other occasion, and now especially ,when I am accused of impiety by this Melitus. For clearly, if I should persuade you, and by my entreaties should put a constraint on you who are bound by an oath, I should teach you to think that there are no gods, and in reality, while making my defence, should accuse myself of not believing in the gods. This, however, is far from being the case : for I believe, O Athenians, as none of my accusers do, and I leave it to you and to the deity to judge concerning me in such way as will be best both for me and for you. [Socrates here concludes his defence, and the votes being taken, he is declared guilty by a majority of voices. He thereupon resumes his address.] 25. That I should not be grieved, O Athenians, at what has happened, namely, that you have condemned me, as well many other circumstances concur in bringing' to pass, and moreover this, that what has happened has not happened contrary to my expectation ; but I much rather wonder at the number of votes on either side. For I did not expect that I should be condemned by so small a number, but by a large majority; but now, as it seems, if only three more votes had changed sides, I should have been acquitted. As far as Melitus is concerned, as it appears to me, I have been already acquitted, and not only have I been acquitted, but it is clear to every one that had not Anytus and Lycon corpe forward to accuse me, he would have been fined a thousand drachmas, for not having obtained a fifth part of the votes. 26. The man then awards me the penalty of death. WelL But what shall I, on my part, Athenians, award myself? Is it not clear that it will be such as I deserve ? What then is that ? do I deserve to suffer or to pay a fine, for that I have -24 THE APOLOGY Of SOCRATES. purposely during my life not remained quiet, tut neglecting what most men seek after, money-making, domestic , concerns, military command, popular oratoiy, and moreover all the magiBtracies, conspiracies and cabals that are met with in the city, thinking that I was in reality too upright a man to be safe if I took part in such things, I therefore did not apply myself to those pursuits, by attending to which I should have been of no service either to ypu or to myself; but in order to confer the greatest benefit on each of you privately, as I affirm, I thereupon applied myself to that object, endeavouring to per- suade every one of you, not to take any care of his own affairs, before he had taken care of himself, in what way he may be- come the best and wisest, nor of the affairs of the city before he took care of the city itself; and that he should attend to other things in the same manner. What treatment then do I deserve, seeing I am such a man? Some reward, O Athenians, if at least I am to be estimated according to my real deserts ; and moreover such a reward as would be suitable to me. What then is suitable to a poor man, a benefactor, and who has need of leisure in order to give you good advice ? There is nothing so suitable, O Athenians, as that such a man should.be main- tained in the Prytaneum, and this much more than if one of you had been victorious at the Olympic games in a horse race, or in the two or four-horsed chariot race : for such a one makes you appear to be happy, but I, to be so : and he does not need support, but I do. If, therefore, I must award a sentence ac- cording to my just deserts, I award this, maintenance in the Prytaneum. 27. Perhaps, however, in speaking to you thus, I appear to you to speak in the same presumptuous manner as I did re- specting commiseration and entreaties : but such is not the case, O Athenians, it is rather this. I am persuaded that I never designedly injured any man, though I cannot persuade- you of this, for we have conversed with each other but for a short time. For if there was the same law with you as with other men, that in capital cases the trial should last not only one day but many, I think you would be persuaded ; but it is not easy in a short time to do away with great calumnies. Being persuaded then that I have injured no one, I am far from intending to injure myself, and of pronouncing against myself that 1 am deserving of punishment, and from awarding THE APOLOGY OF. SOCRATES. 25 myself any thing of the kind. Through fear of what ? lust 1 should suffer that which Melitus awards me, of which I say I know not whether it be good or evil ? instead of this, shall I choose what I well know to be evil, and award that ? ^Shall I choose imprisonment? And why should I live in prison, a slave to the established magistracy, the Eleven ? Shall I choose a fine, and to be imprisoned until I have paid it ?. But this is the;same as that which I just now mentioned, for I have not money to pay it. Shall I then award myself exile? For perhaps you would consent to this award. I should indeed be very fond of life, O Athenians, if I wei-e so devoid of reason as not to be able to re- flect that you, who are my fellow citizens, have been unable to endure my manner of life and discourses, but they have become so burdensome and odious to you, that you now seek to be rid of them : others however will easily bear them : far from it, O Athenians. A fine life it would be for me at my age to go out ■Wandering and driven from city to city, and so to live. For 1 well know that, wherever I may go, the youth will listen to me when I speak, as they do here. And if I repulse them, they will themselves drive me out, persuading the elders ; and if 1 do not repufee them, their fathers and kindred will banish me on their account. 28. Perhaps however some one will say, Can you not, Socrates, when you have gone from us, live a silent and quiet life? This is the most difficult thing of all to persuade some of you. For if I say that that would be to disobey the. deity, and that therefore it is impossible for me to live quietly, you would -^otr believe me, thinking I spoke ironically. If, on the other hand, I say that this is the greatest good to man, to dis- cqjafie daily on virtue, and other things which you have heard it has never through* 28 THE APOLOGY Of SOCRATES. out this proceeding opposed me, either in what I did or said. "What then do I suppose to be the cause of this? I will tell you : what has befallen me appears to be a blessing ; and it is impossible that we thuik rightly who suppose that death is an evil . A great proof of this to mii is the fact that it is im- possible but that the accustomed signal should have opposed me, unless I had been about to meet with some good. 32. Moreover we may hence conclude that there is great hope that death is a blessing. For to die is one of two things : for either the dead may be annihilated and have no sensation of any thing whatever; or, as it is said, there is a certain change and passage of the soul from one place to another. And if it is a privation of all sensation, as it were a sleep in which the sleeper has no dream, death would be a wonderful gain. For I think that if any one, having selected a night, in which he slept so soundly as not to have had a dream, and having compared this night with all the other nights and, days of his life, should be required on considera- tion to say how many days and nights he had passed better and more pleasantly than this night throughout his life, I think that not only a private person, but even the great king himself would find them easy to number in comparison with other days and nights. If, therefore, death is a thing of this kind, I say it is a gain; for thus all futurity appears to be nothing more than one night. But i^ on the other hand, death is a removal from hence to another place, and what is said be true, that all the dead are there, what greater blessing can there be than this, my judges^ For if, on arriving at Hades, released from these who pretend to be judges, one shall find those who are true judges, and who are said to judge there, Minos and Rhadamanthus, JEacus and Triptolemus, and such others of the demigods as were just during their own life, would this be a s?id removal? At what price would you not estimate a conference with Orpheus and Musaeus, Hesiod and Homer? I indeed should be willing to die often, if this be true. For to me the sojourn thei'e would be admirable, when I should meet with Palamedes, and Ajax son of Telamon, ancl any other of the ancients who has died by an unjust sentence. The comparing my suferings with theirs would, I think, be no unpleasiiig occupation. But the greatest pleasure would be to speniA my time in questioning and examining the people there THE APOLOGY OF SOCRATES. 29 as I have done those here, and discovering who among them is wise, and who fancies himself to be so but is not. At what price, my judges, would not any one estimate the opportunity of questioning him who led that mighty army against Troy, or Ulysses, or Sisyphus, or ten thousand others, whom one might mention, both men and women ? with whom to converse and associate, and to question them, would be an inconceivable happiness. Surely for that the judges there do not condemn to death ; for in other respects those who live there are more happy than those that are here, and are henceforth immortal, if at least what is said be true. 33. You, therefore, O my judges, ought to entertain good hopes with respect to death, and to meditate on this one truth, that to a good man nothing is evil, neither while living nor when dead, nor are his concerns neglected by the gods. And what has befallen me is not the effect of chance ; but this is clear to me, that now to die, and be freed from my cares, is better for me. On this account the warning in no way turned me aside; and I bear no resentment towards those who con- demned me, or against my accusers, although they did not con- demn and accuse me with this intention, but thinking to injure •ne : in this they deserve to be blamed. Thus much however I beg of them. Punish my sons, when they grow up, O judges, paining them as I have pained you, if they appear to you to care for riches or any thing else before virtue, and if they think themselves to be something when they are nothing, reproach them as I have done you, for not attending to what they ought, and for conceiving themselves to be something when they are worth nothing. If ye do this, both I and my sons shall have met with just treatment at your hands. But it is now time to depart,— for me to die, for you to live. But which of us is going to a better state is unknown to eveiy one but Gud. INTEODUCTION TO THE CEITO. It has been remarked by Stallbaum that Plato had a two- fold design in this Dialogue ; one, and that the primary one, to free Socrates from the imputation of having attempted to corrupt the Athenian youth ; the other, to establish the prin- ciple that under all circumstances it is the duty of a good citi- zen to obey the laws of his country. These two points, how- ever, are so closely interwoven with each other, that the gene- ral principle appears only to be illustrated by the example of Socrates. Crito was one of those friends of Socrates who had been present at his trial and had oifered to assist in paying a fine, had a fine "been imposed instead of the sentence of death. He appears to have frequently visited his friend in prison after his condemnation, and now, having obtained access to his cell very early in the morning, finds him composed in a quiet sleep. He brings intelligence that the ship, the arrival of which would be the signal for his death on the following day, is expected to arrive forthwith, and takes occasion to entreat Socrates to make his escape, the means of which were already prepared. Socrates thereupon, having promised to follow the advice oi Crito, if after the matter had been fully discussed it should appear to be right to do so, proposes to consider the duty of a citizen towards his country, and having established the divine principle, that it is wrong to return evil for evil, goes on to shew that the obligations of a .citizen to his country are even more binding than those of a child to its parent or a slave to his master, and that therefore it is his duty to obey the esta- blished laws, at whatever cost to himself. At length Crito admits that he has no answer to make, and Socrates resolves to submit himself to the will of Providence. CRITO; OR, THE DUTY OF A CITIZEN. fl SOCRATES, CRITO Soar. "Why have you come at this hour, Crito? Is it not ',iy early ? Cri. It is. Socr. About what time ? Cri. Scarce day-break. Soar. 1 wonder how the keeper of the prison came to admit )U. Cri. He is familiar with me, Socrates, from my having fre- lently come hither ; and he is under some obligations to me. Socr. Have you just now come, or some time since ? Cri. A considerable time since, Socr. Why then did you not wake me at once, instead of sit- ig down by me in silence ? Cri. By Jupiter, Socrates, I should not myself like to be so ng awake and in such affliction. But I have been for some ne wondering at you, perceiving how sweetly you slept ; and purposely did not awake you, that you might pass your time pleasantly as possible. And indeed I have often before roughout your whole life considered you happy in your dis- isition, but far more so in the present calamity, seeing how sily and meekly you bear it. Socr. However, Crito, it would be disconsonant for a man at y time of life to repine because he must needs die. Cri. But others, Socrates, at your age have been involved in nilar calamities, yet their age has not hindered their repining their present fortune. Socr. So it is. But why did you come so early ? Cri. Bringing sad tidings, Socrates ; not sad to you, as it pears, but to me and all your friends sad and heavy ; and lich I, I think, shall bear worst of all. 32 CHITO. Socr. What tidings? Has the ship' arrived from Delos, on the arrival of which I must die ? Cri. It has not yet arrived ; but it appears to me that it will come to-day, from what certam persons report who have como from Sunium"", and left it there. It is clear, therefore, from these messengers, that it will come to-day, and consequently it will be necessary, Socrates, for you to die to-morrow. 2. Socr. But with good fortune, Crito : and if so it please the gods, so be it. I do not think, however, that it will come to-day. Cri. Whence do you form this conjecture ? Soar. I will tell you. I must die on the day after that on which the ship arrives. Cri. So they say" who have the control of these things. Socr. I do not think, then, that it will come to-day, but to- morrow. I conjecture this from a dream which I had this very night, not long ago ; and you seem very opportunely to have refrained from waking me. Cri. But what was this dream ? Socr. A beautiful and majestic woman, clad in white gai-- ments, seemed to approach me, and to call to me and say " Socrates, three days hence you will reach fertile Phthia''." Cri. What a strange dream, Socrates ! Socr. Very clear, however, as it appears to me, Crito. 3. Cri. Very much so, as it seems. But, my dear Socrates, even now be persuaded by me, and save yourself. For, if you die, not only a single calamity will befal me, but besides being deprived of such a friend as I shall never meet with again, I shall also appear to many who do not know you and me well, when I might have saved you, had I been willing to spend my money, to have neglected to do so. And what character can be more disgraceful than this to appear to value one's riches more than one's friends ? For the generality of men will not be persuaded that you were unwilling to depart hence, when we urged you to it. Socr. But why, my dear Crito, should we care so much for the opinion of the many ? For the most worthy men, whom » See the Phsedo, §. 2. * A promontory at the southern extremity of Attica. « The Eleven — the functionaries so-called, who were charged with the prosecution and punishment of criminals. " See Homer's Iliad, 1. is. v. 363. CKITO. 33 we ought rather to regard, will think that matters have trans- pired as they really have. Cri. Yet you see, Socrates, that it is necessary to attend to the opinion of the many. For the very circumstances of the present case shew that the multitude are able to affect not only the smallest evils, hut even the greatest, if any one is calum- niated to them. Soar. Would, Crito, that the multitude could effect the greatest evils, that they might also affect the greatest good, for then it would be well. But now they can do neither ; for they can neither make a wise man, nor foolish j but they do what- ever chances. 4. Cri. So let it be then. But answer me this, Socrates ; are you Hot anxious for me and other friends, lest, if you should escapB from hence, informers should give us trouble, as having secretly carried you off, and so we should be compelled either to lose all our property, or a very large sum, or to suffer something else beside this ? For, if you fear any thing of the kind, dis.. miss your fears. For we are justified in running this risk to save you, and, if need be, even a greater than this. But be persuaded by me, and do not refuse. Soer. I am anxious about this, Crito, and about many other things. Cri. Do not fear this, however ; for the sum is not large on receipt of which certain persons are willing to save you, and take you hence. In the next place, do you not see how cheap these informers are, so that there would be no need of a large sum for them? My fortune is at your service, sufficient, I think, for the purpose : then if, out of regard to me, you do not think right to spend my money, these strangers here are ready to spend theirs. One of them, Simmias the Theban, has brought with him a sufficient sum for the very purpose, Cebes, too, is ready, and very many others. So that, as I said, do not through fears of this kind hesitate to save yourself, nor let what you said in court give you any trouble, that if you went from hence you would not know what to do with your- self. For in many places, and wherever you go, men will love )'ou : and if you are disposed to go to Thessaly, I have friends there who will esteem you very highly, and will ensure your safety, so that no one in Thessaly will molest you. — ^5. Moreover, Socrates, you do not appear to me to pursue a D 34 CRITO. just course in giving yourself up when you might be saved j and you press on the very results with respect to yourself which your enemies would press and have pressed in their anxiety to destroy you. Besides this, too, you appear to me to betray your own sons, whom, when it is in your power to rear and educate them, you will abandon, and, as far as you are concerned, they will meet with such a fate as chance brings them, and, as is probable, they will meet with such things as orphans are wont to experience in a state of orphanage. Surely one ought not to have children, or one should go through the toil of rearing and instructing them. But you appear to me to have chosen the most indolent course ; though you ought to hare chosen such a course as a good and brave man would have done, since you profess to have made virtue your study through the whole of your life ; so that I am ashamed both for you and for us who are your friends, lest this whole aflFair of yours should seem to be the eifect of cow- ardice on our part ; your appearing to stand your trial in the court, since you appeared when it was in your power not to have done so, the very manner in which the trial was con- ducted, and this last circumstance, as it were a ridiculous con- summation of the whole business, your appearing ,to. have es- caped from us through our indolence and cowardice, who did not save you, nor did you save yourself, when it was practi- cable and possible, had we but exerted ourselves a little. Think of these things, therefore, Socrates, and beware, lest, besides the evil that will result, they be disgraceful both to you and to us ; advise then with yourself, though indeed there is no longer time for advising, your resolve should be already made. And there is but one plan; for in the following night the whole must be accomplished. , If we delay, it will be impossible and no longer practicable. By all means, therefore, Socrates, be persuaded by me, and on no account refuse. 6. Soar. My dear Crito, your zeal would be very commendable were it united with right principle ; otherwise, by how much the more earnest it is, by so much is it the more sad. We must consider, therefore, whether this plan should be adopted or not. For I not now only, but always, am a person who will obey nothing within me but reason, according as it appears to me on mature deliberation to be best. And the reasons, which I formerly professed, I cannot now reject, because this misfor CEITO. 86 tune has befallen ine ; but they appear to me in much the samo light, and I respect and honour them as before ; eg that if we are unable to adduce any better at the present time, be assured that I shall not give in to you, even though the power of the multi* tude should endeavour to terrify us like children, by threaten, log more than- it does now, bonds and death, and confiscation of property. How, therefore, may we consider the matter most conveniently ? First of all, if we recur to the argument which you used about opinions, whether on former occasions it was rightly resolved or not, that we ought to pay attention to some opinions, and to others not ; or whether, before it was neces- sary that I should die, it was rightly resolved, but now it has become clear that it was said idly for argument's sake, though in reality it was merely jest and trifling. 1 desire then, Crito, to consider, in common with you, whether it will appear to me in a different light now that I am in this condition, or the same, and whether we shall give it up or yield to it. It was said, I think, on former occasions, by those who were thought to speak seriously, as I just now observed, that of the opinions which men entertain some should be very highly esteemed and others not. By the gods, Crito, does not this appear to you to be well said ? For you, in all human probability, are out of all danger of dying to-morrow, and the present calamity will not lead your judgment astray. Consider then : does it not appear to you to have been rightly settled, that we ought not to respect all the opinions of men, but some we should and others not ? Nor yet the opinions of all men, but of some we should and of others not ? What say you ? Is not this rightly resolved ? Cri. It is. Socr. Therefore, we should respect the good but not the bad? Cri. Yes. Socr. And are not the good those of the wise, and the bad those of the foolish ? Cri. How can it be otherwise ? 7. Socr. Come then, how again were the following points set- tled? Does a man who practises gymnastic exercises, and applies himself to them, pay attention to the praise and cen. sure and opinion of every one, or of that one man only who happens to be a physician or teacher of the exercises ? 86 CRITO. Cri. Of that one only, Socr. He ought, therefore, to fear the censures and covet die praises of that one, but not those of the multitude. Cri. Clearly. Socr. He ought, therefore, so to practise and exercise him- self, and to eat and drink, as seems fitting to the one who pre- sides and knows, rather than to all others together. Cri. It is so. Socr. Well, then, if he disobeys the one, and disregards his opinion and praise, but .respects that of the multitude and of those who know nothing, will he not suffer some evil ? Cri. How should he not? S'ocr. But what is this evil? whither does it tend, and on what part of him that disobeys will it fall ? Cri. Clearly on his body, for this it ruins. Socr. You say well. The case is the same too, Crito, with all other things, not to go through them all. With respect; then, to things just and unjust, base and honourable, good and evil, about which we are now consulting, ought we to follow the opinion of the multitude, and to respect it, or that of one, if there is any one who understands, whom we ought to reve- rence and respect rather than all others together ? and if we do not obey him, shall we not corrupt and injure that part of ourselves which becomes better by justice, but is ruined by injustice? Or is this nothing? Cri. I agree with you, Socrates. 8. Socr. Come then, if we destroy that which becomes better by what is wholesome, but is impaired by what is unwhole- some, through being persuaded by those who do not under- stand, can we enjoy life when that is impaired ? And this is the body we are speaking of, is it not ? Cri. Yes. Socr. Can we then enjoy life with a diseased and impaired body? Cri. By no means. iSocr. But can we enjoy life when that is impaired which inj stice ruins, but justice benefits ? Or do we think that to be of less value than the body, whatever part of us it may be, about which injustice and justice are concerned ? Cri. By no means. Socr. But of more value ? CRITO. 87 Crl. Much more. Socr. We must not, then, my excellent friend, so much re- gard what the multitude will say of us, but what he will say who understands the just and unjust; the one, even truth itself. So that at first you did not set out with a right principle, when you laid it down that we ought to regard the opinion of the multitude with respect to things just and honourable and good, and their contraries. However, some one may say, are not the multitude able to put us to death? Cri. This, too, is clear, Socrates ; any one might say so. Socr. You say truly. But, my admirable friend, this prin- ciple which we have just discussed appears to me to be the same as it was before'. And consider this moreover, whether it still holds good with us or not, that we are not to be anxious about living, but about Jiving well. Cri. It does hold good. Socr. And does this hold good or not, that to live well and honourably and justJy, are the same thing ? Cri. It does. 9. Socr. From what has been admitted, then, this considera- tion arises, whether it is just or not, that I should endeavour to leave this place without the permission of the Athenians. And should it appear to be just, we will make the attempt; but if not, we will give it up ; but as to the considerations which you mention, of an outlay of money, reputation, and the education of children, bewarS, Crito, lest such considerations as these in reality belong to these multitudes, who rashly put one to death, and would restore one to life, if they could do so, without any reason at all. But we, since reason so requires, must consider nothing else than what we just now mentioned, whether we shall act justly in paying money and contracting obligations to those who will lead me hence, as well they who lead me as we who are led hence, or whether in truth we shall not act un- justly in doing all these things. And if we should appear in so doing to be acting unjustly, observe that we must not con- sider whether from remaining here and continuing quiet we must needs die, or suffer any thing else, rather than whether we shall be acting unjustly, * That is to say, the principle which we had laid down in former di.'!- eussions, that no regard is to be had to popular opinion, is still found to hold good. 38 CRITO. Cn. You appear to me to speak wisely, Socrates ; but fsca what we are to do. Socr. Let us consider the matter together, my friend ; and if you have any thing to object to what I say make good your objection, and I will yie^d to you ; but if not, cease, my ex- cellent friend, to urge upon me the same thing so often, that I ought to depart hence, against the will of the Athenians. For 1 highly esteem your endeavours to persuade me thus to act, so long as it is not against my will. Consider, then, the be- ginning of our enquiry, whether it is stated to your entire satisfaction, and endeavour to answer the question put to you exactly as you think right. Cri. I will endeavour to do so. 10. Socr. Say we, then, that we should on no account deli- berately commit injustice, or may we commit injustice under certain circumstances, under others not ? Or is it on no ac- count either good or honourable to commit injustice, as we have often agreed on former occasions, and as we just now said ? Or have all those our former admissions been dissi- pated in these few days ; and have we, Crito, old men as we are, been for a long time seriously conversing with each other, without knowing that we in no respect diifer from children? Or does the case, beyond all question, stand as we then deter- mined ? whether the multitude allow it or not, and whether we must suffer a more severe or a milder punishment than this, still is injustice on every account both evil and disgraceful to him who commits it ? Do we admit this, or not ? Cri. We do admit it. Socr. On no account, therefore, ought we to act unjustly. Cri. Surely not. Sncr. Neither ought one who is injured to return the injuiy, as the multitude think, since it is on no account right to act unjustly. Cri. It appears not. Socr. What then ? Is it right to do evil, Crito, or not ? Cri. Surely it is not right, Socrates. 8ocr. But what ? To do evil in return when one has been evil-entreated, is that right or not? Cri. By no means. Socr. For to do evil to men, differs in no respect from omD" mitting injustice. CRITO. 39 1 Cri. You say truly. Socr. It is not right, therefore, to return an injury, or to do evil to any man, however one may have suffered from him. But take care Crito, that in allowing these things, you do not allow them contrary to your opinion. For I know that to some few only these things both do appear and will appear to be' true. They then to whom these things appear true, and they to whom they do not, have no sentiment in common, and must needs despise each other, while they look to each other's opinions. Consider well then, whether you coincide and think with me ; and whether we can begin our deliberations from this point, that it is never right either to do an injury, or to return an injury, or when one has been evil-entreated to revenge one's- self by doing evil in return ; or, do you dissent from and not coincide in this principle ? For so :t appears to me both long since and now ; but if you in any respect think otherwise, gi>y so and inform me. But if you persist in your former opinions, hear what follows. Cri. I do persist in them and think with you. Speak on then. Socr. I say next then, or rather I ask ; whether when a man has promised to do things that are just, he ought to do them, or evade his promise ? Cri. He ought to do them. 11. Socr. Observe then what follows. By departing hence without the leave of the city, are we not doing evil to somej and that to those to whom we ought least of all to do it, or not ? And do we abide by what we agreed on as being just, or do we not ? Cri. I am unable to answer your question, Socrates : for 1 do not understand it. Socr. Then consider it thus. If while we were preparing to run away, or by whatever name we should call it, the laws and commonwealth should come and, presenting themselves before us, should say : " Tell me, Socrates, what do you pur* pose doing ? Do you design any thing else by this proceeding in which you are engaged, than to destroy us, the laws, and the whole city as far as you are able? Or do you think it possible for that city any longer to subsist and not be sub* verted, in which judgments that are passed have no force, but are set aside and destroyed by private persons ?" What should we say, Crito, to these and similar remonstrances? For any 40 CRITO, one, especially an orator, would have much to say on the vio- lation of the law, which enjoins that judgments passed fchall be enforced. Shall we say to them that the city hag done us an injustice and not passed a right sentence? Shall we say this, or what else ? Ori. This, by Jupiter, Socrates. 12. Soar. What then if the laws should say: "Socrater, was it not agreed between us that you should abide by the iudgments which the city should pronounce?" And if we should wonder at their speaking thus, perhaps they would say, " Wonder not, Socrates, at what we say, but answer, since you are accustomed to make use of questions and answers. For come, what charge have you against us and the city, that you attempt to destroy us? Did we not first give you being? and did not your father through us take your mother to wife and beget you? Say then, do you find fault with those laws amongst us that relate to marriage as being bad?" I should say, "I do not find fault with them." "Do you with those that relate to your nurture when born, and the education with which you were instructed? Or did not the laws," ordained on this point, enjoin rightly, in requir- ing your father to instruct you in music and gymnastic exer- cises ?" I should say, rightly. Well then : since^ you were born, nurtured, and educated through our means, can you say, first of all, that you are not both our off"spring and our slave, as well you as your ancestors ? And if this be so, do you think that there are equal rights between us, and whatever we attempt to do to you, do you think you may justly do to us in turn? Or had you not equal rights with your father, or master, if j-ou happened to have one, so as to return what you sufiered, neither to retort when found fault with, nor when stricken to strike again, nor many other things of the kind; but that with your country and the laws you may do so ; so that if we attempt to destroy you, thinking it to be just, you also should endeavour as far as you are able, in return to destroy us, the laws, and your countr}', and in doing this will you say that you act justly, you who, in reality, make virtue your chief object? Or are you so wise as not to know that one's country is more honourable, venerable and sacred, and more highly prized both by gods and men possessed of under- standing, than mother and father, and all other progenitors, CRITO. 