DUKE 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 

 Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 in 2020 with funding from 
 Duke University Libraries 
 
 https://archive.org/details/trialdeathofsocr1920plat 
 
'3 7357 
 
 T • 
 
 Trial and Death of 
 
 Socrates i 
 
 - ■ ' " - 
 
 T ranslated 
 
 By F. J. CHURCH, M. A. 
 
 0 
 
 I 
 
 A. L. BURT COMPANY, j»- * & 
 
 # * & PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK 
 
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CONTENTS, 
 
 SAGS 
 
 Introduction. . . .... 7 
 
 Euthyphron, or on Holiness ....... 59 
 
 . Apology, of Socrates ......... 81 
 
 Crito, or the Duty of a Citizen . . . . . .113 
 Ph^edo, or the Immortality of the Soul .... 131 
 
 Philebus, on the Greatest Good ...... 213 
 
PREFACE, 
 
 This book, which is intended principally for the large 
 and increasing class of readers who wish to learn some¬ 
 thing of the masterpieces of Greek literature, and who can¬ 
 not easily read them in Greek, was originally published in 
 a different form. Since its first appearance it has been re¬ 
 vised and corrected throughout, and largely rewritten. 
 The chief part of the Introduction is new. It is not in¬ 
 tended to be a general essay on Socrates, but only an at¬ 
 tempt to explain and illustrate such points in his life and 
 teaching as are referred to in these dialogues, which, taken 
 by themselves, contain Plato’s description of his great 
 master’s life, and work, and death. 
 
 The books which were most useful to me in writing it 
 are Professor Zeller’s Socrates and the Socratic Schools, 
 and the edition of the Apology by the late Rev. James 
 Riddell, published after his death by the delegates of the 
 Clarendon Press. His account of Socrates is singularly 
 striking. I found the very exact and literal translation of 
 the Phcedo into colloquial English by the late Mr. E. M. 
 Cope often very useful in revising that dialogue. I have 
 also to thank various friends for the patience with which 
 they have looked over parts of my l work in manuscript, 
 and for the many valuable hints and suggestions which 
 they have given me. 
 
 As a rule I have used the text of the Zurich editors. 
 Twice or thrice, in the Phcedo, I have taken a reading 
 from the text of Schanz: but it seems to. me that what 
 makes his edition valuable is its apparatus criticus rather 
 than its text. 
 
 F. J. 0. 
 
TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES, 
 
 INTKODUCTION. 
 
 These dialogues contain a unique picture of Socrates 
 in the closing scenes of his life, his trial, his imprisonment, 
 and his death. And they contain a description also of that 
 unflagging search after truth, that persistent and merciless 
 examination and sifting of men who were wise only in 
 their own conceit, to which his latter years w r ere devoted. 
 Within these limits he is the most familiar figure of an¬ 
 cient Greek history. No one else stands out before us 
 with so individual and distinct a personality of his own. 
 Of the rest of Socrates’ life, however, we are almost com¬ 
 pletely ignorant. All that we know of it consists of a few 
 scattered and isolated facts, most of which are referred 
 to in these dialogues. A considerable number of stories 
 are told about him by late writers: but to scarcely any of 
 them can credit be given. Plato and Xenophon are almost 
 the only trustworthy authorities about him who remain; 
 and they describe him almost altogether as an old man. 
 The earlier part of his life is to us scarcely more than a 
 blank. 
 
 Socrates was born very shortly before the year 469 B.c. 
 His father, Sophroniscus, was a sculptor: his mother, 
 Phamarete, a midwife. Nothing definite is known of his 
 moral and intellectual development. There is no specific 
 
 7 
 
8 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 record of him at all until he served at the siege of Potidaea 
 (432 B.C.-429 b.c.) when he was nearly forty years old. 
 All that we can say is that his youth and manhood were 
 passed in the most splendid period of Athenian or Greek 
 history. It was the time of that wonderful outburst of 
 genius in art, and literature, and thought, and statesman¬ 
 ship, which was so sudden and yet so unique. Athens was 
 full of the keenest intellectual and political activity. 
 Among her citizens between the years 460 b.c. and 420 B.c. 
 were men who in poetry, in history, in sculpture, in archi¬ 
 tecture, are our masters still. /Eschylus’ great Trilogy 
 was brought out in the year 458 b.c., and the poet died two 
 years later, when Socrates was about fifteen years old. 
 Sophocles was born in 495 b.c., Euripides in 481 B.c. 
 They both died about 406 B.c., some seven years before 
 Socrates. Pheidias, the great sculptor, the artist of the 
 Elgin marbles, which are now in the British Museum, died 
 in 432 b.c. Pericles, the supreme statesman and orator, 
 whose name marks an epoch in the history of civilization, 
 died in 429 b.c. Thucydides, the historian, whose history 
 is “ a possession for all ages,” was born in 471 B.c., about 
 the same time as Socrates, and died probably between 401 
 B.c. and 395 B.c. Ictinus, the architect, completed the 
 Parthenon in 438 b.c. There have never been finer instru¬ 
 ments of culture than the art and poetry and thought of 
 such men as these. Socrates, who in 420 b.c. was about 
 fifty years old, was contemporary with them all. He must 
 have known and conversed with some of them: for Athens 
 was not very large, and the Athenians spent almost the 
 whole of their day in public. To live in such a city was 
 in itsel f no mean training for a man, though he might not 
 he conscious of it. The great object of Pericles’ policy had 
 been to make Athens the acknowledged intellectual, capi¬ 
 tal and center of Greece, “the Prytaneum of all Greek 
 wisdom. Socrates himself speaks with pride in the Apol¬ 
 ogy of her renown for “ wisdom and power of mind.” And 
 Athens gave her citizens another kind of training also, 
 through her political institutions. From having been the 
 head of the confederacy of Delos, she had grown to be an 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 9 
 
 Imperial, or, as her enemies called her, a tyrant city. She 
 was the mistress of a great empire, ruled and administered 
 by law. The Sovereign Power in the State was the As¬ 
 sembly, of which every citizen, not under disability, was 
 a member, and at which attendance' was by law compulsory. 
 There was no representative government, no intervening 
 responsibility of ministers. The Sovereign people in their 
 Assembly directly administered the Athenian empire. 
 Each individual citizen was thus brought every day into 
 immediate contact with matters of Imperial importance. 
 His political powers and responsibilities were very great. 
 He was accustomed to hear questions of domestic adminis¬ 
 tration, of legislation, of peace and war, of alliances, of 
 foreign and colonial policy, keenly and ably argued on 
 either side. He was accustomed to hear arguments on one 
 side of a question attacked and dissected and answered by 
 opponents with the greatest acuteness and pertinacity. 
 He himself had to examine, weigh, and decide between 
 rival arguments. The Athenian judicial system gave the 
 same kind of training in another direction by its juries, 
 on which every citizen was liable to be selected by lot to 
 serve. The result was to create at Athens an extremely 
 high level of general intelligence, such as cannot be looked 
 for in a modern state. And it may well be that in the 
 debates of the Assembly and the discussions of the courts 
 of law Socrates first became aware of the necessity of sift¬ 
 ing and examining plausible arguments. 
 
 Such, shortly, were the influences under which Socrates 
 passed the first fifty years of his life. It is evident that 
 they were most powerful and efficient as instruments of 
 education, in the wider sense of that word. Very little 
 evidence remains of the formal training which he received, 
 or of the nature and extent of his positive knowledge: 
 and the history of his intellectual development is practi¬ 
 cally a matter of pure conjecture. As a boy he received 
 the usual Athenian liberal education in music and gym¬ 
 nastic, an education, that is to say, mental and physical. 
 He was fond of quoting from the existing Greek literature, 
 and he seems to have been familiar with it, especially with 
 
10 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 Homer. He is represented by Xenophon as repeating 
 Prodicus’ fable of the choice of Heracles at length. He 
 says that he was in the habit of studying with his friends 
 "the treasures which the wise men of old have left us in 
 their books: ” collections, that is, of the short and pithy 
 sayings of the seven sages, such as “ know thyself ; ” a 
 saying, it may be noticed, which lay at the root of his whole 
 teaching. And he had some knowledge of mathematics, 
 and of science, as it existed in those days. He understood 
 something of astronomy and of advanced geometry: and 
 lie was acquainted with certain, at any rate, of the theories 
 of his predecessors in philosophy, the Physical or Cosmical 
 philosophers, such as Heraclitus and Parmenides, and, es¬ 
 pecially, with those of Anaxagoras. But there is no trust¬ 
 worthy evidence which enables us to go beyond the bare 
 fact that he had such knowledge. We cannot tell whether 
 he ever studied Physical Philosophy seriously, or from 
 whom, or how, or even, certainly, when, he learnt what 
 he knew about it. It is perhaps most likely that his mathe¬ 
 matical and scientific studies are to be assigned to the 
 earlier period of his life. There is a passage in the Phcedo 
 in which he says (or rather is made to say) that in his 
 youth he had had a passion for the study of Nature. The 
 historical value of this passage, however, which occurs in 
 the philosophical or Platonic part of the dialogue, is very 
 doubtful. Socrates is represented as passing on from the 
 study of Nature to the doctrine of Ideas, a doctrine which 
 was put forward for the first time by Plato after his death, 
 and which he never heard of. The statement must be taken 
 for what it is worth. The fact that Aristophanes in the 
 Clouds (423 b.c. ) represents Socrates as a natural philoso¬ 
 pher, who teaches his pupils, among other things, astron¬ 
 omy and geometry, proves nothing. Aristophanes’ mis¬ 
 representations about Socrates are so gross that his unsup¬ 
 ported testimony deserves no credit: and there is abso¬ 
 lutely no evidence 1o confirm the statement that Socrates 
 ever taught Natural Science. It is quite certain that lat¬ 
 terly he refused to have anything,to do with such specula¬ 
 tions. He admitted Natural Science only in so far as it 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 11 
 
 is practically useful, in the way in which astronomy is 
 useful to a sailor, or geometry to a land-surveyor. Natural 
 philosophers, he says, are like madmen :/their conclusions 
 are hopelessly contradictory, and their science unproduct¬ 
 ive, impossible, and impious; for the gods are not pleased 
 with those who seek to discover what they do not wish to 
 reveal. The time which is wasted on such subjects might 
 be much more profitably employed in the pursuit of useful 
 knowledge. 
 
 All then that we can say of the first forty years of Soc¬ 
 rates’ life, consists of general statements like these. Dur¬ 
 ing these years there is no specific record of him. Between 
 432 b.c. and 429 b.c. he served as a common soldier at the 
 siege of Potidsea, an Athenian dependency which had re¬ 
 volted, and surpassed every one in his powers of enduring- 
 hunger, thirst, and cold, and all the hardships of a severe 
 Thracian winter. At this siege we hear of him for the first 
 time in connection with Alcibiades, whose life he saved in 
 a skirmish, and to whom he eagerly relinquished the prize 
 of valor. In 431 b.c. the Peloponnesian War broke out, 
 and in 424 b.c. the Athenians were disastrously defeated 
 and routed by the Thebans at the battle of Delium. Soc¬ 
 rates and Laches were among the few who did not yield to 
 panic. They retreated together steadily, and the resolute 
 bearing of Socrates was conspicuous to friend and foe alike. 
 Had all the Athenians behaved as he did, says Laches, in 
 the dialogue of that name, the defeat would have been a 
 victory. Socrates fought bravely a third time at the battle 
 of Amphipolis [422 b.c.] against the Peloponnesian forces, 
 in which the commanders on both sides, Cleon and Brasi- 
 das, were killed: but there is no record of his specific serv¬ 
 ices on that occasion. 
 
 About the same time that Socrates was displaying con¬ 
 spicuous courage in the cause of Athens at Delium and 
 Amphipolis, Aristophanes was holding him up to hatred, 
 contempt, and ridicule in the comedy of the Clouds. The 
 Clouds was first acted in 423 b.c., the year between the 
 battles of Delium and Amphipolis, and was afterwards 
 recast in the form in which we have it. It was a fierce and 
 
12 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 bitter attack on what Aristophanes, a staunch “laudator 
 temporias acti Se puero” considered the corruption and 
 degeneracy of the age. Since the middle of the Fifth Cen¬ 
 tury B.c. a new intellectual movement, in which the Soph¬ 
 ists were the most prominent figures, had set in. Men 
 had begun to examine and to call in question the old-fash¬ 
 ioned commonplaces of morality and religion. Independ¬ 
 ent thought and individual judgment were coming to be 
 substituted for immemorial tradition and authority. Aris¬ 
 tophanes hated the spirit of the age with his whole soul. 
 It appeared to him to be impious and immoral. He looked 
 back with unmixed regret to the simplicity of ancient man¬ 
 ners, to the glories of Athens in the Persian wars, to the 
 men of Marathon who obeyed orders without discussing 
 them, and “only knew how to call for their barley-cake, 
 and sing yo-lio ! ” The Clouds i£ his protest against the 
 immorality of free thought and the Sophists. He chose 
 Socrates for his central figure, chiefly, no doubt on account 
 of Socrates’ well-known and strange personal appearance. 
 The grotesque ugliness, and flat nose, and prominent eyes, 
 and Silenus-like face, and shabby dress, might be seen 
 every day in the streets, and were familiar to every Athen¬ 
 ian. Aristophanes cared little— probably he did not take 
 the trouble to find out—that Socrates’ whole life was spent 
 in fighting against the Sophists. It was enough for him 
 that Socrates did not accept the traditional beliefs, and was 
 a good center-piece for a comedy. The account of the 
 Clouds given in the Apology is substantially correct. 
 There is a caricature of a natural philosopher, and then a 
 caricature of a Sophist. Poll the two together, and we have 
 Aristophanes’ picture of Socrates. Socrates is described 
 as a miserable recluse, and is made to talk a great deal of 
 very absurd and very amusing nonsense about “ Physics.” 
 He announces that Zeus has been dethroned, and that 
 Rotation reigns in his stead. 
 