41 and that one ought to reverence, submit to, and appease one's country, when angry, rather than one's father, and either per- Buade it or do what it orders, and to suffer quietly if it bids one suffer, whether to be beaten, or put in bonds ; or if it sends one out to battle there to be wounded or slain, this must be done, for justice so requires, and one must not give way, or retreat, or leave one's post ; but that both in war, and in a court of justice, and every where, one must do what one's city and country enjoins, or persuade it in such manner as justice allows : but that to offer violence either to one's mother or father is not holy, much less to one's country ? What shall we say to these things, Crito ? That the laws speak the truth or not ? Cri. It seems so to me. 13. Soar. "Consider, then, Socrates," the laws perhaps might say, " whether we say truly that in what you are now attempting you are attempting to do what is not just towards us. For we, having given you birth, nurtured, instructed you, and having imparted to you and all other citizens all the good in our power, still proclaim, by giving the power to every Athenian who pleases, when he has arrived at years of dis- cretion and become acquainted with the business of the state, and us, the laws, that any one, who is not satisfied with us, may take his property and go wherever he pleases. And if any one of you wishes to go to a colony, if he is not satisfied with us and the city, or to migrate and settle in another country, none of us, the laws, hinder or forbid him going whithersoever he pleases, taking with him all his property. But whoever continues, with us after he has seen the manner in which ,we administer justice, and in other respects govern the city, we now. say, that he has in fact entered into a com- pact with us, to do what we order, and we affirm that he who does not obey is in three respects guilty of injustice, because he does not obey us who gave him being, and because he does not obey us who nurtured him, and because, having made a compact that he would obey us, he neither does so nor does he persuade us if we do any thing wrongly, though we pro- ' pose for his consideration, and do not rigidly command him to do what we order, but leave him the choice of one cf two things, either to persuade us, or to do what we require, and yet he does neither of these. 42 CRITO. 14. " And we say that you, O Socrates, will be subject to these charges if you accomplish your design, and that not least of the Athenians, but most so of all." And if I should ask, for what reason ? They would probably justly retort on me by saying, that among all the Athenians I especially made this compact with them. For they would say, " Socrates, we have strong proof of this, that you were satisfied both with us and the city; for of all the Athenians you especially would never have dwelt in it, if it had not been especially agreeable to you. For you never went out of the city to any of the public sp.ectacles, except once to the Isthmian games, nor any where else, except on military service, nor have you ever gone abroad as other men do, nor had you ever had "any desire to become acquainted with any other city or other laws, but we and our city, were sufficient for you; so strongly were you attached to us, and so far did you consent to submit to our government, both in other respects and in begetting children in this city, in consequence of your being satisfied with it. More- Sver in your very trial, it was in your power to have imposed on yourself a SPntence of exile, if you pleased, and might then have done, with the consent of the city, what you now attempt against its consent. Then indeed you boasted yourself as not being grieved if you must needs die ; but you preferred, as you said, death to exile. Now, however, you are neither ashamed of those professions, nor do you revere us, the laws, since you endeavour to destroy us ; and you act as the vilest slave would act, by endeavouring to make your escape contrary to the conventions and the compacts by which you engaged to submit to our government. First then, therefore, answer us this, whether we speak the truth or not in affirming that you agreed to be governed by us in deed though not in word ?" What shall we say to this, Crito ? Can we do otherwise than assent? Cri. We must needs do so, Socrates ? Socr. " What else, then," they will say, " are you doing out violating the conventions and compacts which you made with us, though you did not enter into them from compulsion or through deception, or from being compelled to determine in a short time, but during the space of seventy years, in which you might have departed if you had been dissatisfied with us, and the compacts had not appeared to you to be just ? You, how- CRITO. 43 ever, neither preferred Lacedaemon nor Crete, whish you seve- ral times said are governed by good laws, nor any other of the Grecian or barbarian cities ; but you have been less out ot Athens than the lame and the blind, and other maimed per- sons. So much, it is evident, were you satisfied with the city and us, the laws, beyond the rest of the Athenians : for who can be satisfied with a city without laws ? But now will you not abide by your compacts ? You will, if you are persuadsd by us, Socrates, and will not make yourself ridiculous by leav- ing the city. 15. " For consider, by violating these compacts and ofifending against any of them, what good you will do to yourself or your friends. For that your friends will run the risk of being them- selves banished, and deprived of the rights of citizenship, or of forfeiting their property, is pretty clear. And as for yourself, if you should go to one of the neighbouring cities, either Thebes or Megara, for both are governed by good laws, you will go there, Socrates, as an enemy to their polity, and such as have any regard for their country will look upon you with suspicion, regarding you as a corrupter of the laws, and you will confirm the opinion of the judges, so that they will appear to have con- demned you rightly, for whoso is a CMTupter of the laws will appear in all likelihood to be a corrupter of youths and weak- minded men. Will you then avoid these well-governed cities, and the best-ordered men ? And should you do so, will it be worth your while to live ? Or will you approach them, and have the effrontery to converse with them, Socrates, on sub- jects the same as you did here, that virtue and justice, legal institutions and laws, should be most highly valued by men ? And do you not think that this conduct of Socrates would be very indecorous? You must think so. But you will keep clear of these places, and go to Thessaly, to Crito's friends, for there is the greatest disorder and licentiousness, and perhaps they will glafiy hear you relating how droUy you escaped from prison, clad in some dress or covered with a skin, or in some other disguice such as fugitives are wont to dress themselves in, having so changed your usual appearance. And will no one say that you, tliough an old man, with but a short time to live, in all probability, have dared to have such a base desire of life as to violate the most sacred laws ? Perhaps not, should you not offend any one. But if you should, you will heari 44 CRITO, Socrates, many things utterly unworthy of you. You will live, too, in a state of abject dependence on all men, and as their slave. But what will you do in Thessaly besides feast- ing, as if you had gone to Thessaly to a banquet? And what will become of those discourses about justice and all other vir- tues ? — But do you wish to live for the sake of your children, that you may rear and educate them? What then ? Will you take them to Thessaly, and there rear and educate them, mak- ing them aliens to their country, that they may owe you this obligation too ? Or if not so, being reared here, will they be better reared and educated while you are living, though nol with them? for your friends will take care of them. Whether, if you go to Thessaly, will they take care of them, but if yot go to Hades will they not take care of them ? If, however any advantage is to be derived from those that say they are your friends, we must think they will. 16. " Then, O Socrates, be persuaded by us who have nur tured you, and do not set a higher value oh your children, oi on life, or on any thing else than justice, that, when you arrivi in Hades, you may have all this to say in your defence befori those who have dominion there. For neither here in this life if you do what is proposed, does it appear to be better, or mon just, or more holy to yourself, or any of your friends ; nor wil it be better for you when you arrive there. But now you de part, if you do depart, unjustly treated, not by us, the laws, bu by men ; but should you escape, having thus disgracefully re turned injury for injury, and evil for evil, having violated you own compacts and conventions which you made with us, am liaving done evil to those to whom you least of all should hav done it, namely, yourself, your friends, your country, and us both we^hall be indignant with you as long as you live, an there our brothers, the laws in Hades, will not receive you fe vourably, knowing that you attempted, as far as you were abh to destroy us. Let not Crito, then, persuade you to do wha he advises, rather than we." 17. These things, my dear friend Crito, be assured I seer to hear, as the votaries of Cybele ' seem to hear the flutes. An the sound of these words booms in ray ear, and makes mc ir capable of hearing any thing else. Be sure, then, so long as ' The Corj'bantes, priests of Cybele, who in their solemn festivals mii ipiiib a uoise with flutes that the hearers could heai nc other souud. CEITO. 45 retain my present opinions, if you should say anything con- trary to these, you wUl speak in vain. If, however, you think that you can prevail at all. say on. Cri. But, Socrates, I have nothing to sav. Socr. Desist, then, Crito, and let us pursue this course, fince this way the deity leads us. INTEODUCTION TO THE PH^DO. This dialogue presents us with an account of the mauuei iu which Socrates spent the last day of his life, and how he met his death. The main subject is that of the soul's immor- tality, which Socrates takes upon himself to prove with as much certainty as it is possible for the human mind to arrive at. The question itself, though none could be better suited to the occasion, arises simply and naturally from the general con- versation that precedes it. When his friends visit him in the morning for the purpose of spending this his last day with him, they find him sitting up in bed and rubbing his leg, which had just been freed from bonds. He remarks on the unaccountable alternation and connexion between pleasure and pain, and adds that .£sop, had he ob- served it, would have made a fable from it. This remark reminds Cebes of Socrates' having put some of jEsop's fa- bles into metre since his imprisonment, and he asks, for the satisfaction of the poet Evenus, what had induced him to dc so. Socrates explains his reason, and concludes by bidding him tell Evenus to follow him as soon as he can. Simmias expresses his surprise at this message, on which Socrates asks, " is not Evenus a philosopher ?" and on the question being answered in the affirmative, he says, that he or any philoso- pher would be willing to die, though perhaps he would not commit violence on himself. This, again, seems a contradic- tion to Simmias, but Socrates explains it by shewing that oui souls are placed in the body by God, and may not leave it without His permission. Whereupon Cebes objects, that in that case fooUsh men only would wish to die and quit the ser- vice of the best of masters, to which Simmias agrees. Socra- INTRODUCTION. 47 tea, therefore, proposes to plead his cause hefore them, and to shew that there is a great probability that after this life ho ehall go into the presence of God and good men, and be happy in proportion to the purity of his own mind. He begins* by stating that philosophy itself is nothing else than a preparation for and meditation on death. Death and philosophy have this in common : death separates the soul from! the body, philosophy draws off the mind from bodily things to the contemplation of truth and virtue : for he is not a true philosopher who is led away by bodily pleasures, since the senses are the source of ignorance and all evil; the" mind, therefore, is entirely occupied in meditating on death, and freeing itself as much as possible from the body. How, then, can such a man be afraid of death ? He who grieves at tlie approach of death cannot be a true lover of wisdom, but is a lover of his body. And, indeed, most men are temperate through intemperance, that is to say, they abstain from some pleasures that they may the more easily and permanently en- joy others. They embrace only a shadow of virtue, not virtue itself, since they estimate the value of all things by the plea- sures they afford. Whereas the philosopher purifies his mind from all such things, and pursues virtue and wisdom for their own sakes. This course Socrates himself had pursued to the utmost of his ability, with what success he should shortly know ; and on these grounds he did not repine at leaving his friends in this world, being persuaded that in another he should meet with good masters and good friends. Upon this Cebes'' says that he agrees with all else that had been said, but cannot help entertaining doubts of what will be- come of the soul when separated from the body, for the com- mon opinion is that it is dispersed and vanishes like breath or smoke, and no longer exists any where, Socrates, therefore, proposes to enquire into the probability of the case, a fit em- ployment for him under his present circumstances. § 21—80. » § 39, 40. 48 INTRODUCTION, His first argument" is drawn from the ancient belief preva. lent amongst men, that souls departmg hence exist in Hades and are produced again from the dead. If this be true, i' must follow that our souls are there, for they could not be pro. duced again if they did not exist : and its truth is confirmee by this, that it is a general law of nature that contraries an produced from contraries, the greater from the less, strong from weak, slow from swift, heat from cold, and in like man. ner life from death, and vice versd. To explain this mon clearly, he proceeds to shew that what is changed passes fron one state to another, and so undergoes three different states first the actual state, then the transition, and thirdly the nevi state, as from a state of sleep, by awaking to being awake in like manner birth is a transition from a state of death t( life, and dying from life to death, so that the soul, by the ad of dying, only passes to another state ; if it were not so, al nature would in time become dead, just as if people did no awake out of sleep all would at last be buried in eternal sleep Whence the conclusion is that the souls of men are not anni. hilated by death. Cebes* agrees to this reasoning, and adds that he is furthei convinced of its truth by calling to mind an argument usee by Socrates on former occasions, that knowledge is nothing but reminiscence, and if this is so, the soul must have existec and had knowledge before it became united .to the body. But in case Simmias should not yet be satisfied, Socrates' proceeds to enlarge on this, his second argument, drawn fron reminiscence. We daily find that we are carried from th« knowledge of one thiiig to another. Things perceived by th( eyes, ears, and other senses, bring up the thought of othei things : thus the sight of a lyre or a garment reminds us of i friend, and not only are we thus reminded of sensible objects but of things which are comprehended by the mind alone, anc have no sensitive existence. For we have formed in our mindi • § 40—46. •" § 47. * S 48—57. INTRODUCTION. 49 nn idea of abstraift equality, of the beautiful, the just, the go jd, in short, of every thing which we say exists without the aid of the senses, for we use them only in the perception of individual things, whence it follows that the mind did not acquire this knowledge in this life, but must have had it before, and there- fore the soul must have existed before. Simmias and Cebes' both agree in admitting that Socrates has proved the pre-existence of the soul, hut insist that he has not shewn it to be immortal, for that nothing hinders but that, according to the popular opinion, it may be dispersed at the dissolution of the body. To which Socrates rephes, that if their former admissions are joined to his last argument, the immortality, as well as the pre-existence of the soul, has been sufficiently proved. For if it is true that any thing living is produced from that which is dead, then the soul must exist after death, otherwise it could not be produced again. However to remove the apprehension that the soul may be dispersed by a wind as it were, Socrates proceeds, in his third arguments, to examine that doubt more thoroughly. What then is meant by being dispersed but being dissolved into its parts ? In order therefore to a thing being capable of dis- persion it must be compounded of parts. Now there are two kinds of things, one compf-unded, the other simple, the former kind is subject to changi, the latter not, and can be compre- hended by the mind alone. The one is visible, the other in- visible ; and the soul, which is invisible, when it employs the bodily senses wanders and is confused, but when it abstracts itself from the body it attains to the knowledge of that which is eternal, immortal, and unchangeable. The soul, therefore, being uncompoimded and invisible must be indissoluble, that is to say immortal. StiU Simmias and Cebes'' are unconvinced. The former objects, that the soul, according to Socrates' own shewing, IS nothing but a harmony resulting from a combination of the '§65-59 5 61—75 "5 70-84. so INTRODUCTION. J arts of the body, and so may perish with the body as th( larmony of a lyre does -when the lyre itself is broken. And Cebes, though he admits that the soul is more durable than the body, yet objects that it is not therefore of necessity immortal but may in time wear out, and it is by no means clear that this IS not its last period. These objections produce a powerful effect on the rest oi the company, but Socrates, undismayed, exhorts them not tc suffer themselves to be deterred from seeking the truth by any difficulties they may meet w;th; and then proceeds' to shew, in a moment, the fallacy of Simmias' objection. It was before admitted, he says, that the soul existed before the body, but harmony is produced after the Ijrre is formed, so that the two cases are totally different. And further, there are various degrees of harmony, but every soul is as much a soul as any other. But then what will a person who holds this doctrine, that the soul is harmony, say of virtue and vice in the soul ? Will he call them another kind of harmony and discord ? If so, he will contradict himself, for it is admitted that one soul is not more or less a soul than another, and therefore one cannot be more or less harmonized than another, and one could not admit of a greater degree of virtue or vice than another ; and indeed a soul, being harmony, could not partake of vice at all, which is discord. Socrates, having thus satisfactorily answered the argument adduced by Simmias, goes on to rebut that of Cebes'', who objected that the soul might in time wear put. In order to do this, he relates that when a young man he attempted to investigate the causes of every thing, why they exist and why they perish ; and in the course of his researches finding the futility of attributing the existence of things to what are called natural causes, he resolved on endeavouring to find out the reasons of things. He therefore assumed that there is a certain abstract beauty^ and goodness, and magnitude, and 1 1 93—99. ' § 100—112. INTRODtJCTION. ' 81 BO of all other things ; the truth of which heing granted he thinks he shall he ahle to prove that the soul is immortal. This then being conceded by Cebes, Socrates* argues that every thing that is beautiful is so from pai'taking of ab- stract beauty, and great from partaking of magnitude, and little from partaking of littleness. Now it is impossible he argues that contraries can exist in the same thing at the same time, for instance the same thing cannot possess both magnitude and littleness, but one will withdraw at the ap- proach of the other : and not only so, but things which, though not contrary to each other, yet always contain con- traries within themselves cannot co-exist; for instance the number three has no contrary, yet it contains within itself the idea of odd, which is the contrary to even, and so three never can become even ; in like manner heat while it is heat can never admit the idea of its contrary, cold. Now if this method of reasoning is applied to the soul it will be found to be immortal ; for life and death are contraries, and never can co-exist, but wherever the soul is there is life, so that it con- tains within itself that which is contrary to death, and conse- quently can never admit of death ; therefore it is immortal. With'this he closes his arguments in support of the soul's immortality. Cebes owns himself convinced, but Simmia^> though he is unable to make any objection to the soundness of Socrates' reasoning, cannot help still entertaining doubts on the subject. If, however, the soul is immortal, Socrates pro-" ceeds™, great need is there in this life to endeavour to become as wise and good as possible. For if death were a deliverance from every thing it would be a great gain for the wicked, but since the soul appears to be immortal, it must go to the place suited to its nature. For it is said that each person's demon conducts him to a place where he receives sentence according to his deserts. He then" draws a fanciful picture of the various regions of 1 i 112—128. * § 129—131, ' § 132—145 62 INTRODUCTION. the earth, to which the good and the bad ■will respectively go after death, and exhorts his friends to use every endeavour to acquire virtue and wisdom in this life, " for," he adds, " the reward is noble and the hope great," Having thus brought his subject to a conclusion, Socrates proposes to bathe himself, in order not to trouble others to wash his dead body. Crito thereupon asks if he has any com- mands to give, and especially how he would be buried, to which he, with his usual cheerfulness, makes answer, " Just as you please, if only you can catch me ," and then, smiling, he re- minds them that after death he shall be no longer with them, and begs the others of the party to be sureties to Crito for his absence from the body, as they had been before bound for his presence before his judges. After he had bathed, and taken leave of his children and the women of his famijy, the officer of the Eleven comes in to inti- mate to him that it is now time to drink the poison. Crito urges a little delay, as the sun had not yet set, but Socrates refuses to make himself ridiculous by shewing such a fondness for life ; the man who is to administer the poison is therefore sent for, and on his holding out the cup, Socrates, neither trembling nor changing colour or countenance at all, but, as he was wont, looking stedfastly at the man, asked if he might make a libation to any one, and being told that no more poison than enough had been mixed, he simply prayed that his depar- ture from this to another world might be happy, and then drank off the poison readily and calmly. His friends, who had hitherto with difficulty restrained themselves, could no longer control the outward expressions of grief, to which Socrates said, " What are you doing, my friends ? I, for this reason chiefly, sent away the women, that they might not commit any folly of this kind. For I have heard that it is right to die with good omens. Be quiet, therefore, and bear up." When he had walked about for a while his legs began to grow heavy, so he laid down on his back, and his body, from INTRODUCTION. 6S le feet upwards, gradually grew cold and stiff. His last •ords were, "Crito, we owe a cook to ^soulapius: pay it, lerefore, and do not neglect it.'' "This," concludes Phsedo, "was the end of our friend, a lan, as we may say, the best of all his time that we have nowu, and moreover, the most wise aud just." PH^DO, OB THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL. TlEST ECHBCEATES, PHiEDO. Then Soceates, Apollodoeus, Cebes, Simhus, and Cetto. Ech. Weee you personally present, Phsedo, with Socrates on that day when he drank the poison in prison ? or did you hear an account of it from some one else ? Pheed. I was there myself, Echecrates. Ech. What then did he say hefore his death ? and how did he die ? for I should be glad to hear : for scarcely any citizeu of Phlius " ever visits Athens now, nor has any stranger for a .bng time come from thence, who was able to give us a clear account of the particulars, except that he died from drinking poison ; but he was unable to tell us any thing more. 2. Phted. And did you not hear about the trial how it went oiT ? Ech. Yes ; some one told me this ; and I wondered, that as it took place so long ago, he appears to have died long afterwards. What was the reason of this, Pheedo ? Phad. An accidental circumstance happened in his favour, 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 ? Phced. It is the ship, as the Athenians say, in which Theseus formerly conveyed the fourteen boys and girls to Crete, and saved both there, 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 despatch a solemn embassy to > Phlius, to which Echecrates belonged, was a town ot Sicyonia ip Peloponnesus, PH^DO. 68 Delos ; which from that time to the present, they send yearly to the gocQ 3. When they begin the preparations for this solemn emMssy, 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 im- pede 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, Phsedo, 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 ? Fhad. By no means ; but some, indeed several, were pre- sent. Ech. Take the trouble, then, to relate to me all the par- ticulars as clearly as you can, unless you have any pressing business. Phced. I am at leisure, and will endeavour to give you a full account : for to call Socrates to mind, whether speaking my. self or listening to some one else, is always most delightful to me. 51 Ech. And indeed, Phsedo, you have others to listen to you who are of the same mind. However, endeavour to relate every thing as accurately as you can. Phced. 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 occa- sion ; nor was I affected by pleasure from being engaged in philosophical discussions, as was our custom ; for our conver- saticn was of that kind. But an altogether unaccountable feeling possessed me, a kind of unusual mixture compounded 66 PH^pO, of pleasure and pain togelher, 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. Pheed. He, then, was entirely overcome by these emo- tions ; and I too was troubled, as well as the others. Ech. But who were present, Phiedo? Phad. Of his fellow-countrymen, this Apollodorus was present, and Critobulus, and his father Crito, moreover Hermo- genes, Epigenes, ^schines, and Antisthenes ; Ctesippus ths Paeanian, Menexenus, and some other of his countrymen were also there : Plato I think was sick. Ech. Were any strangers present .' Phad. Yes : Simmias the Theban, Cebes, and Phsedondes ; and from Megara, Euclides and Terpsion. 7. Ech. But what! were not Aristippus and Cleombrotus present? Phted. No : for they were said to be at iBgina. Ech. Was any one else there ? Phted. I think that these were nearly all who were present. Ech. Well now : what do you say was the subject of con- versation ? Phwd. I will endeavour to relate the whole to you from the beginning. On the preceding days I and the others were con- stantly 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 tha 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 enter until he 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. PHiEDO 67 9. When w3 entered, we found Socrates just treed 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 occa- sions, 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 unaccount- able thing, my friends, that seems to be, which men call plea- sure ; and how wonderfully is it related towards 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 to me," he said, "that if.fflsop had ob- served 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 ap- pears 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, So- crates, you have done well in reminding me : with respect to the poems which you made, by putting into metre. those Fables of .iEsop 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 maike them from a wish to compete with him, or his poems, for I knew that this would be no easy matter ; but that I m:gnt 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 folloning purport : cften in my past life the same dream 58 PHiEDO. visited me, appearing at different times in different forms, yet always saying the same thing, ' Socrates,' it said, ' apply your- self to and practise music' 12. And I formerly supposed that it exhorted and" encouraged me to continue the pursuit I waa 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 hy chance the dream so frequently enjoined me to apply myself to popular music, I ought not to disohey 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 pre- sent, and after the god, considering that a poet, if he means to be a poet, ought to make fables and not discourses, and know- ing that I was not skilled in making fables, I therefore put into verse those fables of .^sop, 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 in- deed 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 say- ing that it is not lawful to commit violence on one's-self, but that a philosopher should be willing to foUow one who is dying ?" 14. " What, Cebes, have not you and Simmias, who have ;pnversed familiarly with Philolaus '' on this subject, heard ?" ■• h Pythagorean of Ctotona. PHJEDO. 69 " 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 enquire and speculate about the journey thither, what kind we think it is. What else can one do in the interval before sun- set?" "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 PhilolauB, 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." 1 5. " Then you should consider it attentively," said Socrates, " for perhaps you may hear : probably however, it will appear wonderful to you, if this alone of all other things is an uni- versal truth ", and it never happens to a man, as is the case in all other things, that at sometimes and to some persons only it is better to die than to live ; yet that these men for whom it is better to die — this probably will appear wonderful to you — inay not without impiety do this good to themselves, but must await another benefactor." 16. Then Cebes, gently Smiling, said, speaking in his own dialect*, " Jove be witness." " And indeed," said Socrates, " it would appear to be un- reasonable, yet still perhaps it has some reason on its side. The maxim indeed given on this subject in the mystical doc- trines *, that we men are in a kind of prison, and that we ought not to free ourselves from it and escape, appears to me , difficult to be understood, and not easy to penetrate. This however appears to me, Cebes, to be well said, that the gods "take care of us, and that we men are one of their possessions. Does it not seem so to you ?" " It does," replied Cebes. " Therefore," said he, " if one of your slaves were to kill him- self, without your having intimated that you wished him to die, should you not be angiy with him, and should you not {lunisb him if you could ?" " Certainly," he replied. « Namely, "that it is better tp 4'? than Ijve," * "Irra Bceotian for Jorm, f Of Pythagoras. 60 PH-EDO. " Perhaps then in this point of view, it is net unreascnahlo to assert, that a man ought not to kill himself before the deity liivs him under a necessity of doing so, such as that now laid on me." 1 7. " 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 cannot think that he will take better care of himself when he has be- come 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 towards 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 repUed ; " 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 defence to this charge, as if I were m a court of justice." " Certainly," replied Simmias. 19. "Come then," said he, "1 will endeavour 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 amongst other deities who are Voth wise and good, and, next, amongst men who have dc- PH^DO. CI parted this life, better than any here, I should be wrong in not grieving at death: but now be assured, I hope to go amongst good men, though I would not positively assert it ; that, however, I shall go amopgst 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 endeavour 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 tc 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 be- come 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 requires, 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 ^he reason why a man who has really devoted his life to phi- losophy, 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 befal him in the other world, when he has departed this life. How then this comes to pass, Simmias- and Cebes, I will endeavour 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 thau 62 TPHiEDO. this during their whole life, but, when it arrives, to be grieved Dt what they have been long anxious about and aimed at." 22. Upon this, Simmias, smiling, said, " By Jupiter, Socra- tes, though I am not now at all inclined to smile, you hava made me do so ; for I think that the multitude, if they heard this, would think it was very well said in reference to philoso- phers, 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 i" " Certainly," repUed 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 me ; for thus I think we shall understand better the subject we are considering. Does it appear to you to be becoming in a philosopher to be anxious about pleasures, as they are called, such as meats and drinks ?" " By no means, Socrates," said Simmias. " But what ? about the pleasures of love ?" " Not at all." 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 BO 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 oi such' a man appear to you to be, not about the body, but fo 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 philoso- pher, above all other men, evidently free his soul as much as lie can from communion with the body ?" " It appears so." 25. " And it appears, Simmias, to the generaUty of men, that he who takes no pleasure in such things, and who does act use them, does not deserve to live ; but that he nearly ap- proaches 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 l)ody 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 bearing 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 ac- curate nor clear, much less can the others be so : for they are eJI 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 conjunc- tion 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 reallv are become known to it .'" "Yes." " And surely the soul then reasons best when none of these tilings 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, as far as it can, not com- municating or being in contact with it, it aims at the discovery of that which is." " Such is the c?ise." " Does not then the soul of the philosopher, in these cases, despise the body, and flee from it, and seek to retire within it- self?" " It appears so." " But what as to such things as these, Simmias ? Do we Eay that justice itself is something or nothing ?" " We say it is something, by Jupiter." ¥i PHJEDO. " 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 amongst 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 re- flection 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, Sim- mias, 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 philo- sophers, so that they should speak among themselves as follows : ' A by-path, as it were, seems to lead us on in our researches undertaken by reason,' because as long as we are encumbered with the body, and our soul is contaminated with such an evil, we can never fully attain to what we desire ; and this, we say, is truth. For the body subjects us to innumerable hindrances on account of its necessary support, and moreover if any diseases befal 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 ad- PH^DO. 65 vauce? in wisdom. 30. " For nothing else but the body and its desires occasion wars, seditions, and contests ; for all wars amongst 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 contem- plate 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 shews, but not while we are alive. 31. For if it is not possible to know any thing purely in conjunctioe 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 Uve, 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 pol- luted by its nature, but purify ourselves from it, until God himself shall release us. And thus being pure, and freed from the foUy 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 im- pure 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 gomg, there, if any where, 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." 66 , PH^DO. " Certainly," said Siramias. " 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, as 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 separa- tion 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 endeavoured 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 it- self, 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 afi"ection, their wives and sons, induced by this very hope of there 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 no where 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 no where else but there attain wisdom in its purity ; and if this be so, would it not be PH^DO. 67 very irrational, as I just now said, if SUch a irian ■whre to be afraid of death ?" " Very much so, by Jupiter," he replied. 35. "Would not this then,'' he resumed, "be a sufficient proof tp 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 honour one. or both of these," " It certainly is as you say," he replied. " Does not then," he said, " that which is cailed 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 keep- ing 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 forti- tude 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 amongst them endure death, when tKey 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 amongst them who keep theii" 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 fiUly temperance resembles this; for, fearing to be deprived of other pleasures, and desiring them, they abstain from somei. being mastered by others. And though they call intemperance 89 PH^DO. 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 foi- 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 every thing is in reality bought and^ sold, fortitude, temperance, and justice, and, in a word, true virtue subsists with wisdom, whether pleasures and fears, and every thing else of the kind, are present or absent ; but when sepa- rated 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 tempe- rance, justice, fortitude, and wisdom itself, are a kind of initi- atory 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 dweU 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 philo- sophy rightly : that I might be of their number, I have, to the utmost of my ability, left no means untried, but have endeavoured to the utmost of my power. But whether I have endeavoured rightly aijd 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 defence 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 defence than I did with the Athenian judges, it is well." When Socrates had thus spoken, Cebes, taking up the dis< .PHjEDO. 69 cussion 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 any where, 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 any where ; since, if it remained any where 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, thai the soul of a man who diee, 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 say. ing, 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 pro- duced again if they did not exist ; and this would be a suffi- cient 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 cf 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 gene- ration, let us see whether they are not all so produced, no ro phjEdo. othci-wise than contraries from contraries, wherever they have any sucli quality, as for instance the honourable 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 afterwards became greater i" "Yes." "And if it becomes smaller, will it not, from being pre- viously greater, afterwards 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 be- come 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 pro- duction, from one to the other, and from that other back again .' for between a greater thing and a smaller there is increase and decrease, and do we not accordingly call the one to increase, the other to decrease ?" " Yes," he rephed. 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 every where 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, es waking has its contrary, sleeping ?" " Certainly," he answered. "What?" "Death," he replied. " Are not these, then, produced from each other, since they PH^DO. 71 are contraries, and are not the modes by which they are pro* duoed twofold, 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 no'w 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." "Yes." " And that they are produced from each other ?" "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 riot find a corresponding contrary mode of production, or will na- ture 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." 72 PH^DO. " Thus, then, we have agreed, that the living are produced from the dead, no less than the dead from the living : hut, this being the case, there appears to me sufficient proof that the souls of the dead must necessarily exist somevrhere, 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 shew the fable of Endymion to be a jest, and it would be thought nothing at all of, because every thing else would be in the same state as him, 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 ab- sorbed 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 un- doubtedly is the case, and we have not admitted these things under a delusion, but it is in reality true that there is a reviv- ing 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 cf the evil, worse." 47. "And maeed," said Cebes, interrupting him, "according PH/EDO , 73 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 v/e must at some former time have learned what we now remem- ber. 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 Gebes, "by one argument, and that a most beautiful one, that men, when questioned, if one ques- tions 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 on considering the mat- ter 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 perceiv- ing 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," 74 FHJEDO. "How not?" " Do you not know, then, that lovers when they see a lyre, or a garment, or any thing else which their favourite is accus- tomed to use, are thus affected ; they both recognise the lyre, and receive in their minds the form of the person to whom the lyre belonged ? This is reminiscence : just as any gne, seeing Simmias, is often reminded of Cebes, and so in an infinite num- ber 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 re- spect 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 re- minded 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 remi- niscence arises partly from things Uke, and partly from things unlike ?" " It does." " But when one is reminded by things like, is it not neces- sary 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 Sim« mias. 51. " And do we know what it is itself?" " Certainly," he replied. PHiEDO. 7fi • " 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 ? Con- sider 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 un- equal ? or equality inequality ?" "Never, Socrates, at any time." " These equal things, then," he said, " and abstract equality, ore 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 1" " Certainly." "But it makes no difference," he said. "When; therefore, on seeing one thhig, you form, from the sight of it, the notion of another, whether like or unhke, this," he said, " must ne- cessarily be reminiscence." " Certainly." 52. "What, then, as to this?" he continued; "are we af- fected 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 par- ticular thing, perceives that it aims, as that which I now see, at being like something else that exists, but falls short of it, and cannot 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." y« PH^DO, " 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 ab- stract 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 re- sembling 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 bom, and aa 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 wh-ich we mark with the seal of existence, both in PHJEDO. 77 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 horn with this knowledge, and should always retain it through liff : 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 know- ledge?" " Assuredly, Socrates," he replied. 55. " But if, having had it before we were born, we lose it at our birth, and afterwards, 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 he possible, for one having perceived any thing, either by seeing or hearing, or employing any other sen^e, 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 after- wards do nothing else but 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 afterwards 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 aftaid, that at this time to-morrow, there will no longer be any one able to do this properly." rs PHJEDO. "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 intelli- gence." 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 say- ing nothing to the purpose." " Does the case then stand thus with us, Simmias," he pro- ceeded. "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 shoul(l 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 cer- tainly exist, as the beautiful, the good, and all the rest that you just now spoke of; and as far as I am concerned the case is sufficiently demonstrated." PHJEDO. 79 " 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, " al- though he is the most pertinacious of men in distrusting argu- ments. Yet I thinlc 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 its 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, namelj', 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 be- fore, 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 re- quire 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." Upon this Cebes smiling said, " Endeavour to teach us bet- ter, Socrates, as if we were afraid, or rather not as if we were afraid, though perhaps there is some boy ^ within us, who has such a dread. Let us then endeavour to persuade him not to be afraid of death, as of hobgoblins." v ' Some bojriEh spirit. 80 PH^DO. " But you must charm him every day," said Socrates, " until you have quieted his fears." " But whence, Socrates," he said, " can we procure a skilful 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 skilful 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, " hut, 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 aifected, 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 hy 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 tjiere 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 saijie state, are compounded ?" " To me it appears so." i " 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, horoes, 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 cannot appre- hend 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 visi- ble never the same ?" " This too," he said, " yve may assume." " Come then," he asked, " is there any thing 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 every one," 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 tho 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." a 82 PH^DO, " The soul then is more like the invisible than the body, and the body, the nsible ?" " 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 ex- amine any thing by means of the body is to do so by the uenses,) is then drawn by the body to things that never continue the same, and wanders and is confused, and reels as if intoxi- cated through coming into contact with things of this kind?" " Certainly." "But when it examines any thing 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 Boul is in every respect more like that which continues con- stantly 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 to- gether, 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 ypu to be natural that the divine should rule and command, but the mortal obey and be subservient?" " To me it does so." " V/hich then, does the soul resemble ?" " It is clear, Socrates, thai the soul resembles the divlnej but the body, the mortal.'' " Consider then, Cebes," said he, " whether, from all that has PHjEDO. 83 been said, these conclusions follow, that the soul is most like that whicli is divine, immortal, intelligent, uniform, indissolu- ble, and which always continues in the same state, but that the body on the other hand is most like that which is human, mor- tal, unintelligent, multiform, dissoluble, and which never con- tinues in the same state. Can we say any thing against this, my dear Cebes, to shew that it is not so ?" " We cannot." 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?" " You perceive, however," he said, "that when a man dies, the visible part of him, the body, which is exposed to sight, and which we call a corpse, to which it appertains to be dissolved, to fall asunder and be dispersed, does not immediately undergo any of these affections, but remains for a considerable time, and es- pecially so if any one should die with his body in full vigour, and at a corresponding age « ; for when the body has collapsed and been embalmed, as those that are embalmed in Egypt, it remains almost entire for an incredible length of time ; and some parts of the body, even though it does decay, such as the bones and nerves, and every thing of that kind, are neverthe- less, as one may say, immortal. Is it not so ?" "Yes." 68. " Can the soul, then, which is invisible, and which goes to another place like itself, excellent, pure, and invisible, and therefore truly called the invisible world'', to the presence of a good and wise God, (whither if God will, my soul ajso must shortly go,) can this soul of ours, I ask, being such and of such a nature, when separated from the body be immediately dis* persed and destroyed, as most men assert ? Far from it, my dear Cebes and Simmias. But the case is much rather thus ; if it is separated in a pure state, taking nothing of the body with it, as not having willingly communicated with it in the present life, but having shunned it and gathered itself within itself, as constantly studying this; but this is nothing else than to pursue K That is, at a time of life when tne body is in full vigour. » In the original there is a play on the worSs'AiSTjj and deKjjj, which' I can only attempt to retain hy departing from the usual rendering of tho former word. 84 PHiEDO. philosophy aright, and in reality to study how to die easily; would not this be to study how to die ?" " 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 intellec- tual 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 uncontami- nated?" " By no means whatever," he replied. " But I think it will be impressed with that which is corpo- real, 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, amongst 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 pur? 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. EB.JEDO. 85 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 proba- ble, 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 glut- tony, 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, whi- ther 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 practised that social and civilized virtue, which they call temperance and jus- tice, 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 th" same humaTi species again, and from these become moderate men." " It is probable." " But it is not lawful for any one, who has not studied philo- sophy 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 philoso- phize 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 loveris of wealth ; nor again dreading disgrace and igno. miny like those who are lovers of power and honour, do they then abstain from them." 66 PH^DO. " For it would not become them to do so, Socrates," says Cebes. 72. " It would not, by Jupiter," he rejoined. " Wherefore, Cebgs, 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 whi- ther they are going, but being con"vinced that they ought not to act contrary to philosophy, but in accordance with the free- dom and purification she affords, they give themselves up to her direction, following her'wherever she leads." " How, Socrates ?" " I will tell you," he replied. " The lovers of wisdom know, that philosophy receiving their soul plainly bound and glued to the body, and compelled to view things through this, as through a prison, and not directly by herself, and sunk in utter, igno- rance, and perceiving too the strength of the prison, that it arises from desire, so that he that is bound as much as possible assists in binding himself. 73. I say, then, the lovers of wis- dom know that philosophy, receiving their soul in this state, gently exhorts it, and endeavours to free it, by shewing that the view of things by means of the eyes is full of deception, as also is that through the ears and the other senses, per- suading an abandonment of these so far as it is not abso- lutely necessary to use them, and advising the soul to be col- lected and concentrated within itself, and to believe nothing else but herself, with respect to what she herself understands of things that have a real subsistence, and to consider nothing tnie which she views through the medium of others, and which differ under different aspects'; for that a thing of this kind is sensible and visible, but that what she herself perceives is in- telligible and invisible. The soul of the true philosopher, therefore, thinking that she ought not to oppose this deliver- ance, accordingly abstains as much as possible from pleasures and desires, griefs and fears, considering that when any one is exceedingly jdelighted or alarmed, grieved or influenced by desire, he does not merely suffer such evil from these things as one might suppose, such as either being sick or wasting his By this I understand him to mean that the soul alone can perceive the truth, but the senses, as they are different, receive and convey differ- ent impressions of the same thing ; thus the eye receives one impression of an object, the ear a totally difierent one. PHiTinO. 87 property, through indulging his desires; but that which is the greatest evil, and the worst of all, this he suffers and is not conscious of it." " 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 asso- ciation 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 plea- sures 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, con- templating 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 88 PH^DO. ehall be freed from human evils. From such a regimen ag this the soul has no occasion to fear, Simmias and Ccbes, while it strictly attends to these things, lest being torn to pieces at its departure from the body it should be blown about and dis- sipated by the winds, and no longer have an existence any where." 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 suffi- ciently? 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 dpubt, 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 cala- mity, 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, wMcb they say sing PHJEDO, • 89 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 con- Bider 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 ac. count, therefore, it is right that you should both speak and ask whatever you please, as 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, prob- ably as it does to you with respect to these matters, that to know them clearly in the present hfe 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 ex- hausted 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 em- barking 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 con- sider 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, ii^ a well-modulated lyre : but the lyre and its chords are bodies, and of corporeal form, com- pounded and earthly, and akin to that which is mortal. When 90 PH^DO. any one, then, has either broken the lyre, or cut or burst tlie 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 Bubsist 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 conclu- sion, 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 hai-mony 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 body is 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 artizans, but that the remains of the body of each person last for a long time, till they are either burnt 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 stedfastly at us, as he was generally accustomed to do, and smiling, said, " Simmias in- deed speaks justly. If then, any one of you is more prompt I 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 onr 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 PH^DO. 91 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 any where 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. 'Wl)y 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 etill 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 gar- ment 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, whether 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 pre- served, 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 illu«tration 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 eonl 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 92 PH^DO. alone ; but when the soul has perished the body would shew tne weakness of its nature, and quickly rot and vanish. 84. 60 that it is not by any means right to place impUcit 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 na- ture, 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 foolishlv 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 afterwards mentioned to each other ; because, after we had been fully persuaded by the for- mer 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 afterwards be urged, for fear lest we should not he fit judges of any thing, or lest the things them- selves should be incredible. Echec. By the gods, Phsedo, I can readily excuse you: for, while I am now hearing you, it occurs to me to ask my- self 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 dis- credit. 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 J'upi- PHiEDO. 93 ter, how Socrates followed up the argument ;. and whether he too, as you confess was the case with yourselves, seemed dis- concerted at all, or not, hut calmly maintained his position ; and maintained it sufficiently, or defectively. Relate every thing to me as accurately as you can. Phad. Indeed, Echecrates, though I have often admired Socrates, I was nevei more delighted than at heing 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 ? PIuBd, 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, Phsedo, you will cut off these beautiful locks V " It seems likely, Socrates," said I. 87. " Not if you are persuaded by me." "Why so ?"I asked. \ " To-day," he repUed, " 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 suf- fer my hair to grow until I had renewed the contest, and van- quished 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 lolaus, while it is yet day." "I do call on you, then," I said, "not as Hercules upon lulaus, but as lolaus upon Hercules." " It will make no difference," he replied. " But first of aiS we must beware lest we meet with some mischance." "What?" I asked. 64 tHjEDO. " That we do not become," he answered, " haters of reason, ing 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 plafced too great reliance on some one without sufficient know- ledge 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 es- pecially from those whom he considered his most intimate and best friends, at length, having freijuently 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 numerons." 89. " How say you ?" I asked. " In the same manner," he replied, " as with thmgs very little and very large. Do you think that any thing is more rare than to find a very large or 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 Eire 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. " It is so," he said ; " but in this respect reasonings do not resemble men, for I was just now foUovring you as my leader, but in this they do resemble them, when any one believes in any argument as true without being skilled in the art of rea- soning, and then shortly afterwards it appears to '^'— ■'- ^ ■ false, at one time being so and at another time not. with one after another''; and especially they who devote themselves to controversial arguments, you are aware at length think they have become very wise, and have alone discovered that there is nothing sound and stable either in things or rea- sonings, but that all things that exist, as is the case with the Euripus, are in a constant state of flux and reflux, and never continue in any one condition for any length of time." " You speak perfectly true," I said. 90. " Would it not then, Phsedo," 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-feelf to the arguments, and thereupon pass the rest of one's life in hating and reviling arguments, and so be deprived of the truth and knowledge of things that exist }" "By Jupiter," I said, " it would be sad indeed." " In the flrst place, then," he said, " let us beware of this, and let us not admit into our souls the notion, that there ap- pears to be nothing sound in reasoning, but much rather that we are not yet in a sound condition, and that we ought vigor- ously and strenuously to endeavour to become sound, you and the others, on account of your whole future life, but I, on ac- count 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 hke those who are utterly un- informed. 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 "■ Ka\ o59is ?Tepoj Kol ?Tfpor, that is, " with one argument after another." Though Cousin translates it et successivement tout different de lui-mdne, and Ast, et rursus alia aique alia, which may be taken in either sense, yet it appears to me to mean that, when a man repeatedly discovers the fal- lacy of arguments which he before believed to be true, he distrusts rea- soning altogether, just as one who meets with friend after friend whs proves unfaithful, becomes a misanthrope. 66 PH^DO. by the way, but that it may appear certainly to be so to mysdif. For I thus reason, my dear friend, and observe how inter- estedly, if what I say be true, it is well to be persuaded of it ; out 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 lamenlations. 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 how- ever, if you will be persuaded by me, pay little attention to So- crates, 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 1 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 enquire into ?" They both agreed that they were. " Whether, then," he continued, " do you reject aU 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 argu- ment, in which we asserted that knowledge is reminiscence, and that, this being the case, our soul must necessarily have existed somewhere before it was enclosed in the body ?" 93. "I, indeed." replied Cebes, " was both then wonderfully persuaded by it, and now persist in it, as in no other argu- ment." " And I too," said Simmias, " am of the same mind, and ehould very much wonder if I should ever think otherwise on that point." "Tlien," Socrates said, "you must needs think otherwise, PH^DO. 97 ly Theban friend, if this opinion holds good, that harmony I something compounded, and that the soul is a kind of har- lony that results from the parts compacted together in the ody. For surely you will not allow yourself to say that har- lony was composed prior to the things from which it required 3 be composed. Would you allow this ?" " By no means Socrates," he replied. " Do you perceive then," he said, " that this results from rh&t you say, when you assert that the soul existed before it ame into a human form and body, but that it was composed from bings that did not yet exist ? For harmony is not such as that which you compare it ; but first the lyre, and the chords, nd the sounds yet unharmonized, exist, and last of all harmony i produced, and first perishes. How then will this argu- lent accord with that ?" " Not at all," said Simmias, 94. " And yet," he said, "if in any argument, there ought o 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, hat knowledge is reminiscence, or the soul harmony ?" " The former, by far, Socrates," he replied, " for the latter iccurred to me without demonstration, through a certain pro- lability and speciousness whence most men derive their opi- lions. But I am well aware that arguments which draw their Lemonstrations from probabilities are idle ; and unless one is in one's guard against them, they are very deceptive, both in geometry and all other subjects. But the argument respecting eminiscence and knowledge may be said to have been demon- trated by a satisfactory hypothesis. For in this way it was aid that our soul existed before it came into the body, because he essence that bears the appellation of ' that which is,' be- ongs to it. But of this, as I persuade myself, I am fully and ightly convinced. It is therefore necessary, as it seems, that [ should neither allow myself nor any one else to maintain ;hat the soul is harmony." 