 The new divinities are Air, which holds the earth sus¬ 
 pended, and Ether, and the Clouds, and the Tongue — 
 people always think “that natural philosophers do not 
 believe in the gods. He professes to have Belial’s power to 
 
INTRODUCTION, 
 
 13 
 
 “ make the worse Appear the better reason;” and with it 
 he helps a debtor to swindle his creditors by means of the 
 most paltry quibbles. Under his tuition the son learns 
 to beat his father, and threatens to beat his mother; and 
 justifies himself on the ground that it is merely a matter 
 of convention that the father has the right of beating his 
 son. In the concluding lines of the play the chorus say 
 that Socrates’ chief crime is that he has sinned against 
 the gods with his eyes open. The Natural Philosopher 
 was unpopular at Athens on religious grounds: he was 
 associated with atheism. The Sophist was unpopular on 
 moral grounds: he was supposed to corrupt young men, 
 to make falsehood plausible, to be “ a clever fellow who 
 could make other people clever too.” The natural phil¬ 
 osopher was not a Sophist, and the Sophist was not a 
 natural philosopher. Aristophanes mixes them up to¬ 
 gether, and ascribes the sins of both of them to Socrates. 
 The Clouds, it is needless to say, is a gross and absurd 
 libel from beginning to end: but Aristophanes hit the popu¬ 
 lar conception. The charges which he made in 423 b.c. 
 stuck to Socrates to the end of his life. They are exactly 
 the charges made by popular prejudice, against which Soc¬ 
 rates defends himself in the first ten chapters of the 
 'Apology, and which he says have been so long “ in the air.” 
 He formulates them as follows: “ Socrates is an evil-doer 
 who busies himself with investigating things beneath the 
 earth and in the sky, and who makes the worse appear the 
 better reason, and who teaches others these same things.” 
 If we allow for the exaggerations of a burlesque, the 
 Clouds is not a bad commentary on the beginning of the 
 Apology. And it establishes a definite and important his¬ 
 torical fact—namely, that as early as 423 b.c. Socrates’ 
 system of cross-examination had made him a marked 
 man. 
 
 For sixteen years after the battle of Amphipolis we hear 
 nothing of Socrates. The next events in his life, of which 
 there is a specific record, are those narrated by himself in 
 the twentieth chapter of the Apology. They illustrate, as 
 he meant them to illustrate, his invincible moral courage. 
 
14 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 They show, as he intended that they should, that there was 
 no power on earth, whether it were an angry popular assem¬ 
 bly, or a murdering oligarchy, which could force him to do 
 wrong. In 40G n.c. the Athenian fleet defeated the Lace- 
 daemonians at the battle of Arginusae, so-called from some 
 small islands off the south-east point of Lesbos. After 
 the battle the Athenian commanders omitted to recover 
 the bodies of their dead, and to save the living from off 
 their disabled triremes. The Athenians at home, on hear¬ 
 se, f this, were furious. The due performance of funeral 
 rites was a very sacred duty with the Greeks; and many 
 citizens mourned for friends and relatives who had been 
 left to drown. The commanders were immediately re¬ 
 called, and an assembly was held in which they were ac¬ 
 cused of neglect of duty. They defended themselves by 
 saying that they had ordered certain inferior officers 
 (amongst others, their accuser Theramenes) to perform 
 the duty, but that a storm had come on which had ren¬ 
 dered the performance impossible. The debate was ad¬ 
 journed, and it was resolved that the Senate should de¬ 
 cide in what way the commanders should be tried. The 
 Senate resolved that the Athenian people, having heard 
 the accusation and the defense, should proceed to vote 
 forthwith for the acquittal or condemnation of the eight 
 commanders collectively. The resolution was grossly un¬ 
 just, and it was illegal. It substituted a popular vote for 
 a fair and formal trial. And it contravened one of the 
 laws of Athens, which provided that at every trial a sepa¬ 
 rate verdict should be found in the case of each person 
 accused. 
 
 Socrates was at that time a member of the Senate, the 
 only office that he ever filled. The Senate was composed 
 of five hundred citizens, elected by lot, fifty from each of 
 the ten tribes, and holding office for one year. The mem¬ 
 bers of each tribe held the Trytany, that is, were responsi¬ 
 ble for the conduct of business, for thirty-five days at a 
 time, and ten out of the fifty were proedri or presidents 
 every seven days in succession. Every bill or motion was 
 examined by the proedri, before it was submitted to the 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 15 
 
 Assembly, to see if it were in accordance with law: if it 
 was not, it was quashed: one of the proedri presided over 
 the Senate and the Assembly each day, and for one day 
 only: he was called the Epistates: it was his duty to put 
 the question to the vote. In short, he was the Speaker. 
 
 These details are necessary for the understanding of 
 the passage in the Apology. On the day on which it was 
 proposed to take a collective vote on the acquittal or con¬ 
 demnation of the eight commanders, Socrates -was Epis¬ 
 tates. The proposal was, as we have seen, illegal: but 
 the people were furious against the accused, and it was 
 a very popular one.. Some of the proedri opposed it be¬ 
 fore it was submitted to the Assembly, on the ground of 
 its illegality; but they were silenced by threats and sub¬ 
 sided. Socrates alone refused to give way. He would not 
 put a question, which he knew to be illegal, to the vote. 
 Threats of suspension and arrest, the clamor of an angry 
 people, the fear of imprisonment or death, could not move 
 him. “ I thought it my duty to face the danger out in 
 the cause of law and justice, and not to be an accomplice 
 in your unjust proposal.” But his authority lasted only 
 for a day; the proceedings were adjourned, a more pliant 
 Epistates succeeded him, and the generals were condemned 
 and executed. 
 
 Two years later Socrates again showed by his conduct 
 that he would endure anything rather than do wrong. In 
 40-i b.c. Athens was captured by the Lacedaemonian 
 forces, and the long walls were thrown down. The great 
 Athenian democracy was destroyed, and an oligarchy of 
 thirty set up in its place by Critias (who in former days 
 had been much in Socrates’ company) with the help of 
 the Spartan general Lysander. The rule of the Thirty 
 lasted for rather less than a year: in the spring of 403 
 B.c. the democracy was restored. The reign of Critias 
 and his friends was a Eeign of Terror. Political oppo¬ 
 nents and private enemies were murdered as a matter of 
 course. So were respectable citizens, and wealthy citi¬ 
 zens for the sake of their wealth. All kinds of men were 
 used as assassins, for the oligarchs wished to implicate as 
 
16 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 many as possible in their crimes. With this object they 
 sent for Socrates and four others to the Council chamber, 
 a building where formerly the Prytanies, and now they 
 themselves, took their meals and sacrificed, and ordered 
 them to bring one Leon over from Salamis to Athens, to 
 be murdered. The other four feared to disobey an order, 
 disobedience to which probably meant death. They went 
 over to Salamis, and brought Leon back with them. Soc¬ 
 rates disregarded the order and the danger, and went 
 home. “ I showed,” he says “ not by mere words, but by 
 my actions, that I did not care a straw for death: but 
 that I did care very much indeed about doing wrong.” 
 He had previously incurred tire anger of Critias and the 
 other oligarchs by publicly condemning their political 
 murders in language which caused them to send for him,' 
 and forbid him to converse with young men as he was ac¬ 
 customed to do, and to threaten him with death. 
 
 There are two events in the life of Socrates to which 
 no date can be assigned. The first of them is his mar- 
 miage with Xanthippe. By her he had three sons, Lam- 
 proeles, Sophroniscus, and Menexenus. The two latter 
 are called “ children ” in the Apology, which was delivered 
 in 399 b.c. and the former at this time was some fifteen 
 years old. The name Xanthippe has come to mean a shrew. 
 Her son Lamprocles found her bitter tongue and her 
 violent temper intolerable, and his father told him that 
 she meant all her harshness for his good, and read him a 
 lecture on filial duty. The parting between Socrates and 
 Xanthippe, as described in the Plicedo, is not marked by 
 any great tenderness. His last day was spent, not with 
 his wife, but with his friends, and she was not present at 
 his death. Xo trustworthy details of his married life 
 have been preserved; but there is a consensus of testimony 
 by late authors that it was not happy. Lndeed the strong 
 probability is that he had no home life at all. 
 
 Again, no date can be assigned to the answer of the 
 Delphic oracle, spoken of in the fifth chapter of the Apol¬ 
 ogy. There it is said that Chserephon went to Delphi 
 and asked if there was any man who was wiser than Soc- 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 17 
 
 rates, and the priestess answered that thereNy^s no man. 
 Socrates offers to prove the truth of his stateliest by the 
 evidence of Chasrephon’s brother, ChasrephonVhimself 
 being dead. In the next chapter he represents tluKduty 
 of testing the oracle as the motive of that unceasingVx- 
 animation of men which is described in the Apology , ari'd 
 which gained him so much hatred. He says that he 
 thought himself bound to sift every one whom he met, 
 in order that the truth of the oracle might be thoroughly 
 tested and proved. There is no reason to doubt that the 
 answer of the oracle was actually given; but, as Zeller 
 observes, Socrates must have been a well-known and 
 marked man before Chaelephon could have asked his ques¬ 
 tion, or the oracle have given such an answer. “ It may 
 have done a similar service to Socrates as (sic) his doc¬ 
 tor's degree did to Luther, assuring him of his inward 
 call; but it had just as little to do with making him a 
 philosophical reformer as the doctor’s degree had with 
 making Luther a religious reformer.” The use which he 
 makes of the oracle, therefore, must be regarded as “ a 
 device of a semi-rhetorical character under cover of which 
 he was enabled to avoid an avowal of the real purpose 
 which had animated him in his tour of examination.” His 
 real purpose was not to tost the truth of the Delphic 
 oracle. It was to expose the hollowness of what passed 
 for knowledge, and to substitute, or rather, to lay the 
 foundations of true and scientific knowledge. Such'an 
 explanation of his mission would scarcely have been under¬ 
 stood, and it would certainly have offended the judges 
 deeply." But he never hesitates or scruples to avow the 
 original cause of his examination of men. He regarded 
 it as a duty undertaken in obedience to the command of 
 God. “ God has commanded me to examine men,” he 
 says, “in oracles, and in dreams, and in every way in 
 which His will was ever declared to man.” “ I cannot 
 hold my peace, for that would be to disobey God.” The 
 Apology is full of such passages. With this belief he 
 did not shrink from the unpopularity and hatred which a 
 man, who exposes the ignorance of persons who imagine 
 2 
 
IS 
 
 TRIAL a nd DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 themselves be wise, when they are not wise, is sure to 
 incur. A£ what time he became convinced of the hollow¬ 
 ness opwhat then commonly passed for knowledge, and 
 beg^j to examine men, and to make them give an account 
 of/ their words, cannot be exactly determined, any more 
 Jhan the date of the oracle. We cannot tell to how 
 many years of his life the account of it given in the Apol¬ 
 ogy applies. All that is certain is that, as early as 423 
 b.c., twentv-four years before his death, he ivas a suffi¬ 
 ciently conspicuous man for Aristophanes to select him 
 as the type and representative of the new school, and to 
 parody his famous Elencluos. There is, therefore, no rea¬ 
 son to doubt that he must have begun to cross-examine 
 men before 423 b.c. He had begun to examine himself as 
 early as the siege of Potidma (432 B.C.-429 b.c.). But 
 when he once set about this work he devoted himself to 
 it entirely. He was a strange contrast to professional 
 teachers like the Sophists. He took no pay: he had no 
 classes: he taught no positive knowledge. But his whole 
 life was spent in examining himself and others. He was 
 “the great cross-examiner.” He was ready to question 
 and talk to any one who would listen. His life and con¬ 
 versation were absolutely public. He conversed now 
 with men like Alcibiades, or Gorgias, or Protagoras, and 
 then with a common mechanic. In the morning he was to 
 be seen in the promenades and the gymnasia: when the 
 Agora was filling, he was there: he was to be found when¬ 
 ever he thought that he should meet most people. He 
 scarcely ever went away from the city. “ I am a lover of 
 knowledge,” lie says in the Phaedrus, “and in the city I 
 can learn from men, but the fields and the trees can teach 
 me nothing.” He gave his life wholly and entirely to the 
 service of God, neglecting his private affairs, until he 
 came to be in very great poverty. A mina of silver is all 
 that he can offer for his life at the trial. He formed no 
 school, but there grew up round him a circle of admiring 
 friends, united, not by any community of doctrines, but 
 by love for their great master, with whom he seems not 
 unfrequently to have had common meals. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 19 
 
 Plato has left a most striking description of Socrates 
 in the Symposium, put into the mouth of Alcibiades. I 
 quote it almost at length from Shelley’s translation, which, 
 .though not always correct, is graceful:—“ I will begin the 
 praise of Socrates by comparing him to a certain statue. 
 Perhaps he will think that this statue is introduced for the 
 sake of ridicule, but I assure you it is necessary for the 
 illustration of truth. I assert, then, that Socrates is 
 exactly like those Silenuses that sit in the sculptor’s shops, 
 and which are holding carved flutes or pipes, but which 
 when divided in two are found to contain the images of 
 the gods. I assert that Socrates is like the satyr Marsyas. 
 That your form and appearance are like these satyrs, I 
 think that even you will not venture to deny; and how 
 like you are to them in all other things, now hear. Are 
 you not scornful and petulant? If you deny this, I will 
 bring witnesses. Are you not a piper, and far more won¬ 
 derful a one than he? For Marsyas, and whoever now 
 pipes the music that he taught, (for it was Marsyas who 
 taught Olympus his music), enchants men through the 
 power of the mouth. , For if any musician, be he skilful 
 or not, awakens this music, it alone enables him to retain 
 the minds of men, and from the divinity of its nature 
 makes evident those who are in want of the gods and 
 initiation: you differ only from Marsyas in this circum¬ 
 stance, that you effect without instruments, by mere words, 
 all that he can do. For when we hear Pericles, or any 
 other accomplished orator, deliver a discourse, no one, as 
 it were, cares anything about it. But when any one hears 
 you, or even your words related by another, though ever 
 so rude and unskilful a speaker, be that person a woman, 
 man, or child, we are struck and retained, as it were, by 
 the discourse clinging to our mind. 
 
 “ If I was not afraid that I am a great deal too drunk, 
 I would confirm to you by an oath the strange effects 
 which I assure you I have suffered from his words, and 
 suffer still; for when I hear him speak my heart leaps up 
 far more than the hearts of those who celebrate the Cory- 
 bantie mysteries; my tears are poured out as he talks, a 
 
TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 thing I have often seen happen to many others besides 
 myself. I have heard Pericles and other excellent orators, 
 and have been pleased with their discourses, but I suffered 
 nothing of this kind; nor was my soul ever on those occa¬ 
 sions disturbed and filled with self-reproach, as if it were 
 slavishly laid prostrate. But this Marsyas here has often 
 affected me in the way I describe, until the life which I 
 lived seemed hardly worth living. Do not deny it, Soc¬ 
 rates; for I know well that if even now I chose to listen 
 to you, I could not resist, but should again suffer the same 
 effects. For, my friends, he forces me to confess that 
 while I myself am still in need of many things, I neglect 
 my own necessities and attend to those of the Athenians. 
 I stop my ears, therefore, as from the Syrens, and flee 
 away as fast as possible, that I may not sit down beside 
 him, and grow old in listening to his talk. For this man 
 has reduced me to feel the sentiment of shame, which I 
 imagine no one would readily believe was in me. For I 
 feel in his presence my incapacity of refuting what he 
 says or of refusing to do that which he directs: but when 
 I depart from him the glory which the multitude confers 
 overwhelms me. I escape therefore and hide myself from 
 him, and when I see him I am overwhelmed with humili¬ 
 ation, because I have neglected to do what I have con¬ 
 fessed to him ought to be done: and often and often have 
 1 wished that he were no longer to be seen among men. 
 But if that were to happen I well know that I should 
 suffer far greater pain; so that where I can turn, or what 
 I can do with this man I know not. All this have I and 
 many others suffered from the pipings of this satyr. 
 
 “ And observe how like he is to what I said, and what 
 a wonderful power he possesses. Know that there is not 
 one of you who is aware of the real nature of Socrates; 
 but since I have begun, I will make him plain to you. 
 You observe how passionately Socrates affects the intimacy 
 of those who are beautiful, and how ignorant he professes 
 ' himself to be; appearances in themselves^excessively Silenic. 
 This, my friends, is the external form with which, like one 
 of the sculptured Sileni, he has clothed himself; for if you 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 21 
 
 open him you will find within admirable temperance and 
 wisdom. For he cares not for mere beauty, but despises 
 more than any one can imagine all external possessions, 
 whether it be beauty, or wealth, or glory, or any other 
 thing for which the multitude felicitates the possessor. 
 He esteems these things, and us who honor them, as 
 nothing, and lives among men, making all the objects of 
 their admiration the playthings of his irony. But I 
 know not if any one of you have ever seen the divine 
 images which are within, when he has been opened, and is 
 serious. I have seen them, and they are so supremely 
 beautiful, so golden, so divine, and wonderful, that every¬ 
 thing that Socrates commands surely ought to be obeyed, 
 even like the voice of a god. 
 
 :$e tfs ij: $ ❖ ❖ 
 
 “ At one time we were fellow-soldiers, and had our mess 
 together in the camp before Potidaea. Socrates there 
 overcame not only me, but every one beside, in endurance 
 of evils: when, as often happens in a campaign, we were 
 reduced to few provisions, there were none who could 
 sustain hunger like Socrates; and when we had plenty, 
 he alone seemed to enjoy our military fare. He never 
 drank much willingly, but when he was compelled, he 
 conquered all even in that to which he was least accus¬ 
 tomed: and, what is most astonishing, no person ever saw 
 Socrates drunk either then or at any other time. In the 
 depth of winter (and the winters there are excessively 
 rigid) he sustained calmly incredible hardships: and 
 amongst other things, whilst the frost was intolerably 
 severe, and no one went out of their tents, or if they went 
 out, wrapped themselves up carefully, and put fleeces 
 under their feet, and bound their legs with hairy skins, 
 Socrates went out only with the same cloak on that he 
 usually wore, and walked barefoot upon the ice: more 
 easily, indeed, than those who had sandaled themselves 
 so delicately: so that the soldiers thought that he did it 
 to mock their want of fortitude. It would indeed be 
 worth while to commemorate all that this brave man did 
 
22 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 ■kJ 
 
 and endured in that expedition. In one instance he was 
 seen early in the morning, standing in one place, wrapt in 
 meditation; and as he seemed unable to unravel the subject 
 of his thoughts, he still continued to stand as inquiring 
 and discussing within himself, and when noon came, the 
 soldiers observed him, and said to one another—“ Soc¬ 
 rates has been standing there thinking, ever since the 
 morning.” At last some Ionians came to the spot, and 
 having supped, as it was summer, they lay down to sleep 
 in the cool: they observed that Socrates continued to stand 
 there the whole night until morning, and that, when the 
 sun rose, he saluted it with a prayer and departed. 
 
 “ I ought not to omit what Socrates is in battle. For 
 in that battle after which the generals decreed to me the 
 prize of courage, Socrates alone of all men was the savior 
 of my life, standing by me when I had fallen and was 
 wounded, and preserving both myself and my arms from 
 the hands of the enemy. On that occasion I entreated 
 the generals to decree the prize, as it was most due, to 
 him. And this, 0 Socrates, you cannot deny, that when 
 the generals, wishing to conciliate a person of my rank, 
 desired to give me the prize, you were far more earnestly 
 desirous than the generals that this glory should be at¬ 
 tributed not to yourself, but me. 
 
 “But to see Socrates when our army was defeated and 
 scattered in flight at Delium was a spectacle worthy to 
 behold. On that occasion I was among the cavalry, and 
 he on foot, heavily armed. After the total rout of our 
 troops, he and Laches retreated together; I came up bv 
 chance, and seeing them, bade them be of good cheer, for 
 that I would not leave them. As I was on horseback, and 
 therefore less occupied by a regard of my own situation, 
 I could better observe than at Potidsea the beautiful spec¬ 
 tacle exhibited by Socrates on this emergency. How su¬ 
 perior was he to Laches in presence of mind and courage! 
 Your representation of him on the stage, 0 Aristophanes, 
 was not wholly unlike his real self on this occasion, for he 
 walked and darted his regards around with a majestic 
 composure, looking tranquilly both on his friends and 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 23 
 
 enemies: so that it was evident to every one, even from 
 afar, that whoever should venture to attack him would 
 encounter a desperate resistance. He and his companions 
 thus departed in safety: for those who are scattered in 
 flight are pursued and killed, whilst men hesitate to touch 
 those who exhibit such a countenance as that of Socrates 
 even in defeat. 
 
 “ Many other and most wonderful qualities might well 
 be praised in Socrates, but such as these might singly be 
 attributed to others. But that which is unparalleled in 
 Socrates is that he is unlike and above comparison with 
 all other men, whether those who have lived in ancient 
 times, or those who exist now. For it may be conjectured 
 that Brasidas and many others are such as was Achilles. 
 Pericles deserves comparison with Nestor and Antenor; 
 and other excellent persons of various times may, with 
 probability, be drawn into comparison with each other. 
 But to such a singular man as this, both himself and his 
 discourses are so uncommon, no one, should he seek, would 
 find a parallel among the present or past generations of 
 mankind; unless they should say that he resembled those 
 with whom I lately compared him, for assuredly he and 
 his discourses are like nothing but the Sileni and the 
 Satyrs. At first I forgot to make you observe how like his 
 discourses are to those Satyrs when they are opened, for 
 if any one will listen to the talk of Socrates, it will ap¬ 
 pear to him at first extremely ridiculous: the phrases and 
 expressions which he employs, fold round his exterior the 
 skin, as it were, of a rude and wanton Satyr. He is 
 always talking about great market-asses, and brass-found¬ 
 ers, and leather-cutters, and skin-dressers; and this is his 
 perpetual custom, so that any dull and unobservant per¬ 
 son might easily laugh at his discourse. But if any one 
 should see it opened, as it were, and get within the sense of 
 his words, he would then find that they alone of all that 
 enters into the mind of men to utter, had a profound and 
 persuasive meaning, and that they were most divine; and 
 that they presented to the mind innumerable images of 
 every excellence, and that they tended towards objects of 
 
TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 21 
 
 the highest moment, or rather towards all that he, who 
 seeks the possession of what is supremely excellent and 
 good, need regard as essential to the accomplishment of 
 his ambition. 
 
 “ These are the things, my friends, for which I praise 
 Socrates.” 
 
 After that, Socrates, Aristophanes and Agatlion sat the 
 night out in conversation, till Socrates made the other 
 two, who were very tired and sleepy, admit that a man 
 who could write tragedy could write comedy, and that 
 the foundations of the tragic and comic arts were the same. 
 Then Aristophanes and Agathon fell asleep in the early 
 morning, and Socrates went away and washed himself at 
 the Lyceum, “ and having spent the day there in his ac¬ 
 customed manner, went home in the evening.” 
 
 We have now reached the events recorded in our dia¬ 
 logues. In 399 B.c. Socrates was put on his trial for cor¬ 
 rupting young men and for not believing in the gods of 
 Athens; and on these charges he was found guilty and 
 condemned to death. His death was delayed by a State 
 religious ceremonial, and he lay in prison for thirty days. 
 His friends implored him to escape, which he might easily 
 have done, but he refused to listen to them; and when the 
 time came he cheerfully drank the poison and died. It 
 is convenient to pause here for a little, before we go on to 
 speak of these events in detail, in order to get some idea 
 of Socrates as a thinker. With a very large number of 
 questions concerning his philosophy we have nothing to 
 do. But it is essential, if we are to understand these dia¬ 
 logues at all, that we should know something about cer- 
 tain points of it. 
 
 The pre-Soeratic philosophers had been occupied almost 
 exclusively with Physics and Metaphysics. They had tried 
 to solve the problem of the Universe regarded as an undis- 
 tinguishable whole. They had inquired into the nature of 
 the Cosmos, and had sought to find some universal first 
 principle, such as Air, Fire, or Water, to explain it. They 
 had asked such questions as How do things come into 
 being? How do they exist? Why do they decay? But 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 25 
 
 in the middle of the fifth century b.c. they had failed to 
 satisfy men, and were falling into discredit. , In a city like 
 Athens, which had suddenly shot up into an imperial 
 democracy, and which was full of such keen and varied 
 intellectual activity, it was simply inevitable that ethical 
 and political inquiries should take the place of those vague 
 physical speculations. The questions which interested the. 
 Athenians of the time were questions relating to the indi¬ 
 vidual and society, not to the Cosmos. Men had begun to 
 dispute in an unscientific way about justice and injustice, 
 right and wrong, the good and the expedient. They had 
 begun to ask, What is justice and right, and the good? 
 Why is a thing said to oe just, or right, or good? The 
 pre-Socratic philosophers could give no answer to such 
 questions. They had been conversant not with conduct, 
 but with Physics and Metaphysics. The demand for 
 ethical and political discussion (or disputation) was to 
 some extent met by their successors, the Sophists, who 
 were paid teachers (generally foreigners), and who pro¬ 
 fessed to educate men for public and private- life at 
 Athens. There is a good deal of controversy about their 
 exact character and teaching, with which we are not con¬ 
 cerned. We need not ask whether they were a sect or a 
 profession; whether or no their teaching was immoral; 
 how far they were the cause, and how far the effect of the 
 new intellectual movement at Athens. The point on which 
 I wish to lay stress is that the morality which they were 
 content to accept and teach was merely the mass of con¬ 
 fused and inconsistent ideas about ethics and politics 
 which were current at Athens. The whole of their ethical 
 and political education was based on those often repeated 
 and unexamined commonplaces, against which Socrate 
 waged unceasing war. They were not scientific. The} 
 had no sense at all of the inherent vice of the popular 
 thought and morality, and they did not aim at any reform. 
 Their object was not to teach their pupils the truth, but 
 to qualify them for social and political success. All that 
 they did was to formulate popular ideas; There is an 
 extremely remarkable passage in the Republic, in which 
 
TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 20 
 
 Plato describes their teaching. These mercenary adven¬ 
 turers, he says, who are called Sophists, teach in fact merely 
 popular opinions, and call them wisdom: and he goes on 
 to compare them with a man who has learnt by experience 
 to understand the temper and wants of some huge and 
 dangerous wild beast, and has found out when it is safe to 
 approach it, and what sounds irritate it and soothe it, and 
 what its various cries mean, and who, having acquired 
 this knowledge, calls it wisdom, and systematises it into 
 an art, and proceeds to teach it. What pleases the beast 
 he calls right, and what displeases it he calls wrong; 
 though he is utterly ignorant which of its desires and 
 w r ants are, in fact, right and good, and which are the re¬ 
 verse. In exactly the same way, says Plato, the Sophist 
 makes wisdom consist in understanding the fancies and 
 temper of that “ many-headed beast,” the multitude, 
 though he has not an argument that is not supremely 
 ridiculous to show that what the multitude approves of is, 
 in fact, right and good. In short the Sophists dealt, it is 
 true, with ethical and political questions, but they dealt 
 with them in the most superficial way. Often enough they 
 were contemptible charlatans. 
 
 y At this point, some time after the Sophists had begun 
 to educate men, and when the new intellectual and critical 
 movement was in full swing, came Socrates. Like the 
 Sophists he dealt with 'ethical and political questions; to 
 such questions he strictly and exclusively confined him¬ 
 self. “ He conversed,” says Xenophon, “ only about 
 matters relating to men. He was always inquiring What 
 is piety? What is impiety? What is honorable? What is 
 base? ' What is justice? What is injustice? What is tem¬ 
 perance? What is madness? What is courage? What 
 is cowardice? What is a state? What is a states¬ 
 man? What is government? What makes a man fit to 
 govern ? and so on; and he used to say that those who 
 could answer such questions were good men, and that 
 those who could not, were no better than slaves.” So, in 
 the Laches of Plato, he asks, What is courage? In the 
 Charmidcs, What is temperance? In the first of our dia- 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 27 
 
 logues, the Euthyphron, What are holiness and piety? In 
 the Lysis, What is friendship? The difference between 
 Socrates and preceding philosophers, in regard to the sub¬ 
 ject matter of their respective philosophies, is complete. 
 They were occupied with Nature: he was occupied with 
 man. And the difference between him and the Sophists, 
 in regard to method, and to the point of view from which 
 they respectively dealt with ethical and political questions, 
 is not less complete. His object was to reform what they 
 were content simply to formulate, hie was thoroughly 
 convinced of the inherent vice and hollowness of whajn—-j 
 passed for knowledge at that time. In the Apology we 
 shall constantly hear of men who thought themselves wise, 
 though they were not wise; who fancied that they knew 
 what they did not know. They used general terms which 
 implied classification. They said that this or that act was 
 just or unjust, right or wrong. They were ready on every 
 occasion to state propositions about man and society with 
 unhesitating confidence. The meaning of such common 
 words as justice, piety, democracy, government, seemed 
 so familiar, that it never for a moment occurred to them 
 to doubt whether they knew what “justice,” or “piety,” 
 or “ democracy,” or “ government ” exactly meant. But 
 in fact they had never taken the trouble to analyze and 
 make clear to themselves the meaning of their words. 
 They had been content “ to feel and affirm.” General 
 words had come to comprehend in their meaning a very 
 complex multitude of vague and ill-assorted attributes, 
 and to represent in the minds of those who used them 
 nothing more than a floating collection of confused and 
 indefinite ideas. It is a fact, which it is not quite easy 
 for us to realize, that Socrates was practically the first man 
 to frame a definition. “ Two things,” says Aristotle, 
 “may fairly be ascribed to Socrates, namely Induction, 
 and the Definition of general Terms.” Until his time 
 the meaning of words, which were used every day in con¬ 
 nection with the commonest, and the greatest and the 
 gravest duties of life, had never once been tested, revised, 
 examined. It had grown up gradually and unconsciously, 
 