95, " But what, Simmias," said he, " if you consider it thus ] Does it appear to you to appertain to harmony, or to any other !omposition, to subsist in any other way than the very tilings io of which it is composed?" H 98 PHiEDO. i " By no means." " And indeed, as I think, neither to do any thing, nor suffer any thing else, besides what they do or suffer." He agreed. " It does not, therefore, appertain to harmony to take the lead of the things of whicli it is composed, but to follow them." He assented. " It is then far from being the case that harmony is moved or sends forth sounds contrariwise, or is in any other respect op- posed to its parts ?" " Far indeed," he said. " What then ? is not every harmony naturally harmony, so far as it has been made to accord ?" " I do not understand you," he replied, " Whether," he said, " if it should be in a greater degree and more fully made to accord, supposing that were possible, would the harmony be greater and more full, but if in a less degree and less fully, then would it be inferior and less full ?" " Certainly." " Is this then the case with the soul, that, even in the small- est extent, one soul is more fully and in a greater degree, or less fully and in a less degree this very thing, a soul, than another ?" " In no respect whatever," he replied. 96. "Well then," he said, "by Jupiter,, is one soul said to possess intelligence and virtue, and to be good, and another folly and vice, and to be bad? and is this said with truth?" "With truth, certainly." " Of those, then, who maintain that the soul is harmony, what will any one say that these things are in the soul, virtue and vice ? Will he call them another kind of harmony and discord ? and say that the one, the good soul, is harmonized, and, being harmony, contains within itself another harmony, but that the other is discordant, and does not contain within itself another harmonv ?" " I am unable to say," replied Simmias, " but it is clear that he who maintains that opinion would say something of the kind." " But it has been already granted," said he, " that one soul is not more or less a soul than another ; and this is an admis- sion that one harmony is not to a greater degree or more PHiEDO. 99 fully, or to a less degree or less fully, a harmony, than another s s it not so?" " Certainly." " And that that which is neither more nor iess harmony, is neither more nor less harmonized : is it so ?" " It is." " But does that which is neither more nor less harmonized partake of more or less harmony, or an equal amount?" " An equal amount." 97. " A soul, therefore, since it is not more or less this verj thmg, a soul, than another, is not more or less harmonized ?" " Even so." " Such then being its condition, it cannot partake of agreater degree of discord or harmony ?" " Certainly not." " And again, such being its condition, can one soul partake of a greater degree of vice or virtue than another, if vice be discord, and virtue harmony ?" " It cannot," " Or rather, surely, Simmias, according to right reason, no soul will partake of vice, if it is harmony : for doubtless har- mony, which is perfec^y such, can never partake of discord ?" " Certainly not." " Neither, therefore, can a soul, which is perfectly a soul, partake of vice." " How can it, from what has been already said ?" " From this reasoning, then, all souls of all animals will be equally good, if at least they are by nature equally this very thing, souls ?" " It appears so to me, Socrates," he said. " And does it appear to you," he said, " to have been thus rightly argued, and that the argument would lead to this re- sult, if the hypothesis were correct, that the soul is harmony ?" 98. " On no account whatever," he replied. "But what," said he, "of all the things that are in man, is there any thing else that you say bears rule except the soul, especially if it be wise ?" " I should say not." " Whether by yielding to the passions in the body, or by opposing them ? My meaning is this, for mstance, when heat and thirst arc present, by drawing it the contrary way, so as 100 PHiEDO. to hinder it from drinking, and when hunger is present, by hindering it from eating ; and in ten thousand other instances we see the soul opposing the desires of the body. Do we not ?" " Certainly." " But have we not before allowed that if the soul were harmony, it would never utter a sound contrary to the ten- sion, relaxation, vibration, or any other affection to which its component parts are subject, but would follow, and never govern them }" "We did allow it," he replied, "for how could we do otherwise?" " What, then, does not the soul now appear to act quite the contrary, ruling over all the parts, from which any one might say it subsists, and resisting almost all of them through the whole of life, and exercising dominion over them in all manner of ways, punishing some more severely even with pain, both by gymnastics and medicine, and others more mildly, partly tbreatemng, and partly admonishing the desires, angers, and fears, as if, being itself of a different nature, it were convers- ing with something quite different? 99. Just as Homer has done in the Odyssey', where he speaks of Ulysses: 'Having struck his breast, he chid his heart in the following words, Bear up, my heart ; ere this thou hast borne far worse.' Do you think that he composed this in the belief that the soul was harmony, and capable of being led by the passions of the body, and not rather that it was able to lead and govern them, as being something much more divine than to be com- pared with harmony V "By Jupiter, Socrates, it appears so to me." " Therefore, my excellent friend, it is on no account correct for us to say that the soul is a kind of harmony ; for as it ap- pears, we should neither agree with Homer, that divine poet, nor with ourselves." " Such is the case," he replied. " Be it so, then," said Socrates, " we have already, as it seems, sufficiently appeased this Theban harmony. But how, Cebes, and by what arguments shall we appease this Cadmus ■" ?" ' Lib. XX. V. 7. " Harmony was the. wife of Cadmus, the founder of Thebes ; Socrates, therefore, compares his two Theban friends, Simmias and Cebcs, with them, and says that having overcome Simmias, the advocate of Harmony, he must now deal with Cebes, who is reiiresented by Cadmus, PHjEDO. 101 100. " You appear to me," replied Cebes, " to be likely to find out; for you have made out this argument against har- mony wonderfully beyond my expectation. For when Simmiaa was saying what his doubts were, I wondered very much whe- ther any one would be able to answer his reasoning. It there- fore appeared to me unaccountable that he did not withstand tlie very first onset of your argument. I should not, there- fore, be surprised if the arguments of Cadmus met with the same fate." "My good friend," said Socrates, "do not speak so boast- fully, lest some envious power should overthrow the argument that is about to be urged. These things, however, will be cared for by the deity, but let us, meeting hand to hand, in the manner of Homer, try whether you say any thing to the pur- pose. This, then, is the sum of what you enquire : you require it to be proved that our soul is imperishable and immortal ; if a philosopher that is about to die, full of confidence and hope that after death he shall be far happier than if he had died after leading a different kind of life, shall not entertain this con- fidence foolishly and vainly. 101. But to shew that the soul is something strong and divine, and that it existed before we me:, were born, you say not at all hinders, but that all these things may evince, not its immortality, but that the soul is durable, and existed an immense space of time before, and knew and did many things. But that, for all this, it was not at all the more immortal, but that its very entrance into the body of a man was the beginning of its destruction, as if it were a disease, so that it passes through this life in wretchedness, and at last perishes in that which is called death. But you say that it is of no consequence whether it comes into a body once or often, with respect to our occasion of fear : for it is right he should be afraid, unless he is foohsh, who does not know, and cannot give a reason to prove, that the soul is immortal. Such, I think, Cebes, is the sum of what you say ; and I purposely repeat it often, that nothing may escape us, and, if you please, vou may add to or take from it." Cebes repUed, " I do not wish at present either to take from or add to it ; that is what I mean." 102. Socrates, then, having paused for some time, and con« sidered something within himself, said, " You enquire into nb easy matter, Cebes ; for it is absolutely necessary to discuss 103 PH^DO. the whole question of generation and corruption. If yon please, then, I will relate to you what happened to me with reference to them ; and afterwards, if any thing that I shall Bay shall appear to you useful, towards producing conviction on the subject you are now treating of, make use of it." " I do indeed wish it," replied Cebes. " Hear my relation then. When I was a young man, Cebes, I was wonderfully desirous of that wisdom which they call a history of nature : for it appeared to me to be a very subhme thing to know the causes of every thing, why each thing is generated, why it perishes, and why it exists. And I often tossed myself upwards and downwards, considering first such things as these, whether when heat and cold have undergone a certain corruption, as some say, then animals are formed; and whether the blood is that by means of which we think, or air, or fire, or none of these, but that it is the brain that pro- duces the perceptions of hearing, seeing, and smelling, and that from these come memory and opinion, and from memory and opinion, when in a state of rest, in the same way knowledge is produced ? 103. And again considering the corruptions of these, and the affections incidental to the heavens and the earth, I at length appeared to myself so unskilful in these speculations, that nothing could be more so. But I will give you a sufficient proof of this : for I then became, by -these very specidations, so very blind with respect to things which I knew clearly before, as it appeared to myself and others, that I un- learnt even the things which I thought I knew before, both on many other subjects and also this, why a man grows. For before I thought this was evident to every one, that it pro- ceeds from eating and drinking ; for that, when, from the food, flesh is added to flesh, bone to bone, and so on in the same proportion, what is proper to them is added to the several other parts, then the bulk which was small becomes after- wards large, and thus that a little man becomes a big one. Such was my opinion at that time : does it appear to vou correct ?" " To me it does," said Cebes. 104. " Consider this further. I thought that I had formed a right opinion, when on seeing a tall man standing by a short one, I judged that he was taller by the head, and in like manner one horse than another : and still more dearly than PH^DO. lOfl this, ten appeared to me to be more than eight, by two being added to them, and that two cubits are greater than one cubit, by exceeding it a half." " But now," said Cebes, " what think you of these matters ?" " By Jupiter," said he, " I am far from thinking that I know the cause of these, for that I cannot even persuade myself of this, when a person has added one to one, whether the on(3 to which the addition has been made has become two, or whether that which has been added, and that to which the addition has been made, have become two by the addition ot the one to the other. For I wonder, if when each of these was separate from the other, each was one, and they were not yet two, but when they have approached nearer each other, this should be the cause of their becoming two, namely, the union by which they have been placed nearer one another. 105. Nor yet, if any person should divide one, am I able to persuade myself that this, their division, is the cause of its becoming two. For this cause is the contrary to the former one of their becoming two ; for then it was because they were brought nearer to each other, and the one was added to the other; but now it is, because one is removed and separated from the other. Nor do I yet persuade myself, that I know why one is one, nor, in a word, why any thing else is produced or perishes, or exists, according to this method of proceeding; but I mix up another method of my own at random, for this I can on no account give in to. " But having once heard a person reading from a book, written, as he said, by Anaxagoras, and which said that it is intelligence that sets in order and is the cause of all things, I was delighted with this cause, and it appeared to me in a manner to be well that intelligence should be the cause ot all things, and I considered with myself, if this is so, that the regulating intelligence orders all things, and disposes each in such way as will be best for it. 106. If any one, then, should desire to discover the cause of every thing, in what way it is produced, or perishes, or exists, he must discover this respecting it, in what way it is best for it either to exist, or to suffer, or do any thing else ; from this mode of reason- ing, then, it is.proper that a man should consider nothing else, both with respect to himself and others, than what is most excellent and best ; and it necessarily follows that this same 104 PH^DO. person must also know that which is worst, for that the knowleige of both of them is the same. Thus reasoning with myself, I was delighted to think I had found in Anax- Bgoras a preceptor who would instruct me in the causes of things, agreeably to my own mind, and that he would inform me, first, whether the earth is flat or round, and when he had informed me, would moreover explain the cause and necessity of its being so, arguing on the principle of the better, and shewing that it is better for it to be such as it is, and if he should say that it is in the middle, that he would moreover explain how it is better for it to be in the middle ; and if he should make all this clear to me, I was prepfared no longer to require any other species of cause. 107. I was in like manner prepared to enquire respecting the sun, and moon, and the other stars, with respect to their velocities in reference to each other and their revolutions, and other con- ditions, in what way it is better for both to act and be affected as it does and is. For I never thought that after he had said that these things were set in order by intelhgence, he would introduce any other cause for them than that it is best for them to be as they are : hence, I thought, that in assigning the cause to each of them, and to all in common, he would explain that which is best for each, and the common good of all. And 1 would not have given up my hopes for a good deal, but having taken up his books with great eagerness, I read through them as quickly as I could, that I might as soon as possible know the best, and the worst. 108. " From this wonderful hope, however, my friend, I was speedily thrown down, when, as I advance and read over big works, I meet with a man who makes no use of intelligence, nor assigns any causes for the ordering of all things, but makes the causes to consist of air, ether, and water, and many other things equally absurd. And he appeared to me to be very like one who should say, that whatever Socrates does he does by intelligence, and then, attempting to describe the causes of each particular action, should say, first of all, that for this reason I am now sitting here, because my body is composed of bones and sinews, and that the bones are hard, and have joints separate from each other, but that the sinews, being capable of tension and contraction, cover the bones, together with the flesh and skin which contains them. The PHjEDO 105 bones, therefore, being suspended in their sockets, the nerves relaxing and tightening enable me to bend my limbs as I now do, and from this cause I sit here bent up. 109. And if again, he should assign other similar causes for my conversing with you, assigning as causes voice, and air, and hearing, and ten thousand other things of the kind, omitting to mention the real causes, that since it appeared better to the Athenians to condemn me, I therefore thought it better to sit here, and more just to remain and submit to the punishment which they have ordered ; for, by the dog, I think these sinews and bones Would have been long ago either in Megara or Boeotia, borne thither by an opinion of that which is best, if I had not thought it more just and honourable to submit to whatever sentence the city might order, than to flee and run stealthily away. But to call such things causes is too absurd. But if any one should say that without possessing such things as bones and sinews, and whatever else I have, I could not do what I pleased, he would speak the truth ; but to say that I do as I do through them, and that I act thus by intelligence, and not from the choice of what is best, would be a great and extreme disregard of reason. 110. For this would be not to be able to distinguish that the real cause is one thing, and that another without which a cause could not be a cause : which indeed the generality of men appear to me to do, fumbling as it were in the dark, and making use of strange names, so as to denominate them as the very cause. Where- fore one encompassing the earth with a vortex from heaven, •nakes the earth remain fixed; but another, as if it were a bvoad trough, rests it upon the air as its base : but the power by which these things are now so disposed that they may be placed in the best manner possible, this they neither en- quire into, nor do they think that it requires any superhu- man strength; but they think they will some time or other find out an Atlas stronger and more immortal than this, and more capable of containing all things, and in reality, the good, and that which ought to hold them together and contain them, they take no account of at all. I then should most gladly have become the disciple of any one who would teach me of such a cause, in what way it is. But when I was disappointed of this, and was neither able to discover it myself, nor to learn (t from another, do you wish, Cebes, that I should shew you iu led PsmdO. wliat way I set out upon a Recond voyage in search of the cause ?" Ill "I wish it exceedingly," he replied. " It appeared to me then," said he, " after this, when I was wearied with consider! jig things that exist, that I ought to he- ware lest I should suffer in the same way as they do who look at and examine an eclipse of the sun, for some Ipse the sight of their eyes, unless they hehold its image in water, or some similar medium. And I was affected with a similar feeling, and was afraid lest I should be utterly blinded in my soul through beholding things with the eyes, and endeavouring to grasp them by means of the several senses. It seemed to me, therefore, that I ought to have recourse to reasons, and to con- sider in them the truth of things. Perhaps, however, this simi- litude of mine may in some respect be incorrect ; for I do not altogether admit that he who considers things in their reasons considers them in their images, more than he does who views them in their effects. However, I proceeded thus, and on each occasion laying down the reason, which I deem to be the strong- est, whatever things appear to me to accord with this I regard as true, both with respect to the cause and every thing else, but such as do not accord I regard as not true. 112. But I wish to explain my meaning to you in a clearer manner ; for I think that you do not yet understand me." " No, by Jupiter," said Cebes, " not well." " However," continued he, " I am now saying nothiag new, but what I have always at other times, and in a former part of this discussion, never ceased to say. I proceed then to at- tempt to explain to you that species of cause which I have busied myself about, and return again to those well-known subjects, and set out from them, laying down as an hypo- thesis, that there is a certain abstract beauty, and goodness, and magnitude, and so of all other things ; which if you grant me, and allow that they do exist, I hope that I shall be able from these to explain the cause to you, and to discover that the soul is immortal." " But,", said Cebes, " since I grant you this, you may draw your conclusion at once." " But consider," he said, " what follows from thence, and see if you can agree with me. For it appears to me, that it there be any thing else beautiful, besides beauty itself, it is fRmbt). 16? not beautiful for any' other reason than because it partakes of that abstract beauty ; and I say the same of every thing. Do you admit such a cause ?" " I do admit it," he replied. 113. "I do not yet understand," he continued, "nor am I able to conceive, those other wise causes ; but if any one should tell me why any thing is beautiful, either because it has a blooming florid colour, or figure, or any thing else of the kind, I dismiss all other reasons, for I am confounded by them all ; but I simply, wholly, and perhaps foolishly, confine my- self to this, that nothing else causes it to be beautiful, except either the presence or communication of that abstract beauty, by whatever means and in whatever way communicated : for I cannot yet afiirm this with certainty, but only that by means of beauty all beautiful things become beautiful. For this appears to me the safest answer to give both to myself and others, and adhering to this, I think that I shall never fall, but that it is a safe answer both for me and any one else togive, that by means of beauty beautiful things become beautiful. Does it not also seem so to you ?" "It does." "And that by magnitude great things become great, and greater things, greater ; and by littleness less things become less?" "Yes." ] 14. " You would not then approve of it, if any one said that one person is greater than another by the head, and that the less is less by the very same thing, but you would main- tain that you mean nothing else than that every thing that is greater than another is greater by nothing else than magni- tude, and that it is greater on this account, that is on account of magnitude, and that the less is less by nothing else than iittleness, and on this account less, that is, on account of little- ness, being afraid, I think, lest some opposite argument should meet you if you should say that any one is greater and less by the head ; as first, that the greater is greater, and the less less, by the very same thing ; and next, that the greater is greater by the head, which is small ; and that it is monstrous to sup- pose that any one is great through something small. Should vou not be afraid of this ?" To which said Cebes, smilingly, " Indeed I should." 108 PHJEDO. "Should you not, then," he continued, "be afraid to say that ten is more than eight by two, and for this cause exceeds it, and not by number, and on account of number ? and that two cubits are greater than one cubit by half, and not by mag- nitude ? for the fear is surely the same." " Certainly," he replied. 115. " What then? when one has been added to one, would you not beware of saying that the addition is the cause of its being two, or division when it has been divided ; and would you not loudly assert that you know no other way in which each thing subsists, than by partaking of the peculiar essence of each of which it partakes, and that in these cases you can assign no other cause of its becoming two than its partaking of duality ; and that such things as are to become two must needs partake of this, and what is to become one, of unity ; but these divisions and additions, and other such subtleties, you would dismiss, leaving them to be given as answers by persons wiser than yourself: whereas you, fearing, as it is said, your own shadow and inexperience, would adhere to this safe hypothesis, and answer accordingly? But if any one should assail this hypothesis of yours, would you not dismiss him and refrain from answering him till you had considered the consequences resulting from it, whether in your opinion they agree with or differ from each other? But when it should be necessary for you to give a reason for it, would you give one in a similar way, by again laying down another hypothesis, which should appear the best of higher principles, until you arrived at some- thing satisfactory, but at the same time you would avoid making confusion, as disputants do, in treating of the first principle and the results arising from it, if you really desire to arrive at the truth of things. 116. For they, perhaps, make no account at all of this, nor pay any attention to it, for they are able, through their wisdom, to mingle all things together, and at the same time please themselves. But you, if you are a philosopher, would act, I think, as I now de- scribe." " You speak most truly," said Simmias and Cebes together. Echec. By Jupiter, Phsedo, they said so with good reason : for he appears to me to have explained these things with won- derful clearness, even to one endued with a small degree of intelligence. PH^.DO. 109 Phad. CertMiJy, Echecrates, and so it appeared to all who Were present. Echec. And so it appears to me, who was absent, and now hear it related. But what was said after this ? As well as I remember, when these things had been granted him, and it was allowed that each several idea exists of itself", and that other things partaking of them receive their denomi- nation from them, he next asked : " If then," he said, " you admit that these things are so, whether, when you say that Simmias is greater than Socrates, but less than Phsedo, do you not then say that magnitude and littleness are both in Simmias?" 1 17. " And yet," he said, " you must confess that Simmias's exceeding Socrates is not actually true in the manner in which the words express it ; for Simmias does not naturally exceed Socrates, in that he is Simmias, but in consequence of the magnitude which he happens to have ; nor, again, does he ex- ceed Socrates, because Socrates is Socrates, but because Socra- tes possesses littleness in comparison with his magnitude ?" " True." " Nor, again, is Simmias exceeded by Phsedo, because Phcedo is Pheedo, but because Phasdo possesses magnitude in compari- son with Simmias's littleness ?" "It is so." " Thus, then, Simmias has the appellation of being both little and great, being between both, by exceeding the littleness of one through his own magnitude, and to the other yielding a magnitude that exceeds his own littleness." And at the same time, smiling, he said, " I seem to speak with the precision of a short-hand writer; however, it is as I say." He allowed it. 118. "But I say it for this reason, wishing you to be of the same opinion as myself. For it appears to me, not only that magnitude itself is never disposed to be at the same time great and little, but that magnitude in us never admits the little, nor is disposed to be exceeded, but one of two things, either to flee and withdraw when its contrary, the little, approaches it, or when it has actually come, to perish ; but that it is not disposed, by sustaining and receiving littleness, to be different from what ■ flvai Tj, literally, "is somefting." no PHJEDO, it was. Just as I, having received and sustained littleness, and still continuing the same person that I am, am this same little person : but that, while it is great, never endures to be little. And in like manner the little that is in us is not disposed at any time to become or to be great, nor is any thing else among contraries, while it continues what it was, at the same time disposed to become and to be its contrary ; but in this ^ontin- gency it either departs or perishes." 119. " It appears so to me," said Cebes, " in every respect.'' But some one of those present, on hearing this, I do not clearly remember who he was, said, " By the gods, was not the veiy contrary of what is now asserted admitted in the for- mer part of our discussion, that the greater is produced from the less, and the less from the greater, and in a word, that the very production of contraries is from contraries ? But now it appears to me to be asserted that this can never be the case." Upon this Socrates, having leant his head forward and lis- ' tened, said, " You have reminded me in a manly way ; you do not, however, perceive the diiference between what is now and what was then asserted. For then it was said, that a contrary thing is produced from a contrary ; but now, that a contrary can never become contrary to itself, neither that which is in us, nor that which is in nature. For then, my friend, we spoke of things that have contraries, calling them by the appellation of those things ; but now we are speaking of those very things, from the presence of which things so called receive their appel- lation, and of these very things we say that they are never dis- posed to admit of production froift each other." 120. And, at the same time looking at Cebes, " Has any thing that has been said, Cebes, disturbed you ?" " Indeed," said Cebes, " I am not at all so disposed ; how- ever, rby no means say that there are not many things that disturb me." " Then," he continued, "we have quite agreed to this, that a contrary can never be contrary to itself." " Most certainly," he replied. " But further," he said, " consider whether you will agree with me in this also. Do you call heat and cold any thing '" "I do." " The same as snow and fire ?' "By Jupiter, I do not," PH^DO. m "But heat is something difierent from fire, and cold some- thing different from snow ?" "Yes." " But this, I think, is apparent to you, that snow, while it is Bnow, can never, when it has admitted heat, as we said befoie, continue to be what it was, snow and hot, but, on the approach of heat, it must either withdraw or perish ?" " Certainly." "And again, that fire, when cold approaches it, must either depart or perish ; but that it will never endure, when it has admitted coldness, to continue what it was, fire and cold ?" 121. " You speak truly," he said, " It happens then," he continued, " with respect to some of Buch things, that not only is the idea itself always thought worthy of the same appellation, but likewise something else which is not indeed that idea itself but constantly retains its form so long as it exists. What I mean will perhaps be clearer in the following examples. The odd in number must always possess the name by which we now call it; must it not ? " Certainly." " Must it alone of all things, for this I ask, or is there any thing else, which is not the same as the odd, but yet which we must always call odd, together with its own name, because it is so constituted by nature, that it can never be without the odd ? But this I say is the case with the number three, and many others. For consider with respect to the number three ; does it not appear to you that it must always be called by its own name, as well as by that of the odd, which is not the same as the number three ? Yet such is the nature of the number three, five, and the entire half of number, that though they are not the same as the odd, yet each of them is always odd. And again, two and four, and the whole other series of number, though not the same as the even, are nevertheless each of them always even : do you admit this or not ? 122. "How should I not?" he replied. " Observe then," said he, " what I wish to prove. It is this, that it appears, not only that these contraries do not admit each other, but that even such things as are not contrary to each other, and yet always possess contraries, do not appear to admit that idea which is contrary to the idea that exists in themselves, but, when it approaches, perish or depart. Shall ^'2 PH^DO. , wfc not allow that the number three would first perish, and Buffer any thing whatever, rather than endure, while it is still three, to become even ?" " Most certainly," said Cebes. ' " And yet," said he, " the number two is not contrary to three." " Surely not." " Not only, then, do ideas that are contrary never allow the approach of each other, but some other things also do not allow the approach of contraries." " You say very truly," he replied. " Do you wish, then," he said, " that, if we are able, we Bhould define what these things are ?" " Certainly." " Would they not then, Cebes," he said, " be such things as whatever they occup)', compel that thing not only to retain its own idea, but also that of something which is always a contrary ? " How do you mean ?" 123. " As we just now said. For you know surely, that whatever things the idea of three occupies must of necessity got only be three, but also odd ?" " Certainly." " Tc such a thing, then, we assert, that the idea contraiy to that form which constitutes this can never come." " It cannot." " But did the odd make it so ?" " Yes." " And is the contrary to this the idea of the even ?" "Yes." " The idea of the even, then, will never come to the three ?" " No surely." " Three, then, has no part in the even ?" " None whatever." " The number three is uneven i" "Yes." "What therefore I said should be defined, namely, what things they are which, though not contrary to some particular thing, yet do not admit of the contrary itself, as in the present instance, the number three though not contrary to the even, does not any the more admit it, for it always brings the cou- PHjEDO. 