28 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 never distinct and clearly defined. It was the creation 
 of years of sentiment, poetry, authority, and tradition: 
 it had never been corrected or analyzed by reason. There 
 is a sentence in Bacon which describes very felicitously 
 the intellectual condition of the Athenians of that time:— 
 “ Itaque ratio ilia humana quam habemus, ex multa fide, 
 et multo etiam casu, necnon ex puerilibus quas primo 
 hausimus notionibus, farrago quasdam est et congeries.” 
 “ This human reason of ours is a confused multitude and 
 mixture of ideas, made up, very largely by accident, of 
 much credulity and of the opinions which we inherited 
 long ago in our childhood.” Such inaccurate use of lan¬ 
 guage led, as it was bound to lead, to inaccurate and loose 
 reasoning. “ Every (process of reasoning) consists of 
 propositions, and propositions consist of words which are 
 the symbols of notions; and therefore if our notions are 
 confused and badly abstracted from things, there is no 
 stability in the structure which is built upon them.” As 
 Socrates puts it in thePhcedo, “ to use words wrongly and 
 indefinitely is not merely an error in itself: it also creates 
 an evil in the soul.” That is to say, it not only makes 
 exact thought, and therefore knowledge, impossible: it 
 also creates careless and slovenly habits of mind. And this 
 inaccurate use of language, and the consequent intellectual 
 confusion, were not confined to any one class at Athens. 
 They were almost universal. It was not merely among 
 the noted men with a great reputation that Socrates found 
 the “ conceit of knowledge ” without the reality. The 
 poets could not explain their own poems, and further, be¬ 
 cause they were famous as poets, they claimed to under¬ 
 stand other matters of which they were, in fact, profoundly 
 ignorant. The skilled artizans were able, it is true, to give 
 an account, each of the rules of his own art; but they too, 
 like the poets, claimed to possess knowledge in matters of 
 the greatest importance ( i.e . questions affecting man and 
 society), which they did not possess, on account of their 
 technical skill: and “this fault of theirs,” says Socrates, 
 “threw their real wisdom into the shade.” And men of 
 all classes were profoundly ignorant that they were ignor- 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 ant. They did not understand defining 
 peared to them to be contemptible hair-spin 
 is piety ? ” asked Socrates of Euthyphron, a n. 
 thought a great deal about religious questions, 
 replies Euthyphron, “means acting as I am acting, 
 had never analyzed or defined his words. He did n 
 the least understand what definition meant, or the nee 
 sity for it. Such and such an act was pious; but he couk 
 not justify his proposition by bringing it under the univer¬ 
 sal proposition, the definition of piety, or tell why his 
 act was pious. Cross-examination makes him contradict 
 himself over and over again. The simplest way of com¬ 
 prehending the confusion of thought and language which 
 Socrates found on every side, is to read the Eutliypliron. 
 And if we examine ourselves I think that we shalLfind 
 that even we, like Euthyphron, not. uncommonly use gen¬ 
 eral terms of the greatest importance without affixing a 
 very definite meaning to them. In our times the Press has 
 become the public instructor. We have only to take tip 
 a newspaper, and read a religious, or political, or ethical 
 debate or argument, to have a very fair chance of seeing 
 repeated examples of general and abstract terms used in 
 the loosest and vaguest way possible. Such words 
 as “patriotism,” “superstition,” “justice,” “right,” 
 “wrong,” “honor,” are not uncommonly used by us, in 
 public, and in private, with no more distinct or definite a 
 meaning given to them, than that which Euthyphron 
 gave to “ piety.” 
 
 On this basis rested Athenian opinion. We are now in 
 a position to understand so much of Socrates’ philosophi¬ 
 cal reforms as concerns us. He was filled with the most 
 intense conviction of the supreme and overwhelming im¬ 
 portance of truth: of the paramount duty of doing right, 
 because it is right, on every occasion, be the consequences 
 what they may. “ My friend,” he says, in his defense, to 
 a supposed objector, “ if you think that a man of any 
 worth at all ought, when he acts, to take into account the 
 risk of death, or that he ought to think of anything but 
 whether he is doing right or wrong, you make a mistake,” 
 
>D DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 hole time in going about, persuading you 
 /and young, to give your first and chiefest * 
 perfection of your souls, and, not till you have 
 , to care for your bodies or your wealth: and tel 1- 
 ,a that virtue does not come from wealth, but that 
 A), and every-good thing which men have, comes from 
 .tue.” “ We are guided b y reas on,” is his answ er when, 
 Orito was imploring him to escape irom prison, a fter he 
 ' Been condemned to death, ‘‘and reason shows us-that 
 the onlv question which we have "to c'dhsider is, Shall I be 
 doing right, or shall I be doing wrong, if I escape? And 
 if we find that I should be doing wrong, then we must not 
 take any account of death, or of any other evil which may 
 be the consequence of staying here, but only of doing 
 wrong.” That such a man should feel the deepest dissatis¬ 
 faction with what passed for thought and morality at 
 Athens, was simply inevitable. “ The current opinions 
 drawn from men’s practical exigencies, imperfect observa¬ 
 tion, and debased morality, were no sounder than their 
 sources. And with this dissatisfaction was joined a con¬ 
 viction that God had given him a duty to reform “this 
 mass of error and conventionality, which meanwhile the 
 Sophists were accepting as the material of their system:” 
 a duty from which he never shrank, although he knew 
 that it might, as in fact it did, cost him his life. In order 
 to comprehend the Euthyphron, Apology, and Crito, we 
 must ask and answer two questions. First, What was 
 Socrates’ conception of reform? Secondly, What was his 
 method ? 
 
 1. The principle of Socrates’ reform may be stated in a 
 single sentence. It was “to reconstruct human opinion 
 on a basis of ‘ reasoned truth.’ ” Conduct which pro¬ 
 ceeded from emotion, enthusiasm, impulse, habit, and not 
 from reason, he would not allow to be virtuous^ His whole 
 teaching rested on the paradox that “virtue is knowl¬ 
 edge.” This is the leading idea of his attempt to reform 
 morality, and it must always be borne in mind. It is 
 perpetually alluded to in our dialogues. He describes bis 
 ceaseless cross-examination of men as undertaken with 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 31 
 
 the object of testing their knowledge, and of preaching the 
 supreme importance of virtue, indifferently. And con¬ 
 versely, if Virtue is Knowledge, Vice is Ignorance, and 
 consequently involuntary. He always assumes that the 
 crime of corrupting young men of which he was accused 
 was caused, if he had committed it, not by moral de¬ 
 pravity, in the ordinary sense of the word, but by ignor¬ 
 ance. “You are. a liar, Meletus, and you know it,” he 
 retorts, on being t old that he was in the habit of corrupt¬ 
 ing the youth intentionally; “ either I do not corrupt 
 young men at all, or I corrupt them unintentionally, and 
 by reason of my ignorance. As soon as I know that I am 
 committing a crime, of course I shall cease from commit¬ 
 ting it.” A man who knows what is right, must always 
 do right: a man who does not know what is right, cannot 
 do right. “ We needs must love the highest when we see 
 it.” Knowledge is not a part, it is not even an indispensa¬ 
 ble condition of virtue. It is virtue. The two things are 
 the same. We draw a distinction between Knowledge 
 and Wisdom. The former 
 
 ‘ is earthly, of the mind, 
 
 But Wisdom, heavenly, of the soil.’ 
 
 But Socrates drew no distinction between them. To him 
 they were identical. It is needless to point out that this 
 doctrine, which takes no account of that most essential 
 side of virtue which is non-intellectual, is defective, in 
 that it puts a part for the whole. But from this doctrine 
 Socrates started. He wished to reform morality from the 
 intellectual side. Above all things a preacher of 
 “ Virtue,” he devoted his life to a search after knowledge. 
 Knowledge to him was the same as morality. 
 
 2. In order to understand the method of Socrates’ re¬ 
 form, it is necessary to recall the fact that he found him¬ 
 self confronted with a general absence, not of knowledge 
 only, but of the very idea of knowledge. The result of his 
 constant examination and sifting of men was to prove that 
 his contemporaries of every class, and above all those of 
 
32 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 them who were most satisfied with themselves, and whose 
 reputation for wisdom was highest, were generally in a 
 state of that “ shameful ignorance which consists in think¬ 
 ing that we know what we do not know.” And the gravest 
 symptom of this state of things was that the Athenians 
 were perfectly well satisfied with it. It never crossed 
 their minds for a moment to doubt the complete ade¬ 
 quacy of what they considered to be knowledge, though 
 in fact it was merely a hollow sham. Socrates’ first ob¬ 
 ject then was to clear the ground, to get rid of men’s 
 ignorance of their ignorance, to reveal to them their 
 actual short-coming. Like Bacon, he set himself the task 
 of “ throwing entirely aside received theories and concep¬ 
 tions, and of applying his mind, so cleansed, afresh to 
 facts.” •’The first step in his method was destructive. It 
 was to convict and convince men of their ignorance by 
 means of his wonderful cross-examination. He was for 
 ever bringing to the test the current common-places, the 
 unexpressed popular judgments about life, which were 
 never examined or revised, and the truth of which was 
 taken for granted by every one. He spent his days in 
 talking to any one who would talk to him. A man in the- 
 course of conversation used a general or abstract term, 
 such as “courage,” “justice,” “the state.” Socrates 
 asked for a definition of it. The other, never doubting 
 that he knew all about it, gave an answer at once. The 
 word seemed familiar enough to him: he constantly used 
 it, though he had never taken the trouble to ask himself 
 what it exactly meant. Then Socrates proceeded to test 
 the definition offered him, by applying it to particular 
 cases, by putting questions about it, by analyzing it. He 
 probably found without much difficulty that it was de¬ 
 fective: either too narrow, or too broad, or contradictory of 
 uome other general proposition which had been laid down. 
 Then the respondent amended his definition: but a fresh 
 series of similar questions • soon led him into hopeless 
 difficulties; and he was forced at last to confess, or at 
 least to feel, that he was ignorant where he had thought 
 that he was wise, that he had nothing like clear knowl- 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 33 
 
 edge of what the word in question really and exactly 
 meant. The Euthyphron is a perfect specimen of the 
 Socratic examination or elenclios. Let me give another 
 very good example from Xenophon. Euthydemus, who is 
 taking great pains to qualify himself for political life, 
 has no doubt that justice is an essential attribute of a 
 good citizen. He scorns the idea that he does not know 
 what justice and injustice are, when he can see so many 
 examples of them every day. It is unjust to lie, to de¬ 
 ceive, to rob, to do harm, to enslave. But, objects Soc¬ 
 rates, it is not unjust to deceive, or to enslave, or to in¬ 
 jure your enemies. Euthydemus then says that it is un¬ 
 just to treat your friends so. It is just to deal thus with 
 your enemies. Well, rejoins Socrates, is a general who 
 inspirits his army with a lie, or a father who gets his son 
 to take necessary medicine by means of a lie, or a man 
 who takes away a sword from his friend who is attempt¬ 
 ing to commit suicide in a fit of insanity, unjust? 
 Euthydemus admits that such acts are just, and wishes 
 to alter the definition. Then does injustice mean deceiv¬ 
 ing one’s friends for their harm? “Indeed, Socrates,” 
 replies Euthydemus. “ I no longer believe in mv answers: 
 everything seems to me different from, what it used to 
 seem.” A further question, namel y, {Ar e you unjust if 
 you injure your friends unintentionally? is discussed with 
 a similar result, which Socrates attributes to the fact that 
 Euthydemus perhaps has never considered these points, 
 because they seemed so familiar to him. Then Socrates 
 asks him what a democracy is (of course Euthydemus 
 knows that, fo 1 - he is going to lead a political life in a 
 democracy). Euthydemus replies that democracy means 
 government by the people, i.e. by the poor. He defines 
 the poor as those who have not enough, and the rich as 
 those who have more than enough. “ Enough,” it is 
 pointed out, is a relative term. His definition would in¬ 
 clude tyrants among the poor, and many men with quite 
 small means among the rich. At this point Euthydemus 
 who had begun the discussion with complete self-com¬ 
 placency, goes away greatly dejected. “ Socrates makes 
 3 
 
34 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATII OF SOCRATES. 
 
 me acknowledge my own worthlessness. I had best be 
 silent, for it seems that I know nothing at all.” To pro¬ 
 duce this painful and unexpected consciousness of igno¬ 
 rance in the minds of men who thought that they were 
 wise, when they were not wise, and who were perfectly well 
 satisfied with their intellectual condition, was the first 
 object of the Socratic cross-examination. Such conscious¬ 
 ness of ignorance was the first and a long step towards 
 knowledge. A man who had reached that state had become 
 at any rate ready to begin to learn. And Socrates was able 
 to bring every one with whom he conversed into that state. 
 \ ery many who were treated so took deep offense: among 
 others, his accuser Anytus. Such persons he called lazy 
 and stupid. Others, like Euthydemus, spent all their time 
 afterwards in his company, and were then no longer per¬ 
 plexed by puzzling questions, but encouraged. 
 