113 trary with it, just as the number two does to the odd, fire to cold, and many other particulars, consider then, whether you would thus define, not only that a contrary does not admit a contrary, but also that that which brings with it a contrary to that to which it approaches, will never admit the contrary of that which it brings with it. 124. But call it to mind again, for it will not be useless to hear it often repeated. Five will not admit the idea of the even, nor ten, its double, that of the odd. This double then, though it is itself contrary to something else", yet will not admit the idea of the odd; nor will half as much again, nor other things of the kind, such as the half and the third part admit the idea of the whole, if you follow me and agree with me that it is so." " I entirely agree with you," he said, " and follow you." " Tell me again, then," he said, " from the beginning ; and do not answer me in the terms in which I put the question, but in different ones, imitating my example. For I say this because, besides that safe mode of answering, which I men- tioned at first P, from what has now been said, I see another no less safe one. For if you should ask me what that is, which if it be in the body will cause it to be hot, I should not give you that safe but unlearned answer, that it is heat, but one more elegant, from what we have just now said, that it is fire : nor, if you should ask me what that is, which if it be in the body, will cause it to be diseased, should I say that it is disease, but fever ; nor, if you should ask what that is, which if it be in number, will cause it to be odd, should I say that it is unevenness, but unity, and so with other things. But consider whether you suiEciently understand what I mean." 125. " Perfectly so," he replied. " Answer me then," he said, " what that is, which when it is in the body, the body will be alive ?" " Soul," he replied. " Is not this, then, always the case ?" •' How should it not be ?" said he. " Does the soul, then, always bring life to whatever it occu- pies ?" " It does indeed," he replied. " Whether, then, is there any thing contrary to life or not ?" " There is," he replied. ° That is, to single. ' Se« { 118. I 114 PHiEDO. "What?" « Death." " The soul, then, will never admit the contrary of that which it brings with it, as has been already allowed?" " Most assuredly," replied Cebo.s. " What then ? how do we denominate that which does not «dmit the idea of the even ?"' " Uneven," he replied. "And that which does not admit the just, nor the musical?" " Unmusical," he said, " and unjust." " Be it so. But what do we call that which does not admit death?" " Immortal," he replied. " Therefore does not the soul admit death ?" « No." " Is the soul, then, immortal ?" " Immortal." " B9 it so," he said. " Shall we say then, that this has been now demonstrated ? or how think you ?" " Most coinpletely, Socrates." " What then,"- said he, " Cebes, if it were necessary for the uneven to be imperishable, would the number three be other, wise than imperishable ?" "How should it not?" " If, therefore, it were also necessary that what is without heat should be imperishable, when any one should introduce heat to snow, would not the snow withdraw itself, safe and unmelted? For it would not perish; nor yet would it stay and admit the heat." " You say truly," he replied. • " In like manner, I think, if that which is insusceptible of cold were imperishable, that when any thing cold approached the fire, it would neither be extinguished nor perish, but would depart quite safe." " Of necessity," he said. '• Must we not then of necessity," he continued, " speak thug of that which is imiiiiortal ? if that which is immortal is im- perishable, it is impcissible for the soul to perish, when death approaches it. For, from what has been said already, it will not admit death, nor will ever be dead, just as we said that three will never be even, nor again will the odd, nor will fire PUJEDO. 115 be cold, nor yet the heat that is in fire. 127. But some one may say, what hinders, though the odd can never hecome even hy the approach of the even, as we have allowed, yet, when the odd is destroyed, that the even should succeed in its place ? We could not contend with him who should make this objection, that it is not destroyed; for the uneven is not imperishable; since, if this were granted us, we might easily have contended, that on the approach of the even the odd and the three depart ; and we might have contended in the same way with respect to fire, heat, and the rest; might we not?" " Certainly." " Wherefore, with respect to the immortal, if we have allowed that it is imperishable, the soul, in addition to its being immortal, must also be imperishable ; if not, there will be need of other arguments." " But there is no need," he said, " as far as that is concerned ; for scarcely could any thing not admit of corruption, if that which is immortal and eternal is liable to it." 128. " The deity, indeed, I think," said Socrates, " and the idea itself of life, and if any thing else is immortal, must be allowed by all beings to be incapable of dissolution." " By Jupiter," he replied, " by all men indeed, and still more, as I think, by the gods." " Since, then, that which is immortal is also incorruptible, can the soul, since it is immortal, be any thing else than im> perishable ?" " It must of necessity be so." " When, therefore, death approaches a man, the mortal part of him, as it appears, dies, but the immortal part departs safe and uncorrupted, having withdrawn itself from death?" " It appears so." "The soul, therefore," he said, "Cebes, is most certainly immortal and imperishable, and our souls will really exist in Hades." " Therefore, Socrates," he said, " I have nothing further to say against this, nor any reason for doubting your arguments. But if Simmias here or any one else has any thing to say, it were well for him not to be silent: for I know not to what other opportunity beyond the present any one can defer it, who wishes either to speak or hear about these things." 129. "But indeed," said Simmias, "neither have I any reason to doubt what has been urged ; yet from the mai?Ql. llfl PH^DO. tude of the subject discussed, and from my low opinion of human weakness, I am compelled still to retain a doubt within myself with respect to what has been said." " Not only so, Simmias," said Socrates, " but you say this well, and moreover the first hypotheses, even though they are credible to you, should nevertheless be examined more care- fully ; and if you should investigate them sufficiently, I think you will follow my reasoning as far as it is possible for man to do so ; and if this very point becomes clear, you will enquire no further." ^ " You speak truly," he said. " But it is right, my friends," he said, " that we should con- sider this, that if the soul is immortal, it requires our care not only for the present time, which we call life, but for all time ; and the danger would now appear to be dreadful, if one should neglect it. 130. For if death were a deliverance from every thing, it would be a great gain for the wicked, when they die, to be delivered at the same time frpm the body, and from their vices together with the soul : but now, since it appears to be immortal, it can have no other refuge from evils, nor safety, except by becoming as good and wise as possible. For the soul goes to Hades, possessing nothing else but its discipline and education, which are said to be of the greatest advantage or detriment to the dead, on the very beginning of his journey thither. For thus it is said; that each person's demon who was assigned to him while living, when he dies conducts hin\ to some place, where they that are assembled together must receive sentence and then proceed to Hades with that guide, who has been ordered to conduct them from hence thither. But there having received their deserts, and having remained the appointed time, another guide brings them back hither again, after many and long revolutions of time. The journey, then, is not such as the Telephus of jEschylus describes it. For he says that a simple path leads to Hades ; but it appears to me to be neither simple nor one : for there would be no need of guides, nor could any one ever miss the way, if there were but one. But now it appears to have many divisions! and windings; and this I conjecture from our religious and funeral rites a. 131. The well-ordered and wise soul, then, 1 It is difficult to express tlie distinction between Scria and fd^i/ua, the former word seems to have reference to the souls of the dead, the latter to theii bodies. VBMDO. 117 both follows, and is not ignorant of its present condition ; but that which through passion clings to the body, as I said before, having longingly fluttered about it for a long time, and about its visible place', after vehement resistance and great suffering, is forcibly and with great difficulty led away by its appointed demon. And when it arrives at the place where the others are, impure and having done any such thing as the committal of unrighteous murders or other similar actions, which are kindred to these, and are the deeds of kindred souls, every one shuns it and turns away from it, and will neither be its fellow-traveller or guide, but it wanders about, oppressed with every kind of helplessness until certain periods have elapsed : and when these are completed, it is carried of necessity to an abode suitable to it; but the soul which has passed through life with purity and moderation, having ob- tained the gods for its fellow-travellers and guides, settles each in the place suited to it. 132. There are indeed many and wonderful places in the earth, and it is itself neither of such a kind, nor of such a magnitude, as is supposed by those 'who are accustomed to speak of the earth, as I have been per* suaded by a certain person." Whereupon Simmias said, " How mean you, Socrates ? For I too have heard many things about the earth, not however those things which have obtained your belief: I would there- fore gladly hear them." "Indeed, Simmias, the art of Glaucus' does not seem to me to be required to relate what these things are ; that they are true however, appears to me more than the art of Glaucus can prove, and besides, I should probably not be able to do it, and even if I did know how, what^, remains to me of life, Simmias, seems insufficient for the length of the subject. However, the form of the earth, such as I am persuaded it is, and the different places in it, nothing hinders me from telling." " But that will be enough," said Simmias. "I am persuaded, then," said he, "in the first place, that, if the earth is in the middle of the heavens, and is of a spherical form, it has no need of air, nor of any other similar force, to prevent it from falling, but that the similarity of the heavens ' Its place of interment. * A proverb meaning " a matter of great difficulty." 118 PH^DO. to themselves on every side, and the equilibiium of the earth itself, are sufficient to support it; for a thing in a state of equilibrium when placed in the middle of something that presses it equally on aU sides cannot incline more or less on any side, but being equally aifected all around remains un- moved. 133. In the first place then," he said, "I am per- suaded of this." " And very properly so," said Simmias. " Yet further," said he, " that it is very large, and that we who inhabit some small portion of it, from the river Phasis to the pillars of Hercules, dwell about the sea, like ants or frogs about a marsh, and that many others elsewhere dwell in many similar places, for that there are every where about the earth many hollows of various forms and sizes into which there is a confluence of water, mist, and air; but that the earth itself, being pure, is situated in the pure heavens, in which are the stars, and which most persons who are accustomed to speak about such things call ether; of which these things are the sediment and are bontinually flowing into the hollow parts of the earth. 134. That we are ignorant, then, that we are dwell- ing in its hollows, and imagine that we inhabit the upper parts of the earth, just as if any one dwelling in the bottom of the sea, should think that he dwelt on the sea, and, beholding the sun and the other stars through the water, should imagine that the sea was the heavens, but through sloth and weakness should never have reached the surface of the sea, nor, having emerged and risen up from the sea to this region, have seen how much more pure and more beautiful it is than the place where he is, nor has heard of it from any one else who has seen it. This then is the very condition in which we are ; for, dwelling in some hollow of the earth, we think that we dwell on the sur- face of it, and call the air heaven, as if the stars moved through this, being heaven itself. But this is because by reason of our weakness and sloth, we are unable to reach to the summit of the air. Since, if any one could arrive at its summit, or, be- coming winged, could fly up thither, or emerging from hence, he would see, — ^just as with us, fishes emerging from the sea, behold what is here, — 'SO any one would behold the things there, and if his nature were able to endure the contemplation, he would know that that is the true heaven, and the true light, aud the true earth. 135. For this earth and these stones, and PH^DO. 119 the whole region he/te, are decayed and corroded, as things in the sea by the saltness ; for nothing of any value grows in the sea, nor, in a word, does it contain any thing ^perfect, hut there are caverns and sand, and mud in abundance, and filth, in whatever parts of the sea there is earth, nor are they at all worthy to be compared with the beautiful things with us. But on the other hand, those things in the upper regions of the earth would appear far more to excel the things with us. For, if we may tell a beautiful fable, it is well worth hearing, Simmias, what kind the things are on the earth beneath the heavens." " Indeed, Socrates," said Simmias, " we should he very glad to hear that fable." 136. "First of all then, my friend," he continued, "this earth, if any one should sui-vey it from above, is said to have the appearance of balls covered with twelve different pieces of leather, variegated and distinguished with colours, of which the colours found here, and which painters use, are as it were copies. But there the whole earth is composed of such, and far more brilliant and pure than these ; for one part of it is purple, and of wonderful beauty, part of a golden colour, and part of white, more white than chalk or snow, and in like man- ner composed of other colours, and those more in number and more beautiful than any we have ever beheld. And those very hollow parts of the earth, though filled with water and air, ex- hibit a certain species of colour, shining among the variety of other colours, so that one continually variegated aspect pre- sents itself to the view. In this earth, being such, all things that grow, grow in a manner proportioned to its nature, trees, flowers, and fruits ; and again, in like manner, its mountains and stones possess, in the same proportion, smoothness and transparency, and more beautiful colours ; of which the well- known stones here that are so highly prized are but fragments, such as sardin-stones, jaspers, and emeralds, and all of that kind. But there, there is nothing subsists that is not of this character, and even more beautiful than these. 137. But the reason of this is, because the stones there are pure, and not eaten up and decayed, like those here, by rottenness and salt- ness, which flow down hither together, and which produce deformity and disease in the stones and the earth, and in other things, even annuals and plants. But that earth is adorned ISO PH^DO. with all these, and moreover -with gold and silver, ajid other things of the kind : for they are naturally conspicuous, being numerous and large, and in all parts of the earth ; so that to behold it is a sight for the blessed. There are also many other animals and men upon it, some dwelling in mid-earth, others ibcut the air, as we do about the sea, and others in islands which the air flows round, and which are near the continent ; and in one word, what water and the sea are to us, for our necessities, the air is to them ; and what air is to us, that ether is to them. 138. But their seasons are of such a temperament that they are free from disease, and live for a much longer time than those here, and surpass us in sight, hearing, and smelling, and every thing of this kind, as much as air excels water, and ether air, in purity. Moreover, they have abodes and temples of the gods, in which gods really dwell, and voices Slid oiacles, and sensible visions of the gods, and such-like in- tercourse with them ; the sun too, and moon, and stars, are seen by them such as they really are, and their felicity in other respects is correspondent with these things. " And such indeed is the nature of the whole earth, and the parts about the earth; but there are many places all round it throughout its cavities, some deeper and more open than that in which we dwell : but others that are deeper, have a less chasm than our region, and others are shallower in depth than it is here and broader. 139. But all these are in many places perforated one into another under the earth, some with narrower and some with wider channels, and have passages through, by which a great quantity of water flows from one into another, as into basins, and there are immense bulks of ever-flowing rivers under the earth, both of hot and cold water, and a great quantity of fire, and mighty rivers of fire, and many of liquid mire, some purer, and some more miry, as in Sicily there are rivers of mud that flow before the lava, and the lava itself, and from these the several places are filled, ac- cording as the overflow from time to time happens to come to each of them. But all these move up and down as it were by a certain oscillation existing in the earth. And this oscillation proceeds from such natural cause as this : one of the chasms of the earth is exceedingly large, and perforated through the entire earth, and is that which Homer' speaks of, 'very far ■ Iliad, lib. viii. t. 14. PH-EDO. 121 off, where is the most profound abyss beneath the earth,' which elsewhere both he and many other poets have called Tartarus, For into this chasm all rivers flow together, aud from it flow out again : but they severally derive their charac- ter from the earth through which they flow. 140. And the reason why all streams flow out fi-om thence, and flow into it, is because this liquid has neither bottom nor base. Therefore it oscillates and fluctuates up and down, and the air and the wind around it do the same ; for they accompany it both when it rushes to those parts of the earth, and when to these. And as in respiration the flowing breath is continually breathpd out and drawn in, so there the wind oscillating with the liquid, causes certain vehement and irresistible winds both as it en- ters and goes out. When, therefore, the water rushing in de- scends to the place which we call the lower region, it flows through the earth into the streams there and fills them, just as men pump up water. But when again it leaves those regions and rushes hither, it again fills the rivers here, and these, when filled, flow through channels and through the earth, and having severally reached the several places to which they are journey- ing, they make seas, lakes, rivers, and fountains. 141. Then sinking again from thence .beneath the earth, some of them having gone round longer and more numerous places, and others round fewer and shorter, they again discharge them- selves into Tartarus, some much lower than they were dra wn up, others only a little so, but all of them flow in again beneath the point at which they flowed out. And some issue out di- rectly opposite the place by which they flow in, others on the same side : there are also some which having gone round alto- gether in a circle, folding themselves once or several times round the earth, like serpents, when they had descended as low as possible, discharge themselves again : and it is possi le for them to descend on either side as far as the middle, but not be- yond ; for in each direction there is an acclivity to the streams both ways. " Now there are many other large and various streams, but among this great number there are four certain streams, of which the largest, and that which flows most outwardly round the earth, is called Ocean, but directly opposite this, and flow- ing in a contrary direction, is 4-cheron, which flows through other desert places, aud moreover passing under the earth. l22 ^iiMnd. reaches the Acheriisian lake, where the souls of most who Jia arrive, and having remained there for certain destined periods, some longer and some shorter, are again sent forth into the generations of animals. 142. A third river issues midway between these, and near its source falls into a vast region, burning with abundance of fire, and forms a lake larger than our sea, boiling with water and mud ; from hence it proceeds in a circle, turbulent and muddy, and folding itself round it reaches both other places and the extremity of the Acherusian lake, but does not mingle with its water ; but folding itself oftentimes beneath the earth, it discharges itself into the lower parts of Tartarus. And this is the river which they call Pyn- phlegethon, whose burning streams emit dissevered fragments in whatever part of the earth they happen to be. Opposite to this again the fourth river first falls into a place dreadful and savage, as it is said, having its whole colour like cyanus " : this they call Stygian, and the lake, which the river forms by its discharge, Styx. This river having fallen in here, and re- ceived awful power in the water, sinking beneath the earth, proceeds, folding itself round, in an opposite course to Pyri- phlegethon, and meets it in the Acherusian lake from a con- trary direction. Neither does the water of this river mingle with any other, but it too, having gone round in a circle, dis- charges itself into Tartarus, opposite to Pyriphlegethon. Its \iame, as the poets say, is Cocytus. 143. "These things being thus constituted, when the dead arrive at the place to which their demon leads them severally, first of all they are judged, as well those who have lived well and piously, as those who have not. And those who appear to have passed a middle kind of life, proceeding to Acheron, and embarking in the vessels they have, on these. arrive at the lake, and there dwell, and when they are purified, and have suffered punishment for the iniquities they may have commit- ted, they are set free, and each receives the reward of his good deeds, according to his deserts : but those who appear to be incurable, through the magnitude of their offences, either from having committed many and great sacrileges, or many unjust and lawless murders, or other similar crimes, these a suitable destiny hurls into Tartarus, whence they never come forth. u A metallic substance of a deep blue colour, frequently mentioned by the ewrliest Grecian writers but of which the nature is unknowu. VKMtd. 124 144. But those who appear to have been gviilty of curable, yet great offences, such as those who through anger have committed any violence against father or mother, and have lived the remainder of their hfe in a state of penitence, or they who have become homicides in a similar manner, these must of necessity fall into Tartarus, but after they have fallen, and have been there for a year, the wave casts them forth, the homicides into Cocytus, but the parricides and matricides into Pyriphlegethon : but when, being borne along, they arrive at the Acherusian lake, there they cry out to and invoke, some those whom they slew, others those whom they injured, and in- voking them, they entreat and implore them to suffer them to go out into the lake, and to receive them, and if they persuade them, they go out, and are freed from their sufferings, but if not, they are borne back to Tartarus, and thence again to the rivers, and they do not cease from suffering this mitil they have persuaded those whom they have injured, for this sen- tence was imposed on them by the judges. 145. But those who are found to have lived an eminently holy life, these are they, who, being freed and set at large from these re- gions in the earth, as from a prison, arrive at the pure abode above, and dwell on the iipper parts of the earth. And amon^ these, they who have sufficiently purified themselves by phi- losophy shall live 'without bodies, throughout aU future time, and shall arrive at habitations yet more beautiful than these, which it is neither easy to describe, nor at present is there suf- ficient time for the purpose. " But for the sake of these things which we have described, we should use every endeavour, Simmias, so as to acquire vir- tue and wisdom in this life ; for the reward is noble, and the hope great. " To affirm positively, indeed, that these things are exactly as I have described them, does not become a man of sense ; . that however either this, or somfething of the kind, takes place with respect to our souls and their habitations — since our soul is certainly immortal — this appears to me most fitting to be believed, and worthy the hazard for one who trusts in its reality ; for the hazard is noble, and it is right to allure our- selves with such things, as with enchantments ; for which rea- son I have prolonged my story to such a length. 146. On account of these things, then, a man ought to be confident 12* PELEDO. about his soul, who during this life has disregarded all the plea- sures and ornannients of the body as foreign from his nature, and who, having thought that they do more harm than good, has zealously applied himself to the acquirement of know- ledge, and who having adorned his soul not with a foreign but its own proper ornament, temperance, justice, fortitude, free- dom, and truth, thus waits for his passage to Hades, as one who is ready to depart whenever destiny shall summon him. You then," he continued, " Simmias and Cebes, and the rest, will each of you depart at some future time ; but now destiny summons me, as a tragic writer would say, and it is nearly time for me to betake myself to the bath; for it appears to me to be better to drink the poison after I have bathed my- self, and not to trouble the women with washing my dead body." 147. When he had thus spoken, Crito said, "So be it, Socrates, but what commands have you to give to these or to me, either respecting your children, or any other matter, Id attending to which we can most oblige you ?" " What I always say, Crito," he replied, " nothing new j that by taking care of yourselves you will oblige both me and mine, and yourselves, whatever you do, though you should not now promise it; but if you neglect yourselves, and will not live as it were in the footsteps of what has been now and for- merly said, even though you should promise much at present, and that earnestly, you will do no good at all." " We will endeavour then so to do," he said ; " but how shall we bury you .i"" " Just as you please," he said, " if only you can catch me. and I do not escape from you." 148. And at the same time smiling gently, and looking round on us, he said ; " I cannot persuade Crito, my friends, that I am that Socrates who is now conversing with you, and who methodizes each part of the discourse ; but he thinks that I am he whom he will shortly behold dead, and asks how he should bury me. But that which I some time since argued at length, that when I have drunk the poison I shall no longer remain with you, but shall depart to some happy state of the blessed, this I seem to have urged to him in vain, though I meant at the same time to console both you and myself. Be ye then my sureties to Crito," he Eaid, "in an obligation contrary to tu*t which he made to the PHiEDO. ^ 125 fudges; for he undertook that I should remain; but do you le sureties that, when I die, I shall not remain, but shall de- part, that Crito may more easily bear it, and when he sees my body either burnt or buried, may not be afflicted for me, as if I suffered some dreadful thing, nor say at my interment that Socrates is laid out, or is carried out, or is buried. 149. For be well assured," he said, "most excellent Crito, that to speak improperly is not only culpable as to the thing itself, but like- wise occasions some injury to our souls. You must have a good courage then, and say that you bury my body, and bury it in such a manner as is pleasing to you, and as you think is most agreeable to our laws." When he had said thus he rose, and went into a chamber to bathe, and Crito followed him, but he directed us to wait for him. We waited, therefore, conversing among ourselves about what had been said, and considering it again, and sometimes speaking about our calamity, how severe it would be to us, sincerely thinking that, like those who are deprived of a father, we should pass the rest of our life as orphans. When he had bathed, and his children were brought to him, for he had two little sons and one grown up, and the women belonging to his family were come,! having conversed with them in the presence of Crito, and given them such injunctions as he wished, he directed the women and children to go away, and then returned to us. And it was now near sun-set ; for he spent a consider- able time within. 150. But when he came from bathing he sat down, and d'd not speak much afterwards ; then the officer of the Eleven came in, and standing near him, said, " Socrates, I shall not have to find that fault with you that I do with others, that they are angry with me, and curse me, when, by order of the archons, I bid them drink the poison. But you, on all other occasions during the time you have been here, I have found to be the most noble, meek, and excellent man of all that ever came into this place : and, therefore, I am now well convinced that you will not be angry with me, for you know who are to blame, but with them. Now, then, for you know what I came to announce to you, farewell, and endeavour to bear what is inevitable as easily as possible." And at the same time, bursting into tears, he turned away and withdrew. 151. And Socrates, looking after him, said, "And thou, toe, farewell, we will do as you direct." At the same time turning 126 PHjEDO. to us, ho said, " How courteous tlie man is ; during the whole time I have been here he has visited me, and conversed with me sometimes, and proved the worthiest of men ; and now ho-w generously he weeps for me. But come, Crito, let us obey him, and let some one bring the poison, if it is ready pounded, but if not, let the man pound it." Then Crito said, "But I think, Socrates, that the sun is still on the mountains, and has not yet set. Besides, I know that others have drunk the poison very late, after it had been announced to them, and have supped and drunk freely, and some even have enjoyed the objects of their love. Do not hasten then, for there is yet time." Upon this Socrates repUed, " These men whom you mention, Crito, do these things with good reason, for they think they shall gain by so doing, and I too with good reason shall not do so ; for I think I shall gain nothing by drinking a httle later, except to become ridiculous to myself, in being so fond of life, and sparing of it when none any longer remains. Go then," he said, " obey, and do not resist." ^152. Crito having heard this, nodded to the boy that stood near. And the boy having gone out, and staid for some time, came, bringing with him the man that was to administer the poison, who brought it ready pounded in a cup. And Socrates, ®n seeing the man, said, " Well, my good friend, as you are eikilled in these matters, what must I do ?" "Nothing else," he replied, "than when you have drunk it walk about, until there is a heaviness in your legs, then lie down; thus it will do its purpose." And at the same time he held out the cup to Socrates. And he having received it very cheerfully, Echecrates, neither trembling, nor changing at all in colour or countenance, but, as he was wont, looking stedfastly at the man, said, "What say you of this potion, with respect to making a libation to any one, is it lawful or not ?" " We only pound so much, Socrates," he said, " as we think sufficient to drink." " I understand you," he said, " but it is certainly both law- ful and right to pray to the gods, that my departure hence thither may be happy ; which therefore I pray, and so may it be." And as he said this he drank it off readily and calmly. Thus far, most of us were with diificulty able to restrain our- PH^DO. 127 selves from weeping, but when we saw him drinking, and hav- ing finished the draught, we could do so no longer; but in spite of myself the tears came in full torrent, so that, covering my face, I wept for myself, for I did not weep for him, but for my own fortune, in being deprived of such a friend. But Crito, even before me, when he could not restrain his tears, had risen up. 154. But ApoUodorus even before this had not ceased weeping, and then bursting into an agony of grief, weeping and lamenting, he pierced the heart of every one present, ex- cept Socrates himself. But he said, " What are you doing, my admirable friends ? I indeed, for this reason chiefly, sent away the women, that they might not commit any folly of this kind. For I have heard that it is right to die with good omens. Be quiet, therefore, and bear up." When we heard this we were ashamed, and restrained our tears. But he, having walked about, when he said that his legs were growing heavy, laid down on his back ; for the man so directed him. And at the same time he who gave him the poison, taking hold of him, after a short interval examined his feet and legs ; and then having pressed his foot hard, he asked if he felt it : he said that he did not. And after this he pressed his thighs ; and thus going higher, he shewed us that he was growing cold and stiff. Then Socrates touched himself, and said, that when the poison reached his heart he should then depart. 