 It is this object of clearing the ground, of producing 
 consciousness of ignorance, that Plato dwells on his por¬ 
 trait of Socrates. He lays great stress on the negative and 
 destructive side of the Socratic philosoph}': but he says 
 scarcely anything of its constructive side. It may well 
 be doubted whether there was very much to say; whether 
 Socrates did in fact attempt to create any system of real 
 knowledge to take the place of the sham knowledge which 
 he found existing. Xenophon, it is true, represents him as 
 framing a certain number of definitions, on the basis of 
 generally admitted facts. “Pity,” for instance, is de¬ 
 fined as “knowledge of what is due to the gods;” “jus¬ 
 tice ” as “ knowledge of what is due to men.” But I 
 think that Socrates would have said that these definitions 
 were tentative and provisional only, and designed rather 
 as illustrations of a method, than as instalments of knowl¬ 
 edge. By knowledge he meant a system of “ reasoned 
 truth ” based on a thorough fresh observation and exami¬ 
 nation of particulars. He would not have been content to 
 take these “generally admitted facts” as the basis of it. 
 He would have insisted on putting them to the test. And 
 certainly, whatever may lie the meaning and value of 
 Xenophon’s testimony, nothing can be more emphatic than 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 35 
 
 the way in which the Socrates of the Apology repeatedly 
 says that he knows nothing at all. “ I was never any man’s 
 teacher. . . I have never taught, and I have never-" 
 professed to teach any man any knowledge,” is his answer 
 to the charge that men like Critias and Alcibiades, politi¬ 
 cal criminals of the deepest dye in the eyes of the democ¬ 
 racy. had been his pupils. His object was to impart, not 
 any positive system, but a frame of mind: to make men 
 conscious of their ignorance, and of their need of enlight¬ 
 enment. His wisdom was merely “ that wisdom which he 
 believed was (in the then state of things) possible to man.” 
 In other words, he was conscious of his own ignorance: 
 and, secondly, he possessed a standard or ideal of knowl¬ 
 edge, and a conception of the method of attaining it. But 
 he possessed no connected system of knowledge: he was 
 only conscious, and he was the first man to be conscious of 
 the necessity of it. We may speak of him as a philosopher^ * 
 for he does so himself. But we must remember that phil¬ 
 osophy in his mouth does not mean the possession of wis¬ 
 dom, but only, and strictly, the love of, the search for,*f 
 wisdom. The idea of knowledge was to him still a deep 
 and unfathomable problem, of the most supreme import¬ 
 ance, but which he could not solve. And this will enable us 
 to understand better the meaning of his famous “ irony.” 
 
 “ Here is a piece of Socrates’ well-known irony,” cries 
 Thrasymachus, in the Republic, “ I knew all the time 
 that you would refuse to answer, and feign ignorance, and 
 do anything sooner than answer a plain question.” It 
 seems to me that Socrates’ “ well-known irony ” was of 
 more than one kind. His professions of his own ignorance 
 are wholly sincere. They are not meant to make the con¬ 
 versation amusing, and the discomfiture of his adversary 
 more complete. He never wavered in his belief that knowl¬ 
 edge was ultimately attainable; but he knew that he knew 
 nothing himself, and in that his knowledge consisted. 
 What Thrasymachus calls his irony, is not irony proper. 
 The ignorance is not feigned but real. It is in his treat¬ 
 ment of vain and ignorant and self-satisfied sciolists, like 
 Euthyphron, that true irony, which is accompanied with 
 
36 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 the consciousness of superiority, seems to me to come into 
 play. It is possible, though it is in the last degree un¬ 
 likely, that Socrates really hoped at the beginning of the 
 dialogue to find out from Euthyphron what piety was; 
 that the respect which he showed to Euthyphron was real. 
 But it is plain that the respect which he shows to Euthy- 1 
 phron in the last sentences of the dialogue, is wholly 
 feigned and ironical. Euthyphron had been proved to be 
 utterly ignorant of what he had been confident that he 
 thoroughly understood. He was much too deeply offended 
 to acknowledge, or even to be conscious of his ignorance; 
 and he had not the slightest idea of what knowledge really 
 was. Socrates was ignorant too: but he knew that he was 
 ignorant, and he had the idea of knowledge. If he was 
 respectful towards Euthyphron then, the respect was 
 feigned and ironical, for it was accompanied with a con¬ 
 sciousness of superiority. 
 
 We have now got, I hope, a sufficient view of Socrates’ 
 philosophy, so far as it concerns us. Its defects lie on the 
 surface, and are too obvious to need explanation. He was, 
 in fact, the discoverer of the idea of scientific knowledge, 
 and he not unnaturally exaggerated the value of his dis¬ 
 covery. It is evidently a mistake and an exaggeration to 
 call a man ignorant unless he not only knows, but can also 
 give an account of what he knows. There is such a thing 
 as “implicit” knowledge: before Socrates’ time there was 
 no other kind. Not less evidently is it a mistake to say 
 that Virtue is Knowledge. Knowledge, though an essential 
 part, is certainly very far indeed from being the whole of 
 Virtue. And a theory which leads to such sarcastic com¬ 
 ments on poets as Socrates indulges in, which would try 
 poetry by a purely intellectual standard, must, on the face 
 of it, be defective. But, even when allowance has been 
 made for these defects and mistakes, it would be hard to 
 exaggerate the value and originality of his teaching. We 
 have some difficulty in grasping its vast importance. We 
 have entered into the fruit of his labors. What was a 
 paradox to the Athenians is a commonplace to us. To 
 them the simple principles whieh he laid down seemed 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 37 
 
 generally either absurd or immoral: to us they are (in 
 theory) scarcely more than household words. He was, in 
 fact, the lirst man who conceived the possibility of moral 
 and political science, and of logic. In that, and not in 
 the creation of any positive system of philosophy, his 
 philosophical greatness consists. If Aristotle is “the Mas¬ 
 ter of those who know.” assuredly Socrates is their father, 
 and “ the author of their being.” His theory of defini¬ 
 tions was the necessary first step towards the existence 
 of any scientific thought. Our temptation is to under¬ 
 value his cross-examination. In reading such a dialogue 
 as the Euthyphron, we get bored and irritated by his 
 method of argument, and it sometimes almost drives us 
 to sympathize with the wretched sciolist. Coleridge talks 
 of “ a man who would pull you up at every turn for a 
 definition, which is like setting up perpetual turnpikes 
 along the road to truth.” But it must lx* always remem¬ 
 bered, first, that the Soeratic cross-examination was origi¬ 
 nally addressed to men who did not know what definition 
 meant: that it was a necessary stage in the development 
 of human thought; and secondly, that, even to us, it is of 
 the greatest importance to make sometimes “a return 
 upon ourselves,” and to ask ourselves the exact meaning 
 of our stock of thoughts and phrases. 
 
 We may now turn to our dialogues, the Euthyphron, 
 Apology, Onto, and Phcedo, which describe the trial, the 
 imprisonment, and the death of Socrates. The first of 
 them, however, the Euthyphron, has only an indirect bear¬ 
 ing on these events. Socrates is going to be tried for im¬ 
 piety, and before the trial begins, he wishes to show that 
 the current commonplaces about piety and impiety will 
 not bear testing. The scene is laid in the porch of the 
 King Archon, an official before whom indictments for im¬ 
 piety and the plea of th(' accused were laid and sworn to, 
 matters of religion being his especial care. Here Socrates 
 and Euthyphron meet, Socrates having just been indicted, 
 and Euthyphron being engaged in indicting his father 
 for the murder of a laboring man. Euthyphron is su¬ 
 premely contemptuous of his friends and relatives, who 
 
3S 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 I say that he is acting impiously. On the contrary, he says, 
 his act is a holy and pious one. To do otherwise would be 
 impious*. He himself, he is confident, knows all about re¬ 
 ligion, and piety, and impiety: he has made them his 
 special study. Socrates is anxious to be told what piety is, 
 that he n^ay have something to say to his accusers. Euthy- 
 phron answers at once without hesitation “ Piety is acting 
 as I am acting now. It means punishing the evil-doer, 
 even though he be your own father, just as Zeus is said to 
 have punished his father Cronos for a crime.” Socrates re¬ 
 marks that he cannot bring himself to believe those horrible 
 stories about Zeus and the other gods, and he points out 
 that Euthyphron has not answered his question. He does 
 not want a particular example of piety. He wishes to know 
 / what piety itself is, what that is which makes all pious 
 1 actions pious. Euthyphron has a little difficulty at first in 
 understanding Socrates’ meaning. Then he gives as his 
 j definition, “Piety is that which is pleasing to the gods.” 
 
 But he has also said that the mythological tales about the 
 ! quarrels of the gods are true: and Socrates makes him ad- 
 j mit that if the gods quarrel, it is about questions of right 
 and wrong and the like, and that some of them will think 
 a thing right which others of them will think wrong. The 
 same thing therefore is pleasing to the gods and displeas¬ 
 ing to the gods, and Euthyphron’s definition will not stand. 
 Euthyphron then changes his ground and says, “ Piety is 
 that which is pleasing to all the gods.” Socrates de¬ 
 molishes this definition by pointing out that what is pleas- 
 i ing to the gods “ is of a sort to be loved by them, because 
 I they love it; ” whereas piety “ is loved by them, because it 
 is of a sort to be loved.” By this time the cross- 
 examination has thoroughly confused Euthyphron, and he 
 scarcely understands the suggestion that piety is a part of 
 justice. After a good deal of prompting he defines piety as 
 “that part of justice which has to do with the care or 
 attention which we owe to the gods (cf. Xen. Mem. iv. 6. 
 4, “Piety is the knowledge of what is due to the gods”). 
 Socrates elicits from him with some trouble that by “ atten¬ 
 tion ” he means “ service,” and then drives him to admit 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 39 
 
 that piety is “ a science of prayer and sacrifice,” or, as \ 
 Socrates puts it, “ an art of traffic between gods and men.” 
 We give the gods honor and homage, in short what is ac¬ 
 ceptable- to them. Nothing, thinks Euthypliron, is dearer 
 to them than piety. Indeed piety means “ what is dear to 
 them: ” which is in fact, as Socrates points out, the very i 
 definition which was rejected earlier in the dialogue. At 
 this point Euthypliron, who has passed from a state of 
 patronizing self-complacency to one of, first, puzzled con¬ 
 fusion, and, then, of deeply offended pride, finds it con¬ 
 venient to remember that he is late for an engagement and 
 must be off. The dialogue ends with an ironical appeal by 
 Socrates for information about the real nature of piety. 
 
 “ If any man knows what it is, it is you.” 
 
 The Euthypliron is a perfect example of Socrates’ method 
 of cross-examination, and it is not necessary to add any¬ 
 thing to what has already been said on that subject. We 
 cannot tell whether the conversation recorded in this dia¬ 
 logue ever actually took place. Socrates’ dislike of the 
 mythological tales about the crimes of the gods should be 
 noticed. It is, he says, one of the causes of liis unpopular¬ 
 ity. Another cause is that he has the reputation of being 
 “a man who makes other people clever,” i.e. a Sophist. 
 
 It must also be noticed that the real question which he 
 discusses is not whether Euthyphron’s action is justifiable 
 or no, but whether Euthypliron can justify it. 
 
 We come now to the trial and the defense of Socrates. 
 He was indicted in 399 b.c. before an ordinary Athenian 
 criminal tribunal for not believing in the gods of Athens 
 and for corrupting young men. We must clear our minds 
 of all ideas of an English criminal trial, if we are to realize 
 at all the kind of court before which he was tried. It 
 consisted probably of 501 dicasts or jurymen, who were 
 a very animated audience, and were wont to express openly 
 their approbation or disapprobation of the arguments ad¬ 
 dressed to them. Aristophanes represents them in one of 
 his plays as shouting at an unpopular speaker the Greek 
 equivalent of “ sit down! sit down ! ” Socrates’ appeals 
 for a quiet hearing are addressed to them, not to the gen- 
 
40 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 eral audience. There was no presiding judge. The in¬ 
 dictment was preferred by an obscure young poet named 
 Meletus, backed up by Lyeon, a rhetorician of whom 
 nothing more is known, and by Anytus, the real mover in 
 the matter. He was a leather seller by trade and an ardent 
 mlitician, whose zeal and sufferings in the cause of the 
 mocracy, at the time of the oligarchy of the Thirty, had 
 lined him much reputation and influence with the people. 
 After the restoration of 403 b.c. he was a man of great 
 political weight in Athens. All three accusers therefore 
 belonged to classes which Socrates had offended by his 
 unceasing censure of men , wha could give no. account of 
 the principles of their profession. We meet with Anytus 
 again in the Meno , in which dialogue he displays an intense 
 hatred and scorn for the Sophists. “ I trust that no con¬ 
 nection or relative or friend of mine, whether citizen or 
 foreigner, will ever be so mad as to allow them to ruin 
 him.” And he finally looses his temper at some implied 
 criticisms of Socrates on the unsatisfactory nature of the 
 ordinary Athenian education, which did not, or could 
 not, teach virtue, and goes away with an an ominous threat. 
 
 “ Socrates, I think that you speak evil of men too lightly. 
 
 I advise you to be careful. In any city it is probably 
 easier to do people harm than to do them good, and it is 
 certainly so in Athens, as I suppose you know yourself.” 
 The next time that we hear ofAnytus is as one of Soc¬ 
 rates’ accusers. The form of the indictment was as 
 follows: “ Meletus the son of Meletus, of the deme Pitthis, 
 on his oath brings the following accusation against Soc^ 
 rates, the son of Sophroniscus, of the deme Alopece. Soc- / 
 rates commits a crime by not believing in the gods of the j 
 city, and by introducing other new r divinities. He also J 
 commits a crime by corrupting the youth. Penalty,,' 
 Death.” Meletus, in fact, merely .formulates, the attack 
 made on Socrates by Arisfopha . (Is. The^ 
 
 charge of atheism and of worshiping strange gods was- 
 a stock accusation against the Physical Philosophers. • 
 The charge of immorality, of corrupting the youth. wa3 
 a stock accusation against the Sophists. Me letus’ in- 
 
INTRODUCTION. 4i 
 
 di ctment cont ains—no -.spec ific charge against Socrates 
 as an individual. 
 
 A few words are necessary to explain the procedure at 
 the trial. The time assigned to it was divided into three 
 equal lengths. In the first the three accusers made their 
 speeches: with this we are not concerned. The second 
 was occupied by the speeches of the accused (and some¬ 
 times of his friends), that is, by the first twenty-four 
 chapters of the Apo logy. Then the judges voted and 
 found their verdict. The third length opened with the. 
 speech of the prosecutor advocating the penalty which 
 he proposed—in this c-ase, death. The accused was at 
 liberty vo propose a lighter alternative penalty, and he 
 could then make a second speech in support of his pro¬ 
 posal. He might at the same time bring forward his 
 wife and children, and so appeal to the pity of the 
 Court. To this stage of the proceedings belong chapters 
 xxv.-xxviii. inclusive, of the Apology. Then the judges 
 had to decide between the two penalties submitted to them, 
 of which they had to choose one. If they voted for death, 
 the condemned man was led away to prison by the officers 
 of the Eleven: With chapter xxviii, the trial ends: we 
 cannot be certain that Socrates w'as ever actually allowed 
 to make such an address as is contained in the closing 
 chapters of the Apology. It is at least doubtful whether, 
 the Athenians, who had just condemned a man to death/ 
 that they might no longer be made to give an account of \ 
 their lives, would endure to hear him denouncing judgment 
 against them for their sins, and prophesying the punish- j 
 ment which awaited them. Finally, we must remember 
 that at certain points of his defense, strictly so called, 
 Socrates must be supposed to call witnesses. 
 
 The first part of the Apology begins with a short in¬ 
 troduction. Then Socrates proceeds to divide his accusers 
 into two sets. First there are those who have been 
 accusing him untruly now for many years, among them 
 his old enemy Aristophanes; then there are Meletus and 
 his companions. He will answer his “ first accusers ” 
 first. They have accused him of being at once a wicked 
 
42 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 sophist and a natural phil osoph er. He distinguishes these 
 cnaraeferiT and points out that it is untrue to say that he 
 is either one or the other. He ig unpopular because he 
 has taken on himself the duty of examining men, in 
 consequence of a certain answer given by the Delphic 
 oracle, “that h e was the wisest of men.” He describes 
 the examination of men which he undertook to test the 
 truth of the oracle, which has gained him much hatred: 
 men do not like to be proved ignorant when they think 
 themselves wise. They call him a sophist and every kind 
 of bad name besides, because he exposes their pretense of 
 knowledge. Then he turns to his present accusers, Mele- 
 tus, Anytus, and Lycon. Meletus is cross-examined and 
 easily made to contradict himself: he is an infant in 
 Socrates’ hands, who treats him very contemptuously, 
 -'"answering a fool according to his folly. But some one 
 may ask. is it worth while to risk death for the sake of 
 such a life as you are leading? Socrates replies that 
 he did not desert the post which human generals assigned 
 him; shall he desert the post at which God has set him? 
 He will not do that; and therefore he will not accept 
 an acquittal conditional on abstaining from an examina¬ 
 tion of men. The Athenians should not be angry with 
 him; rather they should thank God for sending him to 
 them to rouse them, as a gadfly—to use a quaint simile— 
 rouses a noble but sluggish steed. If they put him to 
 death, they will not easily find a successor to him. His 
 whole life is devoted to their service, though he is not a 
 public man. He would have been put to death years 
 ago if lie had engaged in politics, for there is much in¬ 
 justice in every city, which he would oppose by every means 
 in his power. His actions, when the ten generals were 
 condemned, and under the oligarch}', prove that. But 
 as a private man he has striven for justice all his life, 
 and his conversation has been open before all. If young 
 men have been corrupted by him, why do they not come 
 forward to accuse him when they are grown up? Or 
 if thev do not like to come forward, why do not their 
 relatives, who are uncorrupted? It is because they know 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 43 
 
 very well that he be speaking the truth, and that Anytus 
 is a liar. 
 
 That is pretty much what he has to say. He will not 
 appeal to the compassion of the judges. Such conduct 
 brings disgrace on Athens; and besides, the judges have 
 sworn to decide according to law, and to appeal to their 
 feelings would be to try to make them forswear themselves: 
 he is accused of impiety, he will not accuse himself of 
 impiety by such conduct. With these words he commits 
 his cause to the judges and to God. 
 
 At this point the judges vote. He is condemned by 
 281 to %20. Meletus’ speech in support of sentence of 
 death follows, and then Socrates’ speech in favor of his 
 alternative penalty. He has expected to be condemned, 
 and by a much larger majority. What shall he propose 
 as his penalty? What does he deserve for his life? He 
 is a public benefactor; and he thinks that he ought to have 
 a public maintenance in the Prytaneum, like an Olym¬ 
 pic victory. Seriously, why should he propose a penalty ? 
 He is sure that he has done no wrong. He does not know 
 whether death is a good or an evil. Why should he pro¬ 
 pose something that he knows to be an evil ? Payment of 
 a fine would be no evil, but then he has no money to pay 
 a fine with; perhaps he can make up one mina: that is 
 his proposal. Or, as his friends wish it, he offers thirty 
 mins, and his friends will be sureties for payment. 
 
 The Athenians, as they were logically bound to do, 
 condemn him to death. They have voted against him, 
 wishing to be relieved from the necessity of having to give 
 an account of their lives, and after their verdict he 
 affirms more strongly than ever that he will not cease 
 from examining them. With the sentence of death the 
 trial ends; but in the Apology Socrates addresses some 
 last words to those who have condemned him, and to those 
 who have acquitted him. The former he sternly rebukes 
 for their crime, and foretells the evil that awaits them as 
 the consequence of it: to the latter he wishes to talk about 
 what has befallen him, and death. They must be of good 
 cheer. No harm can come to a good man in life or in 
 
u 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 death. Death is either an eternal and dreamless sleep, 
 wherein there is no sensation at all; or it is a journey to 
 another and a better world, where are the famous men of 
 old. Whichever alternative be true, death is not an evil 
 but a good. His own death is willed by the gods, and he 
 is content. He has only one request to make, that his 
 judges will trouble his sons, as he has troubled his judges, 
 if his sons set riches above virtue, and think themselves 
 great men when they are worthless. “ But now the time 
 has come for us to depart, for me to die and for you to 
 live. Whether life or death be better is known only to 
 God.” So ends this wonderful dialogue. 
 
 The first question which presents itself to a reader of 
 the Apology is, How far does it coincide with, or repre¬ 
 sent what Socrates actually said in his defense? We know 
 from Xenophon that lie might easily have obtained a 
 verdict, if he would have consented to conciliate his judges 
 with prayers and flattery; and also that the divine sign 
 forbade him to prepare any defense. But that is all that 
 we know of his defense, apart from the Apology, and if 
 the Apology contains any of the actual utterances of 
 Socrates, we have no means of determining which they 
 are. I think that Mr. Riddell has shown beyond any 
 reasonable doubt (although Zeller speaks of the opposite 
 view as “well established”) that the structure of the 
 defense is the work of Plato. He points out (Introduc¬ 
 tion, p. xx.) that whereas Xenophon declares that Socrates 
 prepared no speech, the Apology is “artistic to the core,” 
 and full of “subtle rhetoric.” Take, for example, the 
 argument against the charges of the first accusers (eh. 
 ii.-x.) Their slanders and prejudices are, as a matter of 
 fact, merely those of the mass of Athenians, including 
 the judges. To have attacked those prejudices openly 
 would have been merely to give offense to the judges. The 
 attack on them is therefore masked. It- is not made on 
 “your slanders and prejudices” but on the slanders and 
 prejudices of certain individuals, whose very names Soc¬ 
 rates does not know (“except in the case of the comic 
 poets ”) who have been accusing him falsely for many 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 45 
 
 years, very persistently. Further, as Mr. Riddell points 
 out, the Apology is full of rhetorical commonplaces. “ The 
 exordium may be paralleled, piece by piece, from the 
 orators.” And the whole defense is most artistically ar¬ 
 ranged, with the answer to the formal indictment in the 
 middle, where it is least prominent, being the least im¬ 
 portant part of the speech. Apart from the structure of 
 the Apology, the style and language is clearly Plato’s, 
 whatever may he said about the substance of it. 
 
 “ Notwithstanding, we can seek in the Apology a por¬ 
 trait of Socrates before his judges, and not be disappointed. 
 Plato has not laid before us a literal narrative of the 
 proceedings, and bidden us thence form the conception for 
 ourselves; rather he has intended us to form it through 
 the medium of his art. The structure is his, the language 
 in his, much of the substance may be his: notwithstanding, 
 quite independently of the literal truth of the means, he 
 guarantees to us a true conception of the scene and of 
 the man. We see that “ liberam contumaciam a magni- 
 tudine animi ductam non a superbia” (Cic. Tusc. i. 29), 
 and feel that it must be true to Socrates, although with 
 Cicero himself we have derived the conception from Plato’s 
 ideal and not from history. We hear Meletus subjected to 
 a questioning which, though it may not have been the 
 literal of the trial, exibits to us the great questioner in 
 his own element. We discover repeated instances of the 
 irony, which, uniting self-appreciation with a true and 
 unflattering estimate of others, declines to urge considera¬ 
 tions which lie beyond the intellectual or moral ken of the 
 judges. Here we have that singularity of ways a"" 1 ' 11 
 thoughts which was half his offense obtruding itself to t 
 very last in contempt of consequences. Here we have a’ 
 his disapproval of the existing democracy of Athens whi 
 he rather parades than disguises. And lastly, the deep re¬ 
 ligiousness which overshadowed all his character breathes 
 forth in the account he renders of his past life, in his 
 anticipations of the future, and in his whole present 
 demeanor. 
 
 “Thus while the problem of the relation of the Apol- 
 
46 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 ogy to what Socrates actually said must remain unsolved, 
 there is no doubt that it bodies forth a lifelike representa¬ 
 tion; a representation of Socrates as Plato wishes us to con¬ 
 ceive of him, and yet at the same time as true to nature as 
 the art of Plato could render it. Plato, we know was pres¬ 
 ent at the trial: he knew well how Socrates had defended 
 himself: he doubtless often discussed that memorable day 
 with Socrates in the prison : and he had an intense reverence 
 for his great master. Of course he could not give a ver¬ 
 batim report of a speech made without even a note: there 
 were no shorthand writers at Athens. But he knew the 
 substance of the defense. His Apology may perhaps be 
 compared to the speeches in Thucydides, who observes that 
 it was difficult to remember the exact things said by,the 
 speakers on each occasion, but that he has adhered as 
 closely as possible to the general sense and substance of 
 their arguments. 
 
 We know very little about the specific charges contained 
 in the speeches for the prosecution. The only direct refer¬ 
 ence to them in the Apology is in Socrates’ passing dis¬ 
 claimer of any responsibility for the political crimes of 
 men like Alcibiades and Critias. Xenophon tells us 
 that “the accuser” charged Socrates with bringing 
 the constitution into contempt by criticising the system 
 of election to political office by lot: with teaching children 
 \ to treat their fathers with contumely: with arguing that 
 people should love and respect only those who could be 
 useful to them: with being responsible for the crimes of 
 Alcibiades and Critias: with wrestling bad passages from 
 Homer and Hesiod to immortal uses. There is no reason 
 to doubt that he did in fact criticise election to office by 
 lot adversely. That institution, and indeed all popular 
 government, was obviously incompatible with his whole 
 intellectual position. Hb believed that government is an 
 art, and the most important of all arts, and that as such 
 it requires 7 novo training, knowledge, and skill than any 
 other. He would not have left Hie decision of political 
 \ (juestions to chance, or to the vote of the uneducated major- 
 > ityr The other charges are mere stupid and malignant 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 47 
 
 lies, which Socrates passes by in silence. He deals with 
 the formal indictment lightly, and to some extent, sophisti- 
 cally. The broad ground taken up by the prosecution 
 was that Socrates’ whole way of life and teaching is 
 vicious, immoral, and criminal. That was the real charge 
 which he had to meet. The avowed purpose of his unceas¬ 
 ing examination was to expose the hollowness of received 
 opinion about human affairs: and to understand the 
 animosity which such an avowal aroused in Athens, it is 
 necessary to remember that to the Greek this received 
 opinion represented the traditional unwritten law of the 
 State. And the State meant a great deal more to a Greek 
 that it means to us. It is not a mere association of men 
 for the protection of life and property. It was a sacred 
 thing, to be loved and revered. It had the authority of a 
 church. If we bear that in mind we shall comprehend bet¬ 
 ter the bitterness called forth by Socrates’ attack on re¬ 
 ceived opinions, and the strength of the position taken up 
 by his accusers in their prosecution. He concentrates the 
 entire force and emphasis of his argument to meet them 
 on that ground. His defense is a review and justifica¬ 
 tion of his life and “ philosophy.” It is not an apol¬ 
 ogy. Socrates utters no single syllable of regret for 
 the unceasing cross-examination of men, which was alleged 
 against him as a crime. Neither is it accurate to say that 
 he “ defies ” the Athenians. He speaks of them individ¬ 
 ually and as a people in terms of strong affection. He 
 loved his fellow-countrymen intensely. He has no quarrel 
 with them at all. He is unfeignedly sorry for their mis¬ 
 takes and their faults, and he does what he can to correct 
 them by pointing out why they are wrong. He does not 
 defy them. What he does is firmly and absolutely to de¬ 
 cline to obey them, be the consequences what they may. 
 
 The Apology brings out one point about Socrates very 
 strongly which must be noticed, namely “ the deep re-^1 • 
 ligiousness which overshadowed all his character.” To* 
 him religion meant something very different from the 
 polytheistic and mythological system which was current 
 among his countrymen, We have seen in the Eulhijphron 
 
48 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 how strongly he condemned the horrible and immoral tales 
 about the gods which were contained in Greek mythology, 
 and how he fears that his condemnation of them makes 
 him unpopular. He was far too earnestly and really re¬ 
 ligious a man not to be indignant at such stories, or to 
 accept as satisfactory the popular State religion. He deals 
 rather carelessly with the.count in the indictment charging 
 him with disbelief in the gods of Athens. He nowhere 
 commits himself to a recognition of them, though he em¬ 
 phatically denies that he is an atheist. “Athenians,” he 
 says in the last words of his defense, “ I do believe in the 
 gods as no one of my accusers believes in them: and to 
 you and to God I commit my cause to be decided as is best 
 for you and for me.” His God was the God of Plato, who 
 is good, and the cause of all good and never the cause 
 of evil: He “ is one and true in word and deed: He neither 
 changes Himself, nor deceives others:” the unknown God, 
 at whose altar the Athenians some four centuries later 
 ignorantly worshiped: “the power in darkness whom we 
 guess.” “ God alone,” says Socrates, “ is wise and knows 
 all things.” He protects good men from evil. He de¬ 
 clares His will to men by dreams and oracles, and the 
 priestess at Delphi is His mouthpiece. His law and His 
 commands are supreme and must be obeyed at all costs. 
 We have already seen how Socrates looked on his search 
 for wisdom as a duty laid upon him by God. He contin¬ 
 ually speaks of it as “ the service of God,” which must be 
 performed at all hazards, and from which no danger, and 
 no threats could lie allowed to turn him back. He will 
 not hold his peace, even to save his life. “ Athenians, 
 I hold you in the highest regard and love, but I will obey 
 God rather than you”—words strikingly parallel to St. 
 Peter’s words “ we ought to obey God rather than men ” 
 (Acts v. 20). And in the service of God he died. 
 