155. But now the parts around the lower belly were almost cold ; when uncovering himself, for he had been covered over, he said, and they were his last words, " Crito, we owe a cock to .^sculapius ; pay it, therefore, and do not neglect it." " It shall be done," said Crito, " but consider whether you have any thing else to say." To this question he gave no reply ; but shortly after he gave a convulsive movement, and the man covered him, and his eyes were fixed ; and Crito, perceiving it, closed his mouth and eyes. Tins, Echecrates, was the end of our friend, a man, as we may say, the best of all of his time that we have known, and moreover, the most wise and just- INTRODUCTION TO THE PROTAGOEAS. In this dialogue Socrates relates to a friend, ■whose name is not given, a discussion which he had just had with Pro- tagoras the sophist, of Ahdera. Hippocrates, a young Athenian, had roused Socrates very- early in the morning and entreated him to accompany him on a visit to Protagorasj- who was then at Athens staying at the house of Callias, and whose pupil he was anxious to be- come. On arriving there, they find the sophist attended by a crowd of admirers, and moreover Hippias of Elis and Pro. dicus of Ceos, surrounded by their respective followers^. After Socrates had made known the object of his visit to Protagoras, Callias proposes that the whole party should sit down and listen to the conversation. When all are seated, Socrates repeats to Protagoras, that Hippocrates is desirous of becoming his pupil, and wishes to know what advantage he may expect to derive from associating with him. Pro- tagoras tells him that from the very first day of their inter- course he will become a better man than he was before, and will daily make further progress. But, asks Socrates, in what will he become better, and in what make further progress r In the management of his domestic and public affairs, that is to say, in the political art. To this Socrates objects that the general opinion is that poHtical virtue cannot be taught, and that, whereas with respect to arts and sciences it was usual only to consult persons who had made them their study and were skilled in them, in affairs of state every one, of what- ever condition, was at liberty to give his opinion; he there- fore begs Protagoras to prove that virtue can be taught ''. To this end Protagoras relates a fable in which he explains how the capacity of becoming virtuous was imparted by Jupiter to - § 1—18. " S 19—29. INTRODUCTION. 129 dankind ; and then^ argues that as men are punished for iu- ustice, impiety, and the Uke, it follows that they must think hat these virtues ought to he possessed and may he acquired ly all men, for that they would not punish them for a mere lefect of mind any more than of body, if it were natural and lot attributable to the fault of the individual". Socrates having complimented him on his eloquence, ac- lording to his usual method, begs that he will answer his [uestions briefly; and then expresses his surprise at having leard Protagoras speak of justice, temperance, holiness, and he Uke, as if they were collectively virtue. He therefore vishes to know whether virtue is one thing, and justice, tem- )erance and holiness, parts of it, or whether they are all names )f one and the same thing. Protagoras answers that virtue 8 one thing, and these several qualities parts of it. Are they hen parts like the parts of a face, the mouth, nose, eyes, and jars, or Uke the parts of gold, which do not differ from each ither ? Like the former. In that case holiness and justice nust be different from each other, which, as Protagoras is at engtjh compelled, though unwiUingly, to admit, is absurd*. Again, each several thing has only one contrary; for in- itance, strength is contrary to weakness, swiftness to slowness, igliness to beauty, evil to good ; in the same way each virtue nust have its contrary. This being granted, Protagoras is ed to admit that foUy is contrary to temperance, and also to irisdom ; but in that case wisdom and temperance cannot be dif- "erentfrom each other, as was before stated, but must be one and ;he same thing. A similar course of enquiry is instituted by Socrates, in order to shew that justice and prudence Ukewise ire one and the same, hut the impatience of Protagoras at inding himself driven to repeated admissions which contradict ;he theory with which he set out, interrupts the discussion ; at ength, however, the breach is repaired by the interference of he company, and it is agreed that each shall question tho = f 30—39. * 40—56. 130 INTRODUCTION, other in turn. Protagoras begins by getting Socrates to allo'w that an ode of Simonides is beautiful, but that it cannot b« beautiful if the poet contradicts himself. He then shews thai in one part of the ode it is said " that to become a good man is difficult," and in another part, " that he is not pleased with the paying of Fittacus, where he says that it is difficult to continue to be good." Socrates, however, justifies the opinion he had expressed by a minute and subtle examination of the objecl the poet had in view in composing- the ode®. Having concluded his criticism of the ode, Socrates is anx- ious to bring back the discussion to the original subject, and having with difficulty prevailed on Protagoras to consent to ibis, repeats the question with which they set out, which was to this effect : whether wisdom, temperance, courage, justice, and holiness are five parts of virtue, differing from each othei as the parts of the face do ? Protagoras answers that they all are parts of virtue, four of them yery like each other, but th{ fifth, courage, very different from all the rest. But this dig' tinction Socrates overthrows as follows : you admit that the courageous are daring ; but they who, like divers, are bold ii a matter in which they are skilled are commended as coura. geous, whereas they who are unskilled and yet bold are nol courageous but mad ; so that according to this reasoning wis- dom and courage are the same. Protagoras, however, tries tc avoid this conclusion by saying that Socrates has mis-stated hi! former admission, for that he allowed only that the courageoui are bold, not that the bold are courageous. But Socrates with a view more certainly to convict his opponent of error changes his ground, and asks whether all pleasant things an good, and all painful things evil ? Protagoras is in doubt wha answer to give ; Socrates, therefore, shews that pleasure is i) itself a good, but that men mistake as to what things are plea sant ; for knowledge alone ought to govern manj and if a mai knows good and evil he will never be overcome by any thin] • i 67—90. INTRODUCTION 131 Eo as to do any thing else but what knowledge bids him. Yet there are some who say that they are overcome by pleasure or pain ; but what is it to be overcome by pleasure ? nothing else than to choose present pleasure which will result in greater evil ; in other words, to embrace a greater evil rather than a greater good ; they, therefore, who are overcome by pleasure are so from ignorance'. Having established this, Socrates recurs to the statement of Protagoras, that courage diflfers from the other parts of virtue, because the most unholy, most unjust, most intemperate, and most ignorant men, are sometimes most courageous. It is admitted that no one willingly exposes himself to things that he believes to be evil ; a brave man, therefore, incurs dangers which he knows to be honourable and good, and therefore pleasant, and is influenced by no base fear, nor inspired with base confidence ; but the coward, on the contrary, is influenced by base fear and inspired by base confidence ; he errs, there- fore, through ignorance and want of knowledge, whence it fol- lows that courage is contained in knowledge. The result of the whole is that virtue, since it consists in knowledge, can be taught, and so it turns out that Socrates, who began by main- taining that it could not be taught, has been arguing aU along that it can, and Protagoras, who asserted that it could be taught, hae been arguing that it cannot. I 1.01—118. PEOTAGOEAS, OB THE SOPHISTS. A Friend, Socrates, Hippocrates, Protagoras, AlcibiAjDes, Callias, Critias, Prodicus, and Hippias. Fr. Whence come you, Socrates ? can there be any doubt but that it is from a chase after the beauty of Alcibiades ? and to me, indeed, when I saw him lately, the man appeared still beautiful, though between ourselves, Socrates, he is a man and is now getting a pretty thick beard. Soer. But what of that? Do you not approve of Homer", then, who says, that the most graceful age is that of a youth with his first beard, which is now the age of Alcibiades ? Fr. What have we to do with that now? Do you come from him ? And how is the youth disposed towards you ? Soar. Very well, I think, and not least so to-day ; for he has Baid many things in my favour, assisting me, and indeed I have just now come from him. However, I have something strange to tell you : for though he was present I paid no attention to him, and even frequently forgot him. 2. Fr. But what great affair can have happened between you and him ? for surely you have not met with any one else more beautiful, in this city at least ? Socr. By far. Fr. What say you ? A citizen, or a stranger ? Socr. A stranger. Fr. From whence ? Socr. From Abdera. Fr. And did this stranger appear to you so beautiful that you thought him more beautiful than the son of Clinias ? Socr. But how, my dear friend, can the wisest be thought otherwise than more beautiful ? Od;te«. X. 279. PROTAGORAS. 13J Fr. Have you come then, Socrates, from meeting one of our wise men? Soar. Yes, and from the wisest of the present day, If you think Protagoras is the wisest. Fr. Ha ! What say you ? Is Protagoras here ? Socr. And has been, these three days. Fr. And are you just now come from his company ? , Socr. I have, and from a very long conversation with him. 3. Fr. Why then should you not relate this conversation to us, unless something hinders you, having made this boy rise up, and seating yourself in his place ? Socr, Certainly ; and I shall be obliged to you if you will listen to me. ' Fr. And we to you, if you will tell us. Socr. The obligation will be mutual. Listen then. This morning, while it was yet dark, Hippocrates, son of ApoUodo- rus and brother of Phason, knocked very hard at my gate with his stick, and as soon as it was opened to him he came in, in great haste, and calling out with a loud voice, said, " Socrates, are you awake or asleep ?" And I, knowing his voice, said, " Hippocrates is here : do you bring any news ?" " None," he replied, " but what is good." " You say well," said I, " but what is it ? and why have you come so early ?" " Protagoras is come," said he, standing by my side. 4. " He came the day before yesterday," said I, " and have you only just heard of it?" " By the gods," he replied, " only yesterday evening," and at the same time feeling about my bed, he sat down at my feet, and said, " Yesterday evening, very late, on my return from the village of CEnoe, for my slave Satyrus ran away, and I was purposing to tell you that I was going in pursuit of him, but something else put it out of my head; but when I had re- turned, and we had supped, and were going to bed, then my brother told me that Protagoras was aiiived, and my first thought was to come immediately to you, but afterwards it appeared to me too late at night. As soon, however, as sleep had refreshed me after my fatigue, I immediately arose and came here." 5. And I, knowing his earnestness and excitability, said, " What is this to you ? Does Fiotagoras do you any harm ?" 134 PROTAGORAS. And he, laughing, said, " By the gods, Socrates, he docs, because he alone is wise, and does not make me so." " But, by Jupiter," said I, " if you give him money and per. 8uade him, he will make you wise too." " Would that, O Jupiter and ye gods," he said, " it de- pended on that, for I would spare nothing of my own or of my triend's property either, and I have now come to you for this very purpose, that you may speak to him in my behalf. For besides that I am too young, I have never yet seen Protagoras or heard him speak, for I was but a boy when he came here before. However, Socrates, all men praise him, and say that he is the wisest man to speak. But why do we not go to him that we may find him within ? He is staying, as I have heard, with Callias son of Hipponicus. Let us go then." 6. I said to him : " We will not go there yet my friend, it is too early ; but let us rise up and go into our court, and spend the time there walking about, until it is light ; then we will go. For Protagoras stays mostly within ; therefore cheer up, we shall probably find him at home." After this we rose and walked about the court, and I in order to try the strength of Hippocrates, examined and questioned him ; " Tell me," said I, " Hippocrates, you are now purposing to go to Protagoras, and to pay him money as a fee for teach, ing you something ; to what kind of person do you think you are going, and what do you expect to become ? Just as if you thought of going to your own namesake, Hippocrates of Cos, one of the Asclepiads, and were to pay him money as a fee for teaching you, if any one asked you, ' Tell me, Hippocrates, you are about to pay a fee to Hippocrates, in what capacity ?' what should you answer ?" " I should say," he replied. " in that of a physician." " And what do you expect to become ? " " A physician." 8aid he. " But if you thought of going to Polycletus the Argive, or Phidias the Athenian, and were to pay them a fee for teaching you, if any one asked you, ' In what capacity do you intend to pay this money to Polycletus and Phidias ?' what should you answer ?" " I should say, in that of statuaries." " And what do you expect to become yourself?' "Clearly, a statuary," PROTAGORAS. 135 " Be it so," said I. " But we are now going, you and T, to Protagoras, and we are prepared to pay him money as a fee for teaching you, if our money is sufficient for the purpose, and we can persuade him by it ; but if not, we mean to borrow from our friends. If, then, some one seeing us thus earnestly bent on this, should ask; 'Tell me, Socrates and Hippocrates in what capacity do you intend to pay money to Protagoras ? what answer should we give him ? What other name do we hear given to Protagoras, as that of statuary is given to Phi- dias, and that of poet to Homer ? What name of this kind do we hear given to Protagoras ?" " They call him a sophist, Socrates," he replied. " As to a sophist, then, we are going to pay him money ?" " Assuredly." 8. " If, then, any one should ask you this further question, ' What do you expect to become yourself by going to Prota- goras ?' " Upon which he said, blushing, (for the day was now begin- ning to dawn, so that I could see him,) " If this case is at all like the former, it is evident that I expect to become a sophist." " But, by the gods," said I, " should you not be ashamed to shew yourself as a sophist before the Greeks ?" "By Jupiter, I should, Socrates, if I must say what'I think." " Do you suppose, then, Hippocrates, that the instruction of Protagoras will not be of this kind, but such as you received from a grammarian, a musician, or a teacher of gymnastics ? for you were not instructed in each of these for the sake of the art, meaning to become a professor yourself, but by way of accomplishment, as is proper for a private person and a free- man." " Just so," he said, " such rather appears to me to be the instruction given by Protagoras ?" " Do you know, then," said I, " what you are about to do, or does it escape you ?" "About what?" " That you are about to entrust your soul to the care of a, man, who, as you admit, is a sophist ; and yet I should wonder if you know what a sophist is. Though, if you are ignorant of this, neither do you know to what you are confiding your goal, whether to a good or a bad thing." "But I think I know," he said. (136 PROTAGOEAS. •' Tell me, then, what you think a sophist is." "I think," said he, "as the name imports, that be is one learned in wisdom." " This, however," I replied, " may be said of painters and architects, that they too are learned in wisdom. And if any one should ask us in what wisdom painters are leai'ned, we should surely say to him, in that which relates to the produc- tion of pictures, and so on with respect to the rest. But if any one should ask this question, ' In what wisdom is a sophist learned ?' what answer should we give him ? of what produc- tion is he a master ?" " What else should we say he is, Socrates, but a master of the art that makes men able speakers ?" 10. " Perhaps," said I, " we should say truly, yet not suffi- ciently. For this answer requires from us another question, about what a sophist makes men able speakers ; just as the musician, surely, makes a man speak ably on the subject in which he is learned, on music. Is it not so ?" "Yes." " Well ; on what subject, then, does a sophist make a man an able speaker ? clearly on that in which he is learned ?" " Apparently." "What then is that in which the sophist is both learned himself and makes his pupil learned ?" " By Jupiter," he replied, " I am unable to tell you." 1 1 . After this I said, " What then ? are you aware to what danger you are going to expose your soul ? if you had occa- sion to entrust your body to some one, on the risk of its be- coming healthy or diseased, should you not consider very care- fully whether you ought to entrust it or not, and would ycu not summon your friends and relations to a consultation, and deliberate many days ? But that which you esteem far more than the body, your soul, and on which your all depends, either to fare well or ill, according as it becomes healthy or diseased, concerning this do you neither communicate with your father nor your brother, nor with any of us your friends, whether or not you should commit your soul to this stranger who has arrived here, but having heard of his arri- val yesterday evening, as you say, do you come before day- break, and take no thought or advice on the matter, whether it is proper or not to entrust youiself to him, but are ready to PaOTAGORAS. 13? spend both your own and your friends' property, as having already resolved that you must in any event associate vnth Protagoras, whom you neither know, as you admit, nor have ever spoken to; but you call him a sophist, though what a sophist is, to whom you are about to entrust yourself, you are evidently ignorant ?" 12. And he having heard me, replied, " It seems so, Socrates, from what you say." ■ " Is not a sophist, then, Hippocrates, a kind of merchant or retailer of commodities by which the soul is nourished? To me, at least, he appears to be so." " But by what is the soul nourished, Socrates ?" " By learning," I replied. " But we must take care, my friend, that the sophist does not deceive us by praising what he sells, as those others do with respect to nutriment for the body, the merchant and the retailer. For neither do they themselves know which of the commodities in which they traffic are good or bad for the body, though they praise all that they sell, nor do those who buy from them, unless one happens to be a professor of gymnastics or a physician. In like manner, those who hawk abuut learning through cities, and who sell and retail it to every one that desires it, praise all that they sell, though perhaps some of these too, my ex- cellent fr'iend, may be ignorant which of the things they sell is good or bad for the soul ; and this also may be the case with those that buy from them, unless some one happen to be skilled in the medicine of the soul. 13. If then you happen to know which of these is good or bad, you may safely buy learning from Protagoras or any one else ; but if not, beware my good friend, that you do not hazard and imperil that which is most precious. For there is much greater dtiiiger in the purchase of learning than in that of food. For when one has purchased meat and drink from a retailer or merchant one may take them away in different vessels, and, before receiving them into one's body by eating or drinking, one may set them down ^home, and calling in some person who understands the mat- ter^consult him as to what may be eaten and drunk, and what not, and how much and when ; so that in this purchase there is no great danger. But it is not possible to carry away learning in a different vessel; but it is necessary, when one has paid the price, having received instruction in the soul itself 138 tROTAGORAS. and learnt it, to depart either injured or benefited, 14. Let us therefore consider these things with persons older than we are : for we are toe voung to decide on a matter of such im- portance. Now however, since we have made up our minds, let us go and hear the man, and after we have heard him, let us communicate with others. For not only is Protagoras there, but Hippias of Elis, and I think also Prodicus of Ceos, and many other wise men." This resolution taken, we set out. When we arrived at the front door, we stopped and discussed a question that had fallen out between us on the way ; in order therefore that it might not be left unfinished, but that we might bring it to a conclu- sion and then enter the house, we stood at the front door talk- ing together until we had agreed with each other. 1 5. Now it appears to me that the porter, who was a eunuch, overheard us, and he seems from the number of sophists to be out of humour with all who come to the house. For when we had knocked at the door, he having opened it and seeing us, said, " Ha, more sophists : he is not at leisure." And at the same time with both his hands, he slammed to the door with all his might. Thereupon we knocked again, and he answering with the door shut, said, " Sirs, did not you hear me say that he is not at leisure ?" " But, my good friend," said I, " we are not come to Callias, nor are we sophists ; cheer up then : for we are come wanting to see Protagoras : so announce us." At length, with difficulty the fellow opened the door to us. 16. When we entered, we found Protagoras walking up and down in the portico, and in a line with him, there walked on one side Callias son of Hipponicus, and his brother by the mother's side, Paralus son of Pericles, and Charmi- des son of Glaucon, and on the other side Xanthippus, the other son of Pericles, and Philippides son of Philomelus, and Antimoerus of Mende, who is the most famous of all the pupils of Protagoras, and who is learning professionally, mean- ing to become a sophist himself. Behind these there followed others who listened to what was said, the greater part appeared to be strangers, whom Protagoras brings with him from the several cities through which he passes, bewitching them by his voice like Orpheus, and they follow his voice, bewitched. Some of our countrymen also were in the band. 17. I was particularly pleased in observing this ban^, how well they took care never PROtAGORAS. 13* to be in tlie way of Protagoras by getting before him, but ■when- ever he and those with him turned round,' these listeners, in a good and regular manner, opened to the right and left, and wheeling round, always ranged themselves behind him in admirable order. " After him I perce),ved," as Homer*" says, Hippias of Elis sitting on a high seat in the opposite side of the portico, and round him on benches sat Eryximachus, son of Acumenus, Phsedrus of Myrrhine, Andron son of Androtjon, and some strangers partly his fellow citizens and others. They appeared to be asking Hippias questions on physics and astronomy; but he, sitting on a high seat, gave answers to each of them and resolved their questions. 18. "Moreover I saw Tantalus <= ;" for Prodicus of Ceos had lately arrived, but he was in a building which Hipponicus had before used as a store, room, but now, owing to the multitude of guests, Callias had emptied it and turned it into a lodging for strangers. Now Prodicus was still in bed wrapt up in a great number of skins and bed-clothes, as it appeared ; and there were seated near nim on sofas Pausanias of Ceramis, and with Pausanias a youth, quite a lad, as I thought of an excellent disposition, and of a very beautiful form. I thought I heard them call him Agathon, and I should not wonder if he was Pausanias's favourite. This lad then was there, and the two Adimantuses, the one the son of Cepis, and the other of Leucolophides, and some others. But I was not able to learn from the outside what they were talking about, although I was exceedingly anxious to hear Pro- dicus ; for he appears to me to be a very wise, nay a divine man, but owing to the harshness of his voice a kind of humming in the room made what he said indistinct. 19. "We had just entered, and immediately after us there came in Alcibiades, the beautiful as you say, and as I am per- suaded he is, and Critias, son of Callseschrus. After we had entered, then, and waited a little while and observed what was going on, we went up to Protagoras, and I said, " Protagoras, I and Hippocrates here have come to see you." " Do you wish to speak with me alone," he said, " or in the piesence of the rest ?" " To us," I replied, " it makes no difference, but when you * Odyas. zi. 601. ^ Homer Odyss. zi. £83. 140 PROTAGORAS, have heard on what account we have come, yea can detenniue yourself." " What is it then," said he, " that you are come for ?" " Hippocrates here is a native of this country, son of Apollo, dorus, of a great and wealthy family ; in natural ability he seems to be a match for the youth of his age ; and he appears to me to be desirous of becoming a person of note in the city ; and he thinks that he shall most readily become so, if he associates with you. Do you then determine, whether we ought to con- verse apart with you on this subject, or in the presence of others." 20. "You very properly take precautions on my behalf, Socrates," he replied. " For a stranger who visits powerful cities, and persuades the most distinguished of the youth in them to quit the society of others, both kindred and not kin- dred, both old and young, and associate with him, in the ex- pectation of being improved by his society, ought in doing this to be very cautious, for things of this kind are attended with no slight jealousies and enmities, and even plots. For my part, I say that the art of a sophist is ancient, but the meu who professed it in ancient times, fearing the odium attached to it, sought to conceal it, and veiled it over, some under the garb of poetry, as Homer, Hesiod, and Simonides, and others under that of the mysteries and prophecies, such as Orpheus and Musaeus, and their followers, and some I perceive have veiled it under the gymnastic art, as Iccus of Tarentum, and one of the present day who is a sophist, inferior to none, He- rodicus of Selymbria, who was originally of Megara. But your own Agathocles, who was a great sophist, concealed it under the garb of music, as did Pythoclides of Ceos, and many others. 21. All these, as I say, through fear of jealousies, employed these arts as veils. I, however, in this respect, do not agree with any of them ; for I think that they did not by any means eflfect the object they wished ; for they did not es- cape the observation of men of authority in the cities, on whose account they had recourse to these disguises, for the multitude perceive scarcely any thing at all, but whatever the former give out, that they sing. Now to try to escape and not to be able to do so, but to be detected, both shews great folly in the attempt, and necessarily makes men much more hostile : for they think that such a man is moreover an impostor. 22. I PROTAGOEAS. 141 therefore have taken a path quite contrary to than, and I s.o- knowledge that I am a sophist and teach men, and I tlink that this precaution is hetter than the other, to confess rather than to deny: I have also planned other precautions besides this ; so that by God's help I have suffered no harm through con- fessing that I am a sophist ; though I have exercised this art now many years ; for my age is very great, and there is not one amongst you all whose father I am not old enough to be. So that it will be by far the most agreeable to me, if you are willing, to discuss this matter in the presence of all who are in the house." I then, for I suspected that he wished to shew and make a display of himself before Prodicus and Hippias, that we had come as his admirers — 23. " Why then," said I, " do we not summon Prodicus and Hippias, and their party, to hsten to us?" " By all means," said Protagoras. Callias therefore said, "Would you wish us to prepare seats, that you may sit down and converse ?" It was agreed that this should be done. And we all of us, in great delight, as being about to listen to wise men, laid hold of the stools, and benches, and couches, and placed them in order near Hippias , for the stools were there already ; meanwhile Callias and Alci- biades brought Prodicus and his party with them, having made him get out of bed. When, therefore, we were all seated, " Now Socrates," said Protagoras, " since they are all here, you may repeat what you just now mentioned to me respecting this youth." 24. And I said, " My commencement, Protagoras, is the same as it was just now, namely, with what design we came to you. Hippocrates here is very desirous of your society, and says he shall be glad to hear what advantage he may expect to derive from associating with you. Such is our errand." Thereupon Protagoras said in reply, " Young man, the ad- vantage which you will derive from associating with me is this, that on the very day of your being with me you will go home a better man than you were before, and the same on the second day, and on each succeeding day you will make some further progress." 25. And I, on hearing this, said, " Protagoras, this is nonmig wonderful that you say, but very natural, since you too, old 142 PROTAGORAS. and wise as you are, would become better, if any one should teach you what you do not happen to know. But that is not what we require, but just as if Hippocrates here should on the instant change his mind, and desire to associate with the youth who has lately arrived, Zeuzippus of Heraclea, and coming to him as he now does to you, should be told by him the very game things that he has been by you, that by associating with him he would every day become better, and make further pro- gfress ; if he should further ask him, ' In what do you mean I shall become better, and in what make further progress ?* Zeuxippus would answer him, ' In the art of paiming.' And if he were to attach himself to Orthagoras of Thebes, and being told by him the very same things that he has been by you, should further ask him in what he would daily become better by associating with him, he would reply, ' In flute-play- ing.' In like manner do you also reply to the youth, and to me who ask for him: Hippocrates here, by associating with Protagoras, on the very day in which he associates will go home a better man, and on each succeeding day will in like manner make further progress ; in what Protagoras, and with respect to what ?" 26. Protagoras, on hearing me thus speak, said, " You put the question fairly, Socrates, and I delight in answering those who put their questions well. For Hippocrates, if he comes to me, will not be treated as he would be treated if he were to attach himself to any other of the sophists. For others injure youth ; for when they have shewn an aversion to the arts they drag them back again and force them to study the arts by teaching them arithmetic, astronomy, geometry, and music ; and at the same time he looked aside at Hippias : but if he comes to me, he will not learn anything else than that for which he came. The instruction that he will receive is this, the method of consult- ing well about his domestic aflfairs, in what way he may best govern his own house, and with respect to public affairs, how he may be best able to act and speak on affairs of state." 27. " Do I follow your meaning ?" I replied, " for you appear to me to mean the political art, and to promise to make men good citizens." "That," said he, " Socrates, is the very profession that I do uake." " What an admirable skill you possess," eaid I, " if you really PROTAGORAS. 143 do possess it ; for I will say nothing else to you but what I think. For I imagined, Protagoras, that this could not be taught, yet since you say so, I know not how to disbelieve you. It is right, however, that I should tell you why I think it can- not be taught, nor acquired by men from men. For I, as well as the other Greeks, say that the Athenians are wise. I see, then, when we are met in the assembly, and when it is neces- sary for the city to settle any thing respecting architecture, that the architects are sent for and consulted about the build- ings, and when respecting ship-building, ship-buUders ; and so with all other things which they think can be taught and learnt. But should any one else, whom they think is not an artist, attempt to give them advice, even though he may be very honourable, and rich and noble, they pay no more atten- tion to him on this account, but laugh at him and make an uproar, until either he of his own accord desists from speaking, through being hooted down, or the archers drag him away or remove him by order of the prytanes. 