 There is one very obscure question relating to Socrates’ 
 v religious opinions. He believed that he had certain spe- 
 ' cial and peculiar communications from God through his 
 “divine sign.” In the Apology he explains it to be a 
 voice from God which had been with him continually from 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 49 
 
 childhood upwards, which frequently warned him even 
 in quite small matters, and which was always negative, 
 restraining him from some action. It is difficult to say 
 what this “ divine sign ” was. It is clear enough that it 
 was not conscious, for it dealt not with the morality, 
 but with the expediency of actions. In this dialogue it 
 does not forbid him to desert his post and neglect the duty 
 of examining men which God had laid upon him. He will 
 not do that because he will not disobey God. The divine 
 sign forbids him to enter on public life, because it would 
 be inexpedient to do so. Besides, conscience is positive 
 as well as negative, and Socrates could hardly claim a 
 monopoly of it. M. Lelut, in a book called Du Demon de 
 Socrate (1836), argues “ que Socrate etait un fou,” and 
 classes him with Luther, Pascal. Rousseau, and others. 
 He thinks that Socrates in his hallucinations really be¬ 
 lieved that he heard a voice. Zeller says that the divine 
 sign is “the general form which a vivid, but in its origin 
 unexplained, sense of the propriety of a particular action 
 assumed for the personal consciousness of Socrates/’ “ the 
 inner voice of individual tact,” cultivated to a pitch of 
 extraordinary accuracy. Mr. Riddell, in an appendix of 
 great interest, collects all the passages from Xenophon 
 and Plato, and points out that the two accounts are contra¬ 
 dictory. Taking Xenophon’s account he believes “that 
 it was a quiek exercise of a judgment, informed by knowl¬ 
 edge of the subject, trained by experience, and inferring 
 from cause to : effect without consciousness of the process. 
 If we take Plato’s account he thinks explanation impos¬ 
 sible: we' cannot go beyond what Socrates says. Hr. 
 Thompson (Master of Trinity College, Cambridge), after 
 pointing out that it is a sign or voice from the gods, and 
 not, as has been sometimes said, a genius or attendant 
 spirit, seems to accept Schleiermacher’s opinion as most 
 probable, that it “ denotes the province of such rapid moral 
 judgments as cannot be referred to distinct grounds, which 
 accordingly Socrates did not attribute to his proper self: 
 for instance, presentiment of the issue of an undertaking: 
 attraction or repulsion in reference to particular indi- 
 4 
 
50 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 viduals.” Fortunately the question is curious rather 
 than important, for it can hardly be said that there is 
 evidence enough to settle it. 
 
 At the close of the Apology Socrates is about to be led 
 away to prison. His death was delayed by a certain 
 mission which the Athenians annually sent to Apollo at 
 Delos: for while the mission was away no one could be put 
 to death in Athens. Socrates therefore had to spend a 
 long time ironed in the prison, in which the scene of the 
 Crito is laid. It is early morning, and Socrates is still 
 asleep. Crito has come before the usual time, the bearer 
 of news which is more bitter to him than to Socrates, that 
 the ship of the mission is at Sunium and will soon reach 
 the Peirseus; on the following day Socrates will have to 
 die. For the last time Crito implores him to escape and 
 save himself. It will be quite easy and will not cost his 
 friends much; and there are many places for him to go 
 to. If he stays, he will be doing the work of his foes; he 
 will be deserting his children, and covering himself with 
 ridicule and his friends with disgrace. “ Think what men 
 will say of us.” 
 
 Socrates replies that he has been guided by reason, and 
 has disregarded the opinion of men all his life. It matters 
 not what the world will say, but what the one man who 
 knows what Right is wall say, and what Truth herself will 
 think of us. The question is, Shall I be doing right in 
 escaping, and will you be doing right in aiding my escape? 
 Crito agrees to that, and to the first principle which Soc¬ 
 rates lays down as a starting-point:—if any one w r rong us, 
 we may not wrong him in return. We have no right to 
 repay evil with evil, though few men think so or ever will 
 think so. Such a sentiment must indeed have sounded 
 strange to Socrates’ contemporaries; Greek morality was, 
 do good to your friends, and harm your enemies, a propo- 
 . sition which Xenophon puts into the mouth of Socrates 
 ' himself. 
 
 Socrates then starts from the principle, that it is wrong 
 J to return evil for evil. Apply that to his case: he will be 
 ^ wronging the state if he escapes from prison and from 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 51 
 
 death against the will of the Athenians; by so doing, he 
 will be doing all he can to destroy the state of which he 
 is a citizen.. A city in which private individuals set aside 
 at their will the judicial decisions and laws of the state, 
 cannot continue to exist: it must be destroyed. It. may 
 lie that an individual is condemned unjustly: then the 
 laws are either bad, or, as he says at the end of the dia¬ 
 logue, badly administered. Still, the individual may not 
 take the matter into his own hands. The members of all 
 bodies of men, and therefore of the state, must sacrifice 
 their individual wills, more or less, to the whole to which 
 they belong. They must obey the rules or laws of the 
 whole, or it will perish. Even in bodies of bad men there 
 must be, and is, a certain harmony and unanimity. The 
 Crito represents Socrates as the good citizen, who has been 
 condemned unjustly “ not by the laws but by men,” but 
 who will not retaliate on the state and destroy it: he will 
 submit to death. Were he to escape, the laws would come 
 and ask him why he was trying to destroy them, and if he 
 replied that they had wronged him, they would retort that 
 he had agreed to be bound by all the judicial decisions of 
 the state. He owes everything to them —his birth, his 
 bringing up, his education ; he is their offspring and slave, 
 and bound to do whatever they bid him without an answer. 
 He has agreed to that; and his consent to the agreement 
 was not got from him by force or fraud : he has had seventy 
 years to consider it; for they permit any man who chooses, 
 to leave the city and go elsewhere. Socrates has not only 
 not done that, he has remained within the walls more 
 than any Athenian, so contented was he. He might have 
 proposed exile as the penalty at his trial, and it would have 
 been accepted, but he expressly refused to do so. And if 
 he runs away, where will he go to? Orderly men and 
 cities will look askance at him as a lawless person: life will 
 not be worth living in disorderly states like Thessaly; 
 what could he do there? He would scarcely have the face 
 to converse about virtue. Will he go away to Thessaly for 
 dinner? And will he take his children with him, and 
 make them strangers to their own country? Or will he 
 
52 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 leave them in Athens? What good will he do them then? 
 His friends, if they are real friends, will take as much care 
 of them if he goes to the other world, as if he goes to 
 Thessaly. Let him stay and die, and he will go away an 
 injured man, and the laws of Hades will receive him 
 kindly. Such are the arguments he hears murmured in 
 his ears. Crito admits that he cannot answer them. 
 
 We have no means of saying whether the incident of 
 this dialogue ever occurred. Plato was quite capable of 
 inventing it. Doubtless however Socrates’ friends would 
 have liked to save his life, and nothing is more likely than 
 that they proposed escape to him. Crito is met with again 
 in the Phredo. He is an old and intimate friend, who asks 
 for Socrates’ last commands, and is with him at his last 
 parting from his family, and closes his gyes after death. 
 
 He is not good at argument; and it is worth noticing 
 that, in the latter half of the Crito, the dialogue almost 
 becomes a monologue: the reasoning in the Pluedo makes 
 but little impression on him. 
 
 In the Phredo the storv of Socrates’ death is related at 
 Phlius to Echecrates and other Phliasians by Phasdo, who 
 had been with his master to the end. It is a dialogue 
 within a dialogue, the scene of the first being Phlius, and 
 of the second the prison, a day or two after the incident 
 narrated in the Crito. Phaedo first explains how the mis¬ 
 sion to Apollo delayed Socrates’ death for so long: he tells 
 who were present, how they heard the night before of 
 the arrival of the ship from Delos, and how they arranged 
 to go to Socrates the next morning very early. Then we 
 are taken into the prison, where Socrates has just been 
 released from his fetters, and Xanthippe, who is soon sent f 
 away wailing, is sitting by him. Socrates remarks on the 
 close connection of pleasure and pain, and then the con¬ 
 versation turns upon suicide, which Socrates says is wrong, 
 though the philosopher will always long to die. Such 
 a man, when he is dead, will be cared for by good gods, 
 he will be with better companions than on earth, and he 
 will be released from the body, which is a perpetual hin¬ 
 drance to the soul in her pursuit of truth. Philosophy ia 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 53 
 
 a study of death; the philosopher longs to be emancipated 
 from the bondage of the body, for he desires knowledge, 
 which is attainable only after death. Those who fear 
 death do not love wisdom, but their bodies, or wealth, or 
 honor. And their virtue is a strange thing. They are 
 brave from a fear of greater evils, and temperate because 
 intemperance prevents them from enjoying certain pleas¬ 
 ures. Such virtue is utterly false, and unsound, and sla¬ 
 vish. True virtue is a purification of the soul, and those 
 who have purified their souls will be with the gods after 
 death. Therefore Socrates is ready to die. 
 
 Cebes fears that when a man dies his soul vanishes away 
 like smoke. Socrates proceeds to discuss the immortality 
 of the soul. In the first place, by a confusion of sequence 
 and effect, he argues that opposites are generated from op¬ 
 posites: and therefore life from death. If it were not so, 
 if death were generated from life, and not life from death, 
 everything would at length be dead. He next makes use of 
 the Platonic doctrine of Reminiscence. All our knowledge 
 is a remembrance of what we have known at some previous 
 time, and that can only have been before we were. bom. 
 Our souls therefore must have existed before they entered 
 our bodies. Simmias admits that, but wants a further 
 proof that they will continue to exist when we are dead. 
 Socrates has no objection to go on with the discussion, 
 though the further proof is needless. Which, he asks, 
 is most liable to dissolution, the simple and unchanging, 
 or the compound and changing? that which is akin to the 
 divine, or that which is akin to the mortal? (Clearly the 
 former in both instances; in other words the soul is less 
 subject to dissolution than the body. But the body, if it be 
 properly embalmed, may be preserved for ages, and parts 
 of it, as the bones, are to all intents and purposes immortal 
 Can it be said then that the soul vanishes away at death ? 
 Far from it: the pure soul goes hence to a place that is 
 glorious, and pure, and invisible, and lives with the gods, 
 while the soul that is impure flutters about tombs, weighed 
 down by her earthly element, until she is again imprisoned 
 in the body of some animal with habits congenial to the 
 
54 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 habits of her previous life.. The sensual soul for instance 
 goes into the body of an ass; the unjust or tyrannical soul 
 into the body of a wolf or a kite: such souls as have been 
 just and temperate, though without philosophy or intelli¬ 
 gence, go into the bodies of some gentle creature, the bee. 
 or the wasp, or, it may be, of moderate men. Only the 
 souls of philosophers go and live with the gods. That is 
 why philosophers abstain from bodily pleasures. 
 
 Simmias and Cebes are still unconvinced, and with a 
 little pressure are induced to state their difficulties. Sim¬ 
 mias believes the soul to be a harmony of the elements of 
 the body, and that she is to the body, as a musical harmony 
 is to a lyre. But a musical harmony, though diviner than 
 the lyre, does not survive it. Cebes grants the soul to be 
 much more enduring than the body, but he cannot see that 
 the soul has been proved to be immortal. 
 
 At this point there is a break in the argument. The 
 listeners nearly despair on hearing these objections. Then 
 Socrates proceeds, first warning them against coming to 
 hate reasoning, because it has sometimes deceived them. 
 The fault is not in reasoning, but in themselves. And he 
 begs them to be careful that he does not mislead them in his 
 eagerness to prove the soul immortal. He is an interested 
 party. 
 
 He answers Simmias first. Does Simmias still believe in 
 the doctrine of Reminiscence? He does. Then the soul 
 is not a harmony of the elements of the body: if she were, 
 she would have existed before the elements which com¬ 
 pose her. And the soul leads, and is never more or less a 
 soul. In those things she differs from a harmony, and so 
 Simmias’ objection fails. Cebes’ point is more important. 
 To answer him involves an investigation of the whole ques¬ 
 tion of generation and decay; but Socrateses willing to 
 narrate his own experiences on the subject. In his youth 
 he had a passion for Natural Philosophy: he thought about 
 it till he was completely puzzled. He could not under¬ 
 stand the mechanical and physical causes of the philoso¬ 
 phers. He hoped great things from Anaxagoras, who, he 
 was told, said that Mind was the Universal Cause, and who, 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 55 
 
 he expected, would show that everything was ordered in 
 the best way. He was grievously disappointed. Anax¬ 
 agoras made no use of mind at all, but introduced air, and 
 ether, and a number of strange things as causes. In his 
 disappointment he turned to investigate the question of 
 causation for himself. All his hearers will admit the exist¬ 
 ence of absolute Ideas. He made up his mind that Ideas 
 are the causes of phenomena, beauty of beautiful things, 
 greatness of great things, and so on. Echecrates interposes 
 the remark that any man of sense will agree to that. Soc¬ 
 rates goes on to show that opposite Ideas cannot coexist in 
 the same person : if it is said that Simmias is both tall and 
 short, because he is taller than Socrates and shorter than 
 Bhaedo, that is true ; but he is only tall and short relatively. 
 (An Idea must always perish or retreat before its opposite? 
 ^Further than that, an Idea will not only not admit its op¬ 
 posite ; it will not admit that which is inseparable from its 
 opposite. The opposite of cold is heat; and just as cold 
 will not admit heat, so it will not admit fire, which is in¬ 
 separable from heat. Cold and fire cannot coexist in the 
 same object. So life is the opposite of death, and life is 
 inseparable from the soul. CjCherefore the soul will not ad¬ 
 mit death) She is immortal, and therefore indestructible: 
 and when a man dies his soul goes away safe and un¬ 
 harmed. Simmias admits that he has nothing to urge 
 against Socrates’ reasoning though he cannot say that he 
 is quite satisfied. Human reason is weak and the subject 
 vast. 
 