28. Thus they proceed with respect to matters which they think pertain to art. But when it is necessary to consult on any matter which relates to the government of the city, any one rises up and gives his advice on such subjects, whether he be a builder, a brazier, a shoemaker, a merchant, a ship's captain, rich, poor, noble or ignoble, and no one objects to them, as to the others, that with- out having received any instruction, or had any preceptor, they yet attempt to give advice ; for it is clear that they think this cannot be taught. And not only are the public in general of this opinion, but privately, the wisest and best of our citizens ai;e unable to impart to others the excellence which they possess : for Pericles, the father of these youths, as far as de- pended on masters, had them educated liberally and well ; but in those things in which he is wise, he neither instructs them himself, nor entrusts them to any one else to be instructed ; but they, roaming about, feed as it were without restraint, if by chance they may of themselves light on virtue. 29. If you will too, this very same Pericles, being guardian to Clinias the younger brother of this Alcibiades, and fearing lest he might be corrupted by Alcibiades, separated him from him and sent him to be educated by Ariphron ; however, before six months had elapsed, Ariphron, being unable to do any thing with him, returned him to Pericles. I could also mention very many 144 PROTAGORAS. Others to you, ■who being good themselves, have never made any one else better, either of their own kindred or'others. I therefore, Protagoras, looliing to these things, think that virtue cannot be taught. When, however, I hear you saying what you do, I waver, and am of opinion that there is something in what you say, because I think that you are a man of great ex- perience, and that you have learnt many things and discovered some yourself. If, therefore, you can prove to us, more clearly, that virtue can be taught, do not grudge doing so, but prove it." " Indeed, Socrates," he said, " I shall not grudge it. But whether shall I prove it by relating a fable to you, as an older to younger men, or shall I discuss it by way of argument ?" Thereupon many of those who sat with him, answered, that he might explain it in any way he pleased. " It appears to me, then," said he, " more agreeable to relate a fable to }ou. 30. " There was once a time, when gods were, but mortal races were not. But when also their destined time of creation came, the gods fashioned them within the earth, composing them of earth and fire, and such things as are mingled with fire and earth. And when they were about to bring them into light, they commanded Prometheus and Epimetheus to adoru them and to distribute to each such faculties as were proper for them. But Epimetheus besought Prometheus that he might make this distribution. ' And,' he said, ' when I have made it, do you examine it.' Having thus persuaded him, he made the distribution. But in his distribution, to some he assigned strength without swiftness, and the weaker he adorned with swiftness ; some he armed, but giving to others an un • armed nature, he devised some other faculty foK their security : for to such of them as he clad with littleness, he assigned wings to fly with, or a subterranean abode ; but such as he increased in magnitude he preserved by this very means; and thus ha made the distribution, equalizing all things ; he adapted these contrivances taking care that no race should be destroyed. 31. " When he had supplied them with the means of avoiding mutual destruction, he contrived means to defend them against the seasons, by clothing them with thick hairs and solid skins, aiiificient to keep off cold and capable of averting heat, and 80 that, when they went to rest, these very things might servo PROTAGORAS. lio each of them as his proper and natural bed ; and under their feet he furnished some with hoofs, and some with hairs and solid and bloodless skins. After that he provided different food for different animals, for some, herbs from the earth, for others, the fruit of trees, for others^ roots ; and to some he gave the flesh of other animals as food : and to these he attached the property of producing few offspring, but to those that are con- sumed by them, fecundity, providing for the preservation of the race. However, as Epimetheus was not very wise, he igno- rantly exhausted all the faculties at his disposal on irrational animals. 32. The human race, therefore, still remained to him unadorned, and he was in doubt what to do. While he is doubting, Prometheus comes to examine the distribution, and sees other animals provided with every thing suitable for them, but man naked and unshod, unbedded and unarmed. But now the destined day was at hand, on which it was necessary that man should go forth from earth to light. Prometheus, therefore, being in doubt what safety he can find for man, steals the artificial wisdom of Vulcan and Minerva, together with fire, for it was impossible that it could be acquired or used by any one without fire, and accordingly he presents it to man. 33. Thus, then, man became possessed of the wisdom pertaining to life, he had not, however, political wisdom ; for that was with Jupiter ; and Prometheus was no longer per- mitted to enter the citadel, the habitation of Jupiter ; moreover the guards of Jupiter were terrible ; but he secretly enters the common abode of Minerva and Vulcan, in which they practised their arts, and having stolen the fiery art of Vulcan, and the other that belonged to Minerva, he gives them to man, and from this man derives the means of sustenance, but afterwards, as it is said, through Epimetheus, punishment for the theft overtook Prometheus. 34. "When, therefore, man had become partaker of a divine condition, first of all through this relationship to deity, he alone of all animals acknowledged gods, and set about building altars and statues of gods : next, by art, he soon articulated sounds and words, and devised houses and garmeifts, and shoes and beds, and food from the earth. Thus provided however, at first men lived dispersed ; for cities were not : wherefore they were destroyed by wild beasts, through being every where weaker than them; and tlie mechanical art was indeed Buffi> 146 PROTAGORAS. cient aid for their support, but was inadequate to the War with wild beasts ; for they did not yet possess the political art, of which the military is a part. They sought therefore to collect themselves together, and to preserve themselves by building cities. When, however, they were thus collected, they injured one another, from not possessing the political art; so that, being again dispersed, they were destroyed. 35. Jupiter, therefore, fearing for our race, lest it should entirely perish, sends Hermes to carry shame and justice to men, that they might be ornaments of cities, and bonds to cement friendsliip. Hermes, therefore, asked Jupiter in what manner he was to give shame and justice to men. ' Whether, as the arts have been distributed, so shall I distribute these also ? for they have been distributed thus : one man who possesses the medicinal art is sufficient for many not skilled in it, and so with other craftsmen. Shall I thus dispense shame and justice among men, or distribute them to all?' 'To all,' said Jupiter, 'and let all partake of them : for there would be no cities, if a few only were to partake of them, as of other arts. Moreover enact a law in my name, that whosoever is unable to partake of shame and justice shall be put to death as a pest of a city.' 36. "Thus, then, Socrates, and for these reasons, as well others as the Athenians, when a question arises about excel- lence in building, or any other mechanical art, think that few only should give their advice ; and if any one, who is not of the number of the few, should offer to give advice, they do not allow him, as you say ; and properly, as I say : but when they proceed to a consultation respecting political excellence, which ought to depend entirely on justice and temperance, they very properly allow, every man to speak, because it is the duty of every one to partake of this excellence, otherwise there can be no cities. This, Socrates, is the cause of this fact. 37. "And that you may not think that you are deceived, when you are told that in reality all men are of opinion that every one partakes of justice, and of the other political excel- lences, take this additional proof. For in other kinds of ex- cellence, as you say, if any one asserts that he is a good flute- player, or skilled in any other art, of which he is ignorant, they either ridicule him, or are indignant, and his friends go to him and admonish him as a madman ; but in justice and other political virtues, even though they know of any man that MOTAGORAS. Hi le is unjust, yet if he himself tells the truth of himself in the iresence of many persons, what in the other case they con- idered prudence, to speak the truth, m this case they consider (ladness ; and they say that all men ought to say they are ast, whether they are so or not, or that he is mad who does lot lay claim to justice, because it is necessary that every one hould, in some respect, partake of it, or no longer be a lan. 38. " I say these things to shew that they very properly pel. nit every man to give advice concerning this virtue, becaus; hey think that every one partakes of it. But that men think hat it exists not naturally or spontaneously, but that it is aught and acquired by study, by whomsoever it is acquired, his I will in the next place endeavour to shew. For whatever vils men think others respectively have by nature or fortune 10 one is angry with, nor admonishes, or teaches, or punishes he possessors of them, in order to make them otherwise than hey are, but pity them. For instance, who would be so fool- ih as to attempt to do any of these things to the deformed, or he little, or the weak ? For they know, I think, that these hings, such as are beautiful and the contraries, happen to men ly nature and fortune : but such advantages as they think re- ult to men from study, practice, and instruction, if any one loes not possess them but their contrary evils, for th?se things nger, and punishment, and admonition, are had recourse to : if these one is injustice, and so is impiety, and in short, every hing that is contrary to political virtue. Here, then, every Qan is angry with and admonishes every other, clearly because le thinks it may be acquired by study and instruction. 39. ■"or if you will consider, Socrates, of what avail it is to punish hose who act unjustly, this very thing will teach you that men hink virtue is to be acquired. For no one punishes those who ict unjustly, merely attending to this and for this reason, that iny one has so acted, unless it be one who like a brute avenges limself irrationally; but he who endeavours to punish with eason, does not exact vengeance for the sake of past offence, for what has been done he cannot make undone,) but for the ake of the future, that neither this man himself, nor any other vho sees him punished, may again act unjustly. And he who intertains such a thoughi must think that virtue may be taught j 18 punishes certainlv for the sake of deterrmg from wicked-i 148 PROtAGORAS. ness. 40 All, therefore, have this opinion who inflict punish, ment, either privately or publicly. Now all other men, and especially the Athenians, your fellow-citizens, inflict punishment on and correct those who they think act unjustly ; so that, ac- cording to this reasoning, thp Athenians also are among the number of those who think that virtue may be acquired and taught. That your fellow-citizens, therefore, very properly allow a brazier and a shoemaker to give advice in pohticsil affairs, and that they think that virtue may be taught and ac- quired, has been sufficiently demonstrated to you, Socrates, at least as it appears to me. 41. " There still, however, remains a doubt which you enter- tain respecting those good men, why, in the world they have their sons instructed in such things as depend on masters, and make them wise, but in the virtue which they themselves pos- sess do not make them better than others. With respect to this, then, Socrates, I shall no longer speak to you in fable, but argument. For consider the matter thus. Whether is there some one thing or not, of which it i^ necessary all the citizens should partake, if a city is to be ? for in this or in no other way, the doubt which you entertain is solved. For if there is, and if this one thing is neither the art of a builder, nor of a brazier, nor of a potter, but is justice, and temperance, and holiness, and in a word I call it by one name, the virtue of a man ; if this be the thing, of which all must partake, and with which every man if he wishes to learn or do any thing else, must learn or do it, but not without this, or if one who does not partake of it must be taught and punished, whether boy, or man, or woman, till through being punished he becomes better, and he who is not obedient, when punished or taaght, is to be banished from cities, or put to death as incurable ; if this is the case, and if, notwithstanding this, good men teach their children other things, but not this, consider what strange people thosje good men are : 42. for we have shewn that they think it may be taught, both privately and publicly. But since it may be- taught, and acquired by study, do they teach their children other things, for which death is not imposed as a penalty, if they do not know them ; but where the penalty of death or exile is imposed on their children, if they are not instructed or exercised in virtue, and besides death, the confiscation of their property, and in short the ruin of their families, do you. PROTAGORAS. 149 iAink that they do not t*ach them these things nor bestow theii ■whole care upon them ? We must think they do, Socrates. " Beginning from childhood they both teach and admonish them as long as they live. For as soon as any one understands what is said, nurse, mother, pedagogue, and the father himself, vie with each other in this, how Qie boy may become as good as possible ; in every word and deed teaching and pointing out to him that this is just, and that unjust, this is honourable and that base, this is holy and that unholy, and this you must do and that you must not do. And if the boy obeys willingly, it is well ; but if not, like a tree twisted and bent they make him straight by threats and blows. 43. After this they send him to masters, ^nd give them much more strict injunctions to attend to the children's morals than to their reading and music : and the masters do attend to this, and when the boys have learnt their letters, and are able to understand what is written, as before words spoken, they place before them on their benches to read, and compel them to learn by heart the compositions of good poets, in which there are many admonitions, and many details, and praises, and enco- miums, of good men of former times, in order that the boy may imitate them through emulation, and strive to become such himself. Again, the music-masters, in the same way, pay attention to sobriety of behaviour, and take care that the boys commit no evil : besides this, when they have learnt to play on the harp, they teach them the compositions of other good poets, and those lyric, setting them to music, and they compel rhythm and harmony to become familiar to the boys' souls, in order that they may become more gentle, and being themselves more rhythmical and harmonious, they may be able both to speak and act; for the whole life of man requires rhythm and harmony. 44. Moreover, besides this, they send them to a teacher of gymnastics, that having their bodies in a Detter state, they may be subservient to their well-regulated mind, and not be compelled to cowardice, through bodily in- firmity, either in war or other actions. And these things they do who are most able ; but the richest are the most able, and their sons beginning to frequent masters at the earliest time of life leave them the latest. And when they are set free from mas- ters, the state still further compels them to learn the laws, and to live by them as a pattern, that they may not act at random 150 PROTAGORAS. nfter their own inclinations, but exactly ag writing masters having ruled lines with a pen for those boys who have not yet learnt to write well, so give them the copy-book, and compel them to write according to the direction of the lines, so the state having prescribed laws which were the inventions of good and ancient legislators, compels them both to govern and be governed according to these, but whoso transgresses them, it punishes ; and the name given to this chastisement, both among you, and in many other places, is correction, since punishment corrects. , 45. So great therefore being the attention paid to virtue, privately and publicly, do you wonder and doubt, Socrates, whether virtue may be taught ? There is no need, however, to wonder, but much more if it could not be taught. "Why then are there many bad sons of good fathers ? Learn again the reason of this ; for it is not at all wonderful, if what I have before said is true, that, if a state is to subsist, no one must be unskilled in this thing, virtue. For if what I say is the case, (and it assuredly is), consider the matter by selecting any other study and subject of instruction whatever. 46. For instance, suppose that a city could not subsist unless we were all of us flute-players, each according to his capacity, and sup- pose every one should teach his neighbour, both privately and publicly, and should chide any one who did not play well, and should not grudge doing this, as now no one grudges a knowledge q/" what is just and legal, or conceals it, as is the case in other arts, for mutual justice and virtue are, I think, advantageous to us ; and for this reason every one most willingly tells and teaches others what is just and legal. If then in the same way, in flute- playing, we had a perfectly willing and ungrudging disposition to teach each other, do you think, Socrates," said he, " that the sons of good flute-players would become good players, rather than the sons of bad ones ? I indeed think not , but the man's son who happened to have the best natural talent for flute-playing, would rise to distinction; and the man's son who had no such natural talent, would be undis- tinguished; and the son of a good flute- player would often turn out a bad one, and the son of a bad one would often turn out a good one. However, all would be sufficiently good flute- players, compared with those who are untaught, and who know nothing of flute-playing. 47- In like manner think that tho man who appears to you to be the most unjust of those whs PROTAGORAS. |15r are trained in the laws, and among civilized men, is just atd R proficient in justice, when compared with men, who have neither instruction nor courts of justice, nor laws, nor any necessity that constantly compels them t6 attend to virtue, but may be considered as savages, such as those whom the poet Pherecrates represented last year, at the Lensean festival. Assuredly, if you should chance to be thrown among such men as the misanthropes in that play, you would rejoice if you met with a Eurybates and a Phrynondas*, and you would deplore with regret the depravity of the men here. But now you are' fastidious, Socrates, because all are teachers of virtue as far as they are severally able, though no one appears to you to be so. Again, if you were to enquire for a teacher of the Greek language, not one would be found : nor, I think, if you were to enquire for one who could instruct the sons of our arti- ficers in the very art which they have learnt from their father, so far as the father and the father's friends who follow the same art are able to teach it, if, I say, you were to enquire for one who could instruct them, I think, Socrates, that a teacher would not easily be found for them, but for those who are utterly unskilled, a teacher would easily be found, and so with respect to virtue and every thing else. 48. But if there it any one who excels us even but a little in advancing others in the road to virtue, we ought to be content. Of these, then, I think I am one, and that far above other men I know certain things by which a man will be made upright and good, and that worth the remuneration which I demand, and even more, as also my pupils think. Therefore I adopt the following method in my demand for remuneration ; when any one has learnt from me, if he is willing, he pays the sum that 1 de- mand ; but if not, having gone to a temple and sworn how much my instructions are worth, he pays that sum. " Thus much, Socrates," he continued, " I have said by way of fable and argument, to prove that virtue may be taught, and that the Athenians are of that opinion, and that it is not at all wonderful that the sons of good fathers should turn out bad, or of bad fathers, good, since even the sons of Polycletus, who are of the same age with Pai alus and Xanthippus here, are nothing compared with their father, and so with respect to the sons of other artists ; these youths, however, do not yet deserve to be ' Two men whose profligacy made th«ii names proverbial. 152 PROTAGORAS, blamed in this respect: for we have still hopes in them, as they are young." 49. Protagoras having made such and so long a display, ceased speaking ; and I, having continued for a long time en- chanted, still looked at hira, expecting that he would say some- thing more, and desiring to hear him. But when I perceived that he had in reality ceased, I with difficulty collected myself^ and looking towards Hippocrates, said, " O son of Apollodorus, how thankful I am to you for having urged me to come hither ; for I esteem it a great privilege to have heard what I have heard from Protagoras; for before this, I thought it was no human care by which good men become good, but now I am persuaded that it is. However, I feel a slight difficulty, which, doubtless, Protagoras will easily explain, since he has explained so much. For if any one should converse with any one of the popular orators on these subjects, he would perhaps hear simi- lar arguments, as from Pericles, for instance, or some other able speaker ; but if he should ask them any further questions, like books they are unable either to give an answer or to ask any question themselves. And if one should put any trifling question to them respecting what has been said, as brass when struck sounds for a long time, and prolongs its sound, unless some one lays hold of it, so these orators, when asked some trifling question, answer in a speech drawn out to a great length. 50. But Protagoras here is able to make long and beautiful speeches, as the fact proves, and is also able, when asked a question, to answer briefly, and when questioning, to wait and receive the answer, which are qualities possessed but by a few. Now then, Protagoras, I need a trifle only, so that I shall have all I want if you will answer me this. You say that virtue may be taught ; and I, if I could be persuaded by any man, should be persuaded bj' you. But, what I wondered at your saying, satisfy my mind as to that. For you said that Jupiter sent justice and shame to men; and afterwards, in many parts of your discourse, justice, temperance, holiness, and all qualities of that kind, were spoken of by you, as if;they were collectively one thing, virtue. Therefore explain this accurately to me, whether virtue is one thing, and justice, tem- perance, and holiness, parts of it ; or whether these that I have now mentioned are all names of one and the same thing. Thie is what I still want to know," PROTAGORAS. 153 51. "But it is easy," said he, "Socrates, to answer this question, that the qualities about which you ask are parts of virtue, which is one thing." " Whether," said I, " are they parts like the parts of a face, the mouth, nose, eyes, and ears; or like the parts of gold, which in no respect differ from each other and from th3 whole, except in magnitude and httleness ?" " Like the former, it appears to me Socrates, as the parts of the face are to the whole face." " Whether, then," said I, " do men possess these parts of virtue, some one and others another part? or is it necessary that he who has received one should have all ?" " By no means," he replied, " since many men are brave, but unjust, and again just, but not wise." " A.re these, then, parts of virtue," said I, " wisdom and courage ?" " Most assuredly," he replied, " and wisdom is chief of all the parts." " And is every one of them," said I, " different from every other?" "Yes." " And has each of them its proper function, like the parts of the face ? For instance, an eye is not like the ears, nor is its function the same ; nor is any one of the others like any other, either as to its function, or in any other respect. Thus, then, with the parts of virtue, is not any one like any other, either in itself, or in its function } Is it not clear that such is the case, since it resembles our example ?" " Such is the case, Socrates," he replied. 52. Then I said, " Therefore none of the other parts of vir- tue are like science, or like justice, or like courage, or like temperance, or like holiness." "No," he said. " Come then,'.' said I, " let us examine together what the character of each of them is. And first of all, thus ; is justice a thing, or not a thing ? to me it appears to be a thing ; but what does it appear to you to be ?" " To me also it appears to be a thing," he replied. " What then ? If some one were to ask you and me, ' Pro- .agoras and Socrates, tell me with respect to this very thing which you have just now named, justice, whether is it in itself 154 PROTAGORAS. just or unjust ?' I should answer him that it Lj just : but what decision, would you give ? the same as mine, or different ?" •' The same," he replied. , " ' Justice, then, is precisely similar to being just,' I should Bay in answer to one who asked the question. And would not you, too ?" "Yes." he said. " If, then, after this, he should ask us, ' Do you not also say that holiness is something ?' we should reply, I think that we do ?" " Yes," he said. " ' Do yoii not say that this too is a thing ?' should we say it is, or not ?" He allowed that we should say it is. " ' But whether do you say that this very thing is of such a nature as to be unholy, or holy ?' I for my part," I said, " should be indignant at the question, and should say, ' Speak properly, my good sir, for scarcely could any thing else be holy, if holi- ness itself be not holy.' But what should you say ? should not you give the same answer ?" " Certainly," he said. " If, then, after this, he should ask us, and say, ' What then did you mean a little while ago ? Or did I not hear you aright ? For you appeared to me to say that the parts of virtue are so disposed to each other, that no one of them resembles any other;' I, for my part should reply, ' In other respects you heard aright, but in thinking that I too said this, you were mistaken ; for Protagoras gave this answer, and I put the question.' If then he should say, ' Does he speak the truth, Protagoras ; do you say that no one part of virtue is like any other of its parts ? Is this your assertion ?' what answer would you give him ?" " I must needs admit it, Socrates," he replied. "After admitting this, Protagoras, what answer should we give him, if he further asked us, ' Is not holiness then of such a nature as to be a just thing, nor justice such as to be a holy thing, but such as to be not holy ; and holiness such as to be not just, but unjust, and the former unholy ?' What answer should we give him ? I, for myself, should say both that justice is holy, and holiness just. And for you, if you would permit me, I should make the very same answer, that justice is the same with holiness, or very like it, and that justice bears the nearest possible resemblance to holiness, and holiness to justice- PROTAGORAS. 155 But considOT whether you would forbid me to gi^e this answer, or does it seem so to you also ?" " It does not altogether appear to me, Socrates," he said, " to be so absolutely true, that I can grant that justice is holy, and holiness just ; but there appears to me to be a difference between them. However what matters that ?" he continued : " if you wish it, let it be admitted between us that justice is holy, and holiness just." "55. " Not so," I replied, " for I do not require to examine into an ' If you wish it,' and ' If you think so,' but into what I think and what you think ; but in saying ' what I think and what you think,' I mean this, I am of opinion that our argument will be best discussed if we put it out of the question alto- gether." " Well then," he said, "justice has some resemblance to holi- ness, for every thing resembles every other thing in some re- spect, for white in some sort resembles black, and hard, soft, and so with respect to other things which appear to be most contrary to each other; and the things which we just now said have different functions, and are not the one like the other, as the parts of the face do in a certain respect resemble each other ; so that in this way you could prove this, if you pleased, that all things are similar to each other ; yet it is not right to call things that have a certain similarity, similar, nor things that have a certain dissimilarity, dissimilar, though the simila- rity is very trifling." 56. And I, wondering, said to him, " Do you think then that the just and the holy are so related to each other, that they have but a trifling similarity to one another .'"' " Not quite so," he said, " nor on the other hand do I con- sider them in the same way as you appear to me to do." " However," said I, " since you appear to me to be vexed at this, we will dismiss it, and consider this of the other things that you said. Do you call folly any thing ?" He admitted he did. " And is not wisdom th6 direct contrary to this thing ?" " It appears so to me," he replied. " But when men act rightly and profitably, do they then ap- pear to you to act temperately °, in so acting, or the contrary ' ?" * Cousin has well ren^arked that traippoawii, which Socrates opposes to iuppoffiyri, means hoth temperance and prudence. We, as well as the 156 PROTAGORAS. ♦' To act temperately," he replied. " And are they not temperate by temperance ?'* " Necessarily 6o." " Do not they, then, who act wrongly, act foolishly, and are they not intemperate in so acting ?" " I agree with you," he said. " Acting foolishly, then, is the contrary to acting tem- perately." He said it was. " Are not, therefore, things which are done foolishly, done through folly, and things done temperately through temper, ance ?" He agreed. " If then any thing is done through strength, is it not done strongly, and if through weakness, weakly ?" " It appears so." " And if any thing is done with swiftness, swiftly, and if with slowness, slowly ?" He said it was. " And if any thing is done in the same manner, is it not dona by the same means, and if in a contrary manner by the con- trary means ?" He granted it. 57. "Come then," I said, "is there any thing beautiful?" He admitted there was. " Is any thing contrary to this except the ugly ?" " There is not." " But what ? Is there any thing good ?" " There is." " And is any thing contrary to this except evil ?" « There is not." French, have no single word that expresses both ideas at once. I have therefore, in imitation of Cousin, adopted the word temperoTice throughout this part of the dialogue, for otherwise the dilemma to which Socrates brings his antagonist would be lost sight of, for he now compels him to admit that temperance and wisdom which he before distingxiished from each other, are identical. Mr. Wright, in his scholar-like version of this dia- logue, has used the word discretien throughout, but it appears to me scarce worthy to be exalted into a virtue that is the twin-sister of wisdom. Fur- ther on, as will be noticed, I have also followed Cousin in transktiii^ ■ vutppoffiyii prudence. ' I have followed Stallbaum's reading, who omits ci and iirfinTcm, PROTAGORAS. 167 " What? is there any thing high in voice ?" He said there is. " And is any thing contrary to this except the low ?" " There is not," he said. " Therefore,"said I, " to each several contrary there is only one contrary, and not many." He granted it. " Come then," said I, " let us reckon up our admissions. We have admitted that one thing only is contrary to one, but not more ?" " We have." " And that what is done contrariwise, is done by contra- ries?" He assented. " We admitted also that what is done foolishly is done con- trariwise to that which is done temperately ?" He assented. " And that what is done temperately is done by temperance, and what foolishly, by folly ?" He agreed. " If therefore it is done contrariwise, must it not be done by a contrary ?" " Yes." " And the one is done by temperance, and the other by folly ?" " Yes." " Coptrariwise ?" " Certainly." " Thrpugh contraries therefore ?" " It appeals so." " FoUy therefore is contrary to temperance ?" " So it appears." " Do you remember, however, that we before admitted that folly is contrary to wisdom ?" He allowed it. " And that one thing only is contrary to one ?" " I grant it." 58. " Which, then, of these positions must we retract, Pro- tagoras ? That which says, that one thing only is contrary to one, or that in which it was asserted, that wisdom is different from temperance, but that each is a part of virtue, ai^d that 158 PROTAGORAS. besides being different, both they and their functions are dissimilar, in the same manner as the parts of the face ? Which of these, then, must we retract ? for these two posi- tions taken together are not set down in a very musical manner; for they neither accord, nor harmonize with, each other. For how can they accord, since it is necessary that one thing only should be' contrary to one, but not to more, but wis* dom and temperance are found to be contrary to folly, which is one. Is it so, Protagoras," I asked, " or otherwise ?" He admitted that it was so, though very unwiUingly. " Must not, then, temperance and wisdom be one and the same thing? Before, moreover, justice and holiness were found to be nearly the same. 59. Come, however," said I, " Protagoras, let us not be disheartened, but examine the rest. Does a man who acts mijustly, appear to you to be prudent ^ because he acts unjustly ?" " I should be ashamed, Socrates," he said, " to acknowledge this, though many men do say so." " Whether, then, shall I address my argument to them," I asked, " or to you ?" " If you please," said he^ " discuss this statement first, the statement of the many." " But it makes no difference to me, if only you will answer, whether these things appear so to you or not : for I am most anxious to sift the statement itself, though it may possibly happen, that both I who question, and you who answer, may ourselves be sifted." At first, then, Protagoras began to give himself airs, for he objected that the subject was difficult ; afterwards however, he agreed to answer. 60. " Come then," said I, " answer me from the beginning. Do persons who act unjustly, appear to you to be prudent ?" " Be it so," he replied. '' And by being prudent, do you mean thinking rightly ?'' He assented. " And by thinking rightly that they are well advised when they act unjustly ?" ' As was before observed, it is now necessary for the thread of the argu- ment to use the word prudent instead of temperate, but the reader must bear in mind that in the original the two ideas are expressed by one word. PROTAGOllAQ^ 159 " Be it so," said he. " Is this the case," I asked, " if they fare well in acting un- justly, or if they fare iU ?" "If they fare well." " Do you say then that certain things are good ?" "I do." " Are those things good, then," I asked, " which are advan- tageous to men ?" " By Jupiter," said he, " and some things though they are not advantageous to men I call good." 61. Protagoras now appeared to me to be ruffled and an- noyed, and to be set against answering anymore : when, there- fore, I saw him in this state, I was cautious, and asked him gently : " Whether," said I, " Protagoras, do you mean things that are advantageous to no man, or things that are advan- tageous in no respect whatever ? and do you call such things good ?" " By no means," said he ; " but I know many things which are useless to men, meats and drinks, and drugs, and ten thou- sand other things, and some things that are advantageous ; and some things that are neither the one nor the other to men, but are to horses, and some to oxen only, and others to dogs, others again to neither of these, but to trees, and others that are good for the roots of trees, but pernicious to their buds, for instance, dung is good when applied to the roots of all plants, but if you were to put it on their branches and young shoots, it destroys the whole. Oil too is very injurious to all plants, Euad is most destructive to the hairs of all animals except man, but it is of service to the hairs of man, and to the rest of his body. 62. So various and diversified a thing is good, that this very thing is good for the external parts of the human body, but most pernicious to the inward parts. And on this account all physi'cians forbid the sick to use oil, except only a very small quantity in what they are going to eat, just suf- ficient to overcome the disagreeable smell of the food and seasoning," Protagoras having said this, those that were present loudly applauded him, for that he spoke well. And I said, " Prota- goras, I happen to be a forgetful sort of man, and if any one makes me a long speech, T forget what the discussion is about. As, therefore, if I happened to be deaf, you would have thought 160 PROTAGORAS. tt necessary, if you were about to converse with me, to speak louder than you do to others, so now, since you have met with a forgetful person, curtail your answers for me, and make them briefer, if I am to follow you." " How do you bid me answer briefly ? Must I answer you," said he, " more briefly than is requisite ?" " By no means," I replied. "But at such length as is requisite?" he asked. "Yes," said I. " Whether, then, must I answer at such length as I think requisite, or as you .''" 63. " I have heard," I replied, "that you are both yourself able, and can teach others to make a long speech on the same subject if you please, so as never to be in want of words, and again to speak so briefly, that no one can express himself in fewer words than you. If, therefore, you mean to converse with me, use the other method with me, that of brevity." " Socrates," said he, " I have ere this entered into discussion with many men, and if I had done what you bid me, that is, ' had conversed as my antagonist bade me converse, I should not have appeared to excel any one, nor would the name of Protagoras have been celebrated in Greece." , 64. Then I (for I perceived that he was not pleased with his former answers, and that he would not willingly carry on the conversation by answering my questions) thinking that I had no longer any business to be present at the conference, said, " Protagoras, I am not anxious to continue our confer- ';nce contrary to your wish ; but whenever you are willing to converse in such a manner that I can follow you, I will then converse with you. For you, as is reported of you, and as you admit yourself, are able to carry on a conference both with prolixity and brevity ; for you are wise ; but I am unable to follow these long speeches ; though I wish that I could. Bat it was fitting, that you, who are capable of doing both, should yield to me, in order that the conference might continue : now however, since you are not willing and I have business to attend to, and am unable to stay while you are extending your speeches to a great length (for I have somewhere to go to), I yriU take my departure ; though otherwise perhaps I might have listened to these things with pleasure." 65. And as I spoke thus, I rose to depart. And as I was PROTAGORAS. 161 {sing, Callias takes hold of me with his right hand, and with lis left seized my cloak, and said. " We shall not let you go, Socrates ; for if you go away, our conversation will no longer )e the same. I beseech you, therefore, stay with us ; for there s no one I would more gladly hear than you and Protagoras ionversing together ; therefore oblige us all." To this I said — I already stood up ready to go — " Son of Sipponicus, I always admire your love of wisdom ; but I now joth praise and love it ; so that I should wish to gratify you, f -you asked me what was possible. But now it is as if you ^hould ask me to keep up with Crison of Himera, a runner in :is prime, or to run a race and keep up with one of the long- iistance runners or day-couriers ; I should say to you, that I msh. much more than you do that I could keep pace with these Tinners, but I cannot, but if you wish to see me and Crison •unning together, you must request him to slacken his pace ; for I am not able to run swiftly, but he is able to run slowly. 3o if you desire to hear me and Protagoras, you must request iim to continue to answer as he did at first, briefly and to the q|uestion. But if not, what kind of conversation will arise ? I For my part thought that it is one thing to converse together. Mid another to harangue." 66. " Bat you see, Socrates," said he, " Protagoras appears to ask what is just, in requiring that he may be allowed to converse as he pleases, and you as you please." Alcibiades, thereupon, taking up the discourse, said, " You do not speak fairly, Callias ; for Socrates here admits that he has not the faculty of making long speeches, and yields to Protagoras, but in the power of conversing, and knowing how to give and receive a reason, I should wonder if he yielded to any man. If then, Protagoras confesses that he is inferior to Socrates in conversing, that is enough for Socrates ; but if he pretends to rival him, let him carry on the conversation by question and answer, not making a long speech in answer to each question, evading the argument and not choosing to give a reason, but prolonging his speech until most of the hearers for- get what the question was about. For as for Socrates, I will be his surety that he will not forget, notwithstanding he jests and says he is forgetful. To me, therefore, Socrates appears to make the fairer proposition ; for it is right that every one should declare his own opinion." 162 PROTAGORAS. 67. After Aloibiades, it was Gritias, I think, who said, " Prodicus and Hippias, CalUas appears to me to be very much on the side of Protagoras ; hut Alcibiades is always fond of contention, to whatever he applies himself. "We, however, ought not to contend with each other, either for Socrates or Protagoras, but we should join in requesting them both not to break up the conference in the middle." When, he had spoken thus, Prodicus ^ said, " You seem to me to say well, Critias : for it is right that those who are present at discussions of this kind should be common, but not equal hearers of both speakerp. For it is not the same thing : for it is requisite to hear both in common, but not to give equal atten- tion to each of them, but to the wiser more, and to the less learned less. 68. I too, Protagoras and Socrates, beg of you to make concessions to each other, and to argue with one another, but not to wrangle ; for friends argue with friends out of good will, but adversaries and enemies wrangle with one another. And thus the conference will be most admirably Conducted. For you, the speakers, will thus be highly ap- proved, not praised, by us the hearers ; for approbation is felt in the mind of the hearers, and is without deception ; but praise is bestowed in words, by persons often who speak un- truly, contrary to their real opinion ; again, we, the hearers, shall thus be highly delighted, not pleased, for dehght takes place when one learns something and acquires wisdom in one's mind, but pleasure when one eats something, or experiences Bome other agreeable sensation in one's body." 69. When Prodicus had thus spoken, many of those that were present approved of what he said. But after Prodicus Hippias the wise spoke : " My friends who are here present, * said he, " I regard you-all as kinsmen, relatives, and fellow-citi- zens by nature, though not by law ; for like is by nature akin, to like, but law being a tyrant over men, compels many things to be done contrary to nature. It were disgraceful, then, for us to know the nature of things, to be the wisest of the Greeks, and in this very character to haye met together in the city of Greece, which is the very prytaneum of wisdom, and in the noblest and wealthiest house in this city, and then to exhibit ^ It will be observed that Prodicus's method, of drawing nice distinc- tions between words i.jarly resembling each dther in meaning, is here lidiculed. tROTAGORAS. 16^ nothing worthy of this high rank, but like the lowest of men to disagree with each other. 70. I therefore both entreat and ad- vise you, Protagoras and Socrates, to come to terms under our authority, who as arbitrators will bring you to an agreement ; and neither do you, Socrates, require that exact form of dia- logue, which is so very concise, unless it is agreeable to Pro- tagoms, but relax somewhat and give the reins to your dis- course, that it may appear to us with more majesty and grace ; nor on the other hand, do you, Protagoras, stretching every rope, and carrying all sail, scud to an ocean of words out of sight of land, but both of you keep a middle course. Do thus then, and be persuaded by me to choose a moderator, president, and prytanis, who will oblige you to keep within moderate bounds on either side." This pleased those that were present, and all a]iproved, and Callias said that he would not let me go, and they urged me to choose a president. 71. I said therefore, " that it would be a shame to choose an umpire for our arguments ; for if the pei-son chosen should be our inferior, it would not be right that the inferior should preside over his superiors, nor if he should be equal, would this be right ; for one that is equal will act the same as we do, so that the choice will be superfluous. But you will choose some one better than we are ; in reality I think it impossible for you to choose any one wiser than Pro- tagoras here : but if you should choose one in no respect superior, though you shall affirm that he is, this also will be a disgrace to him, to have a president chosen for him, as if he were a common person : for as to myself it makes no difference. I am willing, then, to act as follows, that our conference and conversation may continue, which you so earnestly desire : if Protagoras is not willing to answer, let him ask questions, and I will answer ; and at the same time I will endeavour to shew him, how I say one who answers ought to answer. But when I have answered all the questions that he chooses to ask, let him in his turn, in like manner, reply to me. If, however, he should not appear disposed to answer the exact question put to him, both you and I will join in intreating of him, as you now do of me, nat to destroy the conversation. And for this purpose there is no occasion for one president to be appointed, but you will all be presidents in common." 72. It appeared to all that this was what ought to be done. 164 PROTAGORAS. And though Protagoras was not very willing to liomply yet he Was compelled to consent to ask questions, and when le had a>jked enough in his turn to reply to my questions with b revity. He began therefore pretty nearly as foltows : " I think," said he, " Socrates, that the most important part of a man's education consists in. being skilled in poetical com- position ; that is, to be able to understand what has been said by the poets, both what has been correctly composed and what incorrectly, and to know how to distinguish and to give a reason when asked about them. And now the question shall be on the very subject^ about which you and I have been con- versing, virtue, but it shall be transferred to poetry. For Simonides somewhere says to Scopas, son of Creon the Thes- salian, ' That to become a good man is truly diflScult, square as to his hands and feet and mind, fashioned without fault.' Do you know the ode, or shall I repeat the whole to you ?'' ' 73. I said, "There is no necessity, for I know it, and have studied the ode with great attention." " You say well," he then observed, " Whether, does it ap- pear to you to have been composed beautifully and correctly or not?" "Certainly," said I, "both beautifully and correctly." " Bat does it appear to you to have been composed beauti- fully if the poet contradicts himself ?" " Not beautifully," I replied. " Consider it, then, more attentively," said he. " But my good friend, I have examined it sufficiently." " You know, then," said he, " that in the course of the ode he says somewhere, ' That saying of Pittacus does not please me, though uttered by a wise man, wherein he says, it is difficult to continue to be good.' Do you observe, that the same person makes both this and the former remark ?" " I know it," I replied. " Does it appear to you then," said he, " that the one agrees with the other ?" " It appears so to me." And at the same time I was afraid lest there should be something in what he said. " But," said I, " does not it appear so to you }" " How can he who made both these assertions agree with himself, who first of all laid it down in his own person, that it is truly difficult to become a good man, and a little further PEOTAGOUAS. l65 on this person forgets himself and blames Pittacus for saying the same thing that he had said himself. ' that it is difficult to be good,' and asserts that he cannot approve of his saying the very same thing as himself. Surely in blaming a man who says the same things as himself, it is clear that he blames him- self, 80 that in the former or the latter place he does not speak correctly." 74. In saying this he elicited applause and praise from many of the hearers. And I, at first, as if I had been hit by, a skilful boxer, was blinded, and made giddy, by his saying this, and by the applause of the others ; but afterwards, to tell you the truth, that I might have time to consider what the poet meant, I turned to Prodicus, and calling out to him, said, " Prodicus, Siraonides was your fellow-citizen ; you are bound to assist the man. I seem then, to call upon you, in the same manner as Homer' says Scamander, when assailed by Achilles, called upon Simois, saying, ' Dear brother, let us unite to repel the prowess of this man.' So I call upon you, let not Protagoras overthrow Simonides. For the defence of Simonides requires that exquisite skill of yours, by which you distinguish between to will and to desire, as not being the same, and by which you just now established many and beautiful distinctions. And now consider, whether your opinion agrees with mine : for Si- monides does not appear to me to contradict himself. But do you, Prodicus, first declare your opinion. Does it appear to you that to become and to be a/e the same or different ?" " Difierent by Jupiter," said Prodicus. 75. " Has not Siraonides himself then," said I, " in the first passage, declared his own opinion, that it is in truth difficult to become a good man ?" " You say truly," repliea Prodicus. " B'lt he blames Pittacus," I continued, " not as Protagoras thinks, for saying the same thing that he had said, but some- thing different. For Pittacus does not say that this is the difficulty, to become a good man, as Simonides does, but this, to be so ; but Protagoras, as Prodicus here says, to be and to become are not the same ; and if to be and to become are not the same, Simonides does not contradict himself. And perhaps Prodicus here, and many others, may say with Hesiod"*, ' that it is difficult to become good ; for that the gods have placed i Iliad sxi. a08. " 0pp. et Dier. v. 287 &c 166 PROTAGORAS. sweat before virtue ; but when any one has reached its summit, it is then easy to acquire, though before it was difficult.'" 76. Prodicus, on hearing' this, commended me; but Prot tagoras said, " Your defence, Socrates, is more erroneous than the passage which you defend." And I said, " Then I have done ill, as it seems, Protagoras, and I am an absurd physician ; in attemptjn'g to cure, I make the disease worse." " So it is however," he said. "But how?" I asked. " Great must have been the poet's ignorance,*' he replied, " if he asserts that virtue is so easy a thing to be acquired, whereas it is the most difficult of all, as all men think." 77. And I said, " By Jupiter, Prodicus here is very op- portunely present at our discussion. For the wisdom of Pro- dicus appears, O Protagoras, to have been of old divine, whether it began with Simonides, or is even still more ancient. But you, who are skilled in many other things, appear to be unskilled in this, and not skilled in it as I am, from being the disciple of this Prodicus. And now you appear to me not to be aware that Simonides probably did not understand this word ' diffi- cult,' in the same sense as you understand it ; but as with the word Sccvos, (terrible and clever,) Prodicus here is continually taking me to task, when in praising you, or any one else, I say, that Protagoras is- a wise and terrible man, he asks if I am not ashamed of calling good things terrible, for what is terrible, he says, is evil; hence no one ever speaks of terrible riches, or terrible peace, or terrible health, but every one says terrible disease, and terrible war, and terrible poverty, since whatever is terrible is evil. Perhaps, therefore, the Ceans and Simonides understaud by the word difficult either that which is bad, or something else 'that you are not aware of. 78. Let us then ask Prodicus ; for- it is right to enquire of him the mean- ing of words used by Simonides ; what, Prodicus, does Simo- nides mean by the word difficult?" " Evil," he replied. " For this reason, then," I continued, " Prodicus, he blames Pittacus for saying that it is difficult to ba good, as if he had heard him say that it is evil to be good." " But what else but tliis, Socrates," he askeu, " do you think Simonides meant and fouud fault with in Fittacus, tb:it he did PROTAGORAS. 167 not know how to distinguish terms rightly, as being a Lesbian, and educated in a barbarous dialect ?"' " Do you hear Prodicus," said I, " Protagoras ? And have you any objection to make to this ?" Thereupon Protagoras said, 79. " This is far from being the case, Prodicus ; for I am' very sure that Simonides meant by the word difficult the same that we all do, not what is evil, but that which is not easy but is accomplished by much toil." "And I too think, Protagoras," 1 said, "that Simonides meant this, and that Prodicus here knows he did, but he is jesting, and is willing to try whether you are able to maintain your own assertion. For that Simonides does not by the word difficult mean evil, is strongly confirmed by the expres- sion immediately after this ; for he says, that ' God alone pos- sesses this privilege,' not surely meaning that it is evil to be good ; then he adds that God alone possesses this, and he at- tributes this privilege to God alone ; for in that case Prodicus would call Simonides a profligate, and by no means a Cean. But I am willing to tell you what appears to me to have been the design of Simonides in this ode, if you think proper to make trial of my poetical skill, as you call it ; or if you prefer it, I will listen to you." 80. Protagoras, therefore, hearing me speak thus, said, " If you please, Socrates ;" but Prodicus, Hippias, and the rest, urged me very much. > " I will endeavour, then," said I, " to explain to you what I think of this ode. Philosophy is mos^ ancient and most pre- valent in Crete and Lacedaemon of all Greece, and sophists are more numerous there than any where else. They deny it, however, and pretend to be ignorant, in order that they may not be discovered to surpass the rest of the Greeks in wisdom, like those sophists whom Protagoras mentioned, but that they may appear to excel in fighting and courage, thinking that, if it were known in what they excel, all men would engage in the same pursuit. But now, concealing this, they deceive those who affect Spartan manners in other cities, for some, in imitation of them, have their ears bruised, and bind their arms' with the thongs of the cestus, and devote themselves to gymnastic exercises, and wear short garments, as if in these things the Lacedemonians excelled the other Greeks. But the Lacedse- monians, now that they wish to converse without restraint with 168 PROTAGOHAS. the sophists among them, and are wearied with conversing with them in secret, expelling these imitators of Spartan man, ners, and any other stranger that is living in their country converse with the sophists unljnown to all strangers ; and they do not suffer any of their young men to go out to other cities, as neither do the Cretans, lest they should unlearn what they have taught them. 81. And in these cities there are not only men that pride themselves on their learning, but women also. And you may know, that in this I speak truly, and that the Lacedaemonians are admirably instructed in philosophy and the art of speaking, from the following circumstance : for if any one wishes to converse with th** meanest of the Lacedsemonians, he will find him, for the most part, apparently an ordinary person in conversation, but afterwards, when a pro- per opportunity presents itself, he sends forth, like a skilful lancer, a notable saying, brief and pointed, so that he who con- verses with him will appear to be nothing better than a boy. Ac- cordingly some persons, both of the present day and of former times, have observed this very thing, that to imitate Spartan manners consists much more in studying philosophy, than de- voting one's-self to gymnastic exercises, since they know that to be able to utter such sayings is a proof of a highly educated man. 82. Among these were Thales of Miletus, Pittacus of Mitylene, Bias of Priene, our own Solon, Cleobulus of Lindus, MysoTi of Chene, and the seventh among them was reckoned the LacediEmonian Chilo. These all were emulators, lovers, and disciples of the Lacedaemonian education, and any one may discover that their wisdom was of this kind, brief and memor- able sayings uttered by each of them. These men also, having met together, consecrated the first-fruits of their wisdom to Apollo in the temple at Delphi, inscribing those sentences which all men have in their mouths : ' Know thyself,' and ' Noching in extremes.' " But why do I mention these things ? To shew that this was the mode of philosophy among the ancients, a certain laconic brevity of diction. Amongst the rest this particular saying of Pittacus was noised abroad, being extolled by the wise men : ' It is difficult to be good.' Simonides, therefore, as being am« hitious of a reputation for wisdom, knew that if he could over, throw this saying, as if it were a famous wrestler, and could master it, he himself would become famous among.'st the men yf PROTAGORAS 169 his own time. In opposition to this sentence, therefore, and with this object, designing to put it down, he composed the wholo of this ode, as it appears to me. 83. " Let all ^of us, however, examine it together, to see whether what I say is true. For the very commencement of the ode would appear to be insane, if, wishing to say that it is difficult to become a good man, he had afterwards inserted the particle ' indeed.' For this appears to have been inserted fot no purpose whatever, unless we suppose that Simonides is speak- ing as if he were quarrelling with the saying of Pittacus ; and that when Pittacus says, that ' it is difficult to be good,' he, disputing this, says, ' Not so,' but it is indeed difficult, Pittacus, to become good in very truth ; not ' truly good.' For he does not use the word truly in this way, as if some men were truly good, and others gopd indeed, but not truly so, for this would have been silly, and not worthy of Simonides ; but it is neces- sary to transpose the word ' truly' in the ode, understanding the saying of Pittacus somewhat as follows, as if we were to make Pittacus himself speak, and Simonides answer, saying, ' O men, it is difficult to be good,' but the latter answers, ' Pit- tacus, your assertion is not true : for not to be, but to become indeed a good man, square as to one's hands and feet, and mind, fashioned without blame, is truly difficult.' Thus it ap- pears that the particle 'indeed' is inserted with good reason, and that the word ' truly' is rightly placed at the end. And all that follows bears witness to this, that such is the meaning. 84. Many things might be said to prove with respect to each several passage in this ode, that it is well composed ; for it is very elegant and elaborate ; but it would be too long to go through the whole of it in this way. Let us then consider its whole outline and design, which is nothing else than a refuta- tion of the saying of Pittacus throughout the ode. For he says shortly after this, proceeding as if he would say, to be- come a good man is truly difficult, it is possible however for a certain time : but having become to continue in this condition, and to be a good man, as you say, Pittacus, is impossible and more than human, but God alone possesses this privilege ; ' but it cannot be that a man should be otherwise than evil, whomsoever irresistible calamity prostrates.' 85. Whom, then, does irresistible calamity prostrate in the command of a ship ? Clearly not a private person, for the private person is always 170 PROTAGORAS. prostrate ; as therefore no one can throw down a man who is lying on the ground, but sometimes one may throw down one who is standing upright, so as to make him lie on the gi-ound, but not one already lying there, so an irresistible calamity may sometimes prostrate a skilful man, but never one who is always unskilful ; and a violent storm bursting on a pilot may make his skill of no avail, and a bad season befalling a farmer may make his skill of no avail, and the same with a physician : for it befals a good man to become evil, as is also testified by an> other poet, who says, ' A good man is sometimes evil, and some- times good :' but it does not befal the evil to become so, but he must needs always be so. So that when an irresistible calamity prostrates a skilful, wise, and good man, it is not pos- sible for him not to be evil ; but you say, Pittacus, that it is difficult to be good; but the difficulty is to become good, though it is possible, but impossible to be so. 86. ' For every man who fares well is good, but evil if he fares ill.' What then is faring well with respect to literature ? and what makes a man good in literature? Clearly the being instructed in it. What faring well makes a good physician ? Clearly the being instructed in the art of curing the sick, ' And evil if he fares ill.' Who then would become an evil physician? Clearly he to whom it happens first to be a physician, and then a good physician ; for he may become an evil physician. But we who are ignorant of the medical art, can never by faring ill become either physicians, or builders, or any thing else of the kind ; but whoever cannot become a physician by faring ill, clearly cannot become an evil physician. Thus also a good man may sometime or other become evil, either from length of time, or labour, or disease, or some other accident, for this alone is a faring ill, to be deprived of knowledge, but the evil man can never become evil, for he is always so ; but if he is to become evil, it is necessary for him first to become good. So that this part of the ode tends to this, that it is not possible to be a good man, so as to continue good ; but that it is possible to become good, and for the same person to become evil : ' and they are for the longest time best whom the gods love.' 87. " All these things therefore are said against Pittacus, and the following parts of the ode shew this still more clearly. For he says, ' Wherefore I shall never, searching for that which caimot be, throw away a portion of my life ou au empty im- PROTAGORAS. Ifl practicable hope, eearching for an all-blameless man among us who feed on the fruits of the wide earth. When I have found one, I will inform you ;' he adds, feo vehemently, and through the whole of the ode, does he attack the saying of Pit- tacus. ' But I praise and willingly love all who do nothing base ; but with necessity not even gods contend.' And this is spoken against that same saying. For Siraonides was not so ill informed as to say that he praised those who did no evil willingly, as if there were some who did evil willingly. For I am pretty much of this opinion, that no wise nian thinks that any man errs willingly, nor willingly commits base and evil actions, but they well know that all those who do base and evil things, do them unwillingly. 88. Moreover Simonides does' not say, that he praises those who do not willingly do evil, but he uses this word 'willingly' of himself. For he thought that a good and upright man is frequently compelled to love and praise a certain person ; for instance, it often happens to a man to have a perverse mother or father, or country, or something else of the kind. Now depraved men, when any such thing happens to them, are as it were glad to see it, and blaming make known and divulge the depravity of their parents or country, that when they neglect them, men may not accuse or reproach them for their neglect, so that they blame them still more than they deserve, and add voluntary to necessary enmity. But the good conceal the faults and compel themselves to praise, and if they are angry with their parents or country from having been injured by them, they pacify themselves and become reconciled, compelling themselves to love and praise their own connections. And I think Simonide.s also himself frequently considered it right to praise and extol a tyrant, or some one else of the kind, not willingly, but by compulsion. 89. This, too, he says to Pittacus ; I, Pittacus, do not blame you on this account, because I am fond of blaming ; for ' it is enough for me if a man is not evU or too helpless, a sane man, acquainted with justice that benefits the state ; I will not censure him, for I am not a lover of censure ; for the race of fools is infinite ;' so that he who delights in blaming may satiate himself in censuring them. •All things are beautiful with which base things are not mingled.' His meaning in this, is not as if he had said, all things are white with which black is not mingled, for this would be in many ways ridiculous, but that he himself adm^ 172 PROTAGORAS. of a mean, so as not to blame it. ' And I do not seek,' h