 But if the soul lives on after death, how terrible must be 
 the danger of neglecting her! For she takes to Hades 
 nothing but her nurture and education, and these make a 
 great diff ccqn op to her at the very beginning of her journey 
 thither. (^So crates then describes the soul’s journey to the 
 other world, and her life there: a remark that the earth is 
 a wonderful place, not at all like what it is commonly 
 thought to be, leads to the description of the earth in the 
 famous Myth of the Phcedo, which Plato, with consummate 
 art, interposes between the hard metaphysical argument 
 of the dialogue, and the account of Socrates’ death. Soc- 
 
5t> 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 rates describes the earth, its shape, and character, and in¬ 
 habitants, and beauty. We men, who think we live on its 
 surface, really live down in a hollow. Other men live on 
 the surface, which is much fairer than our world. Then 
 he goes on to describe! Tartarus and its rivers, of which the 
 chief are Oceanus, Acheron, Pvriphlegethon, and Cocytus. 
 He proceeds to speak of the judgment and rewards and 
 punishments of the souls after death: a man who has de¬ 
 voted himself to his soul and not to his body need not 
 be afraid of death, which is a complete release from the 
 body, for for him there is a place prepared of wonderful 
 beauty. Socrates has not time to speak of it now. It is 
 getting late, and he must bathe and prepare for death. 
 
 Crito asks for Socrates’ last commands. The argument 
 has made no impression on him; he does not understand 
 that Socrates is going away, and wishes to know how to 
 bury him. Socrates leaves that to his friends, “ only you 
 must catch me first.” Then he goes away with Crito to 
 bathe, and takes leave of his family: there is but little con¬ 
 versation after that. The poison is brought, and Socrates 
 drinks it calmly, without changing color, rebuking his 
 friends for their noisy grief. A few moments before he 
 dies he remembers that he owes a cock to Asclepius. Crito 
 must pay it for him. Then there was a convulsive move¬ 
 ment, and he was dead. 
 
 The Phcedo is not a dialogue of which much need be said. 
 The perfect beauty of Plato’s description of his great mas¬ 
 ter’s death at the hands of the law, which is singular for 
 the complete absence of anything violent or repulsive from 
 it, is best left to speak for itself; and the greater part of 
 the dialogue is occupied with Platonic metaphysics, wdth 
 w r hich we are not concerned. For the Phcedo may be di¬ 
 vided into two parts, the historical, and the philosophical. 
 Plato was not present at Socrates’ death; but there is no 
 reason for doubting that his account of it is substantially 
 correct. He must 'have often heard the story of that last 
 day from eye-witnesses. The philosophy of the Plioedo 
 is another matter. There is no doubt that that is not So- 
 cratic, but Platonic. It is likely enough that the last day 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 of Socrates’ life, even to the setting of the sun, when he was 
 to die, was spent with his friends in the accustomed ex¬ 
 amination of himself and them, and in the searcn after 
 hard intellectual truth to which his whole life had been de¬ 
 voted; and it may well be that his demeanor was, in fact, 
 more serious and earnest than usual on that day, as 
 if, in spite of all his confident belief in a future life, death 
 had cast the solemnity of its shadow upon him. But it is 
 quite certain that the metaphysical arguments of the 
 Phcedo were not those used by Socrates, in his prison, or at 
 any other time. That can be very shortly proved. In the 
 Phcedo, Socrates is represented as a keen and practised 
 metaphysician, who has definite theories about the origin 
 of knowledge, and the causes of Being. He “ is fond of 
 stating ” the doctrine that knowledge is an imperfect recol¬ 
 lection of. what we have known in a previous state of exist¬ 
 ence: and he is quite familiar with the doctrine of ideas. 
 But the real Socrates, the Socrates of the Apology and 
 the admittedly Socratic dialogues, and of Xenophon, con¬ 
 fined himself strictly to questions affecting men and so¬ 
 ciety. (All that he knew was that he was ignorant. )His 
 greatness as a thinker does not consist in the fact that he 
 was the author or the teacher of any system of positive 
 philosophy, metaphysical or other; but in the fact that he 
 was the first man who conceived the very idea of scientific 
 knowledge, and of the method of arriving at it. And it 
 must be remembered that the Apology, which contains 
 Plato’s account of Socrates, as he actually conceived him to 
 be, represents a speech delivered only thirty days before the 
 conversation reported in the Phcedo . Once more; in the 
 Phcedo the immortality of the soul is ultimately proved by 
 the doctrine of Ideas. Now Aristotle, whose evidence is 
 the best that we can have on such a point, expressly tells 
 us that the doctrine of Ideas was never known to Socrates 
 at all; but that it was a distinct advance on his theory of 
 definitions made by Plato. Plato, in fact, has done in the 
 Phcedo what he so often did; he has employed Socrates as 
 the chief character in a dialogue, and then put into Soc¬ 
 rates’ mouth opinions and arguments which the Socrates of 
 
58 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 history never dreamt of. By far the greater part of the 
 conversation therefore recorded in the Plioedo never took 
 place. There is no record whatsoever of the actual conver¬ 
 sation of that last day. 
 
 Such a man was Socrates, in his life and in his death. 
 He was just and feared not. He might easily have saved 
 himself from death, if only he would have consented to 
 cease from forcing his countrymen to give an account of 
 their lives. But he believed that God had sent him to be 
 a preacher of righteousness to the Athenians; and he re¬ 
 fused to be silent on any terms. “ I cannot hold my 
 peace,” he says, “ for that would be to disobey God.” 
 Tennyson’s famous lines have been often and well applied 
 to him:— 
 
 “ Self-reverence, self-knowledge, self-control, 
 
 These three alone lead life to sovereign power, 
 
 Yet not for power (power of herself 
 Would come uncall’d for) but to live by law, 
 
 Acting the law we live by without fear ; 
 
 And, because right is right, to follow right 
 Were wisdom in the scorn of consequence.” 
 
 They illustrate his faith, “his burning faith in God and 
 Bight.” Knowing nothing certainly of what comes after 
 death, and having no sure hope of a reward in the next 
 world, he resolutely chose to die sooner than desert the 
 post at which God had placed him, or do what he believed 
 to be wroDg. 
 
EUTHYPHEOIST. 
 
CHARACTERS OF THE DIALOGUE. 
 
 Socrates. 
 
 Etthyphron. 
 
 Scene. —The porch of the King Archon. 
 
EUTHYPHRON. 
 
 Euth. What in the world are you doing here at the 
 arehon’s porch, Socrates ? Why have you left your haunts 
 in the Lyceum ? You surely cannot have an action before 
 him, as I have. 
 
 Socr. Nay, the Athenians, Euthyphron, call it a prose¬ 
 cution, not an action. 
 
 Euth. What? Do you mean that some one is prose¬ 
 cuting you ? I cannot believe that you are prosecuting any 
 one yourself. 
 
 Socr. Certainly I am not. 
 
 Euth. Then is'some one prosecuting you? 
 
 Socr. Yes. 
 
 Euth. Who is he? 
 
 v Socr. I scarcely know him myself, Euthyphron; I think 
 he must be some unknown young man. His name, how¬ 
 ever, is Meletus, and his deme Pitthis, if you can call to 
 mind any Meletus of that deme,—a hook-nosed man with 
 long hair, and rather a scanty beard. 
 
 Euth. I don’t know him, Socrates. But, tell me, what is 
 rosecuting you for? 
 
 ’ ~Socr. What for? Not on trivial grounds, I think. It is 
 no small thing for so young a man to have formed an opin¬ 
 ion on such an important matter. For he, he says, knows 
 how the young are corrupted, and who are their corrupt¬ 
 ers. He must be a wise man. who, observing my ignorance, 
 is going to accuse me to the city, as his mother, of corrupt¬ 
 ing his friends. I think that he is the only man who be- 
 
 61 
 
TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 62 
 
 Jgins at the right point in his political reforms: I mean 
 whose first care is to make the young men as perfect as 
 possible, just as a good farmer,will take care of his young 
 plants first, and, after he has. done that, of the others. And 
 so Meletus, I suppose, is first clearing us off, who, as he 
 says, corrupt the young men as they grow up; and then, 
 when he has done that, of course he will turn his attention 
 to the older men, and so become a very great public bene¬ 
 factor. Indeed, that is only what you would expect, when 
 he goes to work in this way. 
 
 Eutli. I hope it may be so, Socrates, but I have very 
 grave doubts about it. It seems to me that in trying to in¬ 
 jure you, he is really setting to work by striking a blow at 
 the heart of the state. But how, tell me, does he say that 
 vou corrupt the youth ? • 
 
 iA, J Socr. In a way which sounds strange at first, my friend. 
 f He says that I am a maker of gods; and so he is prose¬ 
 cuting me, he says, for inventing new gods, and for not 
 believing in the old ones. 
 
 Eutli. I understand, Socrates. It is because you say 
 that you always have a divine sign. So he is prosecuting 
 you for introducing novelties into religion; and he is going 
 irco court knowing that such matters are easily misrepre¬ 
 sented to the multitude, and consequently meaning to slan¬ 
 der you there. Why, they laugh even me to scorn, as if I 
 were out of my mind, when I talk about divine things in 
 the assembly, and tell them what is going to happen: and 
 v. yet I have never foretold anything which has not come 
 true. But they ar^ jealous of all people like us. We 
 must not think about them: we must meet them boldly. 
 
 Socr. My dear Euthypliron, their ridicule is not a very 
 fv serious matter. The Athenians, it seems to me, may think 
 a man to be clever without paying him much attention, so 
 1 long as they do not think that he teaches his wisdom to 
 others. But as soon as they think that he makes other 
 people clever, they get angrv whether it be from jealousy, 
 as you say, or for some other reason. 
 
 Eutli. I am not very anxious to try their disposition 
 towards me in this matter. 
 
EUTHYPHRON. 
 
 63 
 
 Socr. No, perhaps they think that you seldom show 
 yourself, and that you are not anxious to teach your wisdom 
 to others; but I fear that they may think that I am; for 
 my love of men makes me talk to every one whom I meet 
 quite freely and unreservedly, and without payment": IrP 
 deed, if 1 could, 1 would gladly pay people myself to listen 
 to me. If then, as I said just how, they were only going To 
 laugh at me, as you say they do at you, it would not 
 be at all an unpleasant way of spending the day, to spend 
 it in court, jesting and laughing. But if they are going 
 to be in earnest, then only prophets like you can tell where 
 the matter will end. 
 
 Futh. Well, Socrates I dare say that nothing will come 
 it. A ery likely you will be successful in your trial, and 
 I think that I shall be in mine. 
 
 Socr. And what is this sun ef yours, Euthyphron? Are 
 you suing, or being sued? 
 
 Euth. I am suing. 
 
 Socr. Whom ? 
 
 Euth. A man whom I am thought a maniac to be suing, 
 
 Socr. What? Has he wings to fly away with? 
 
 Evtk. He is far enough from flying; he is a very old 
 man. 
 
 Socr. Who is he ? 
 
 Euth. He is my father. 
 
 Socr. Your father, my good sir? 
 
 Euth. He is indeed. 
 
 Socr. What are you prosecuting him for? What is the 
 charge ? 
 
 Euth. It is a charge of murder, Socrates. 
 
 Socr. Good hea ens, Euthyphron! Surely the multi¬ 
 tude are ignorant of what makes right. I take it that it 
 is u t every one who could rightly do what you are doing; 
 only a man who was already well advanced in wisdom. 
 
 Euth. That is quite true, Socrates. 
 
 Socr. Was the man whom your father killed a relative 
 of yours ? Nav. of course-he was: -mn won id never h:ivo 
 fiawful —r for the murder of stranger ■' 
 
 Ev.th. You amuse me, Socrates, What difference does 
 
64 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 it make whether the murdered man was a relative or a 
 stranger ? The only question that you jiav e to ask is, d id 
 the slaver slay justly or not r Tf justlyZy cm must let him 
 alone; if unjustly, you must ind iet hirnJar murder, even 
 though he share your hearth and sit at your table. The 
 pollution is the same, if you associate with _su ch ajnan, 
 knowing what he has done, without puri fying yourse lf, 
 and him too, by bringing him to j,usii<<\ In the present 
 ease the murdered man was a poor dependant of mine, 
 who worked for us on our farm in Xaxos. In a fit of 
 drunkenness he got in a rage with one of our slaves, and 
 killed him. My father therefore bound the man hand and 
 foot and threw him into a ditch, while he sent to Athens to 
 ask the seer what he should do. While the messenger 
 I was gone, he entirely neglected the man, thinking that he 
 'was a murderer, and that it would be no great matter, 
 even if he were to die. And that was exactly what hap¬ 
 pened ; hunger and cold and his bonds killed him before 
 the messenger returned. And now my father and the rest 
 of my family are indignant with me because I am prose¬ 
 cuting my father for the murder of this murderer. They 
 assert that he did not kill the man at all; and they say 
 that, even if he had killed him over and over again, the 
 man himself was a murderer, and that I ought not to con¬ 
 cern myself about such a person, because it is unholy for 
 a son to prosecute his father for murder. So little, Soc¬ 
 rates, do they know the divine law of holiness and unholi¬ 
 ness. 
 
 Socr. And do you mean to say, Euthyphron, that you 
 think that you understand divine things, and holiness and 
 unholiness, so accurately that, in such a case as you have 
 stated, you can bring )^our father to justice without fear 
 that you yourself may be doing an unholy deed ? 
 
 Euih. If I did not understand all these matters ac¬ 
 curately, Socrates, I should be of no use, and Euthyphron 
 would not be any better than other men. 
 
 Socr. Then, my excellent Euthyphron, I cannot do better 
 than become your pupil, and challenge Meletus on this very 
 point before the trial begins. I should say that I had al- 
 
EUTHYPHRON. 
 
 65 
 
 ways thought it Tory important to have knowledge about 
 divine things ; and that now, when he says that I offend by 
 speaking lightly about them, and by introducing novelties 
 in them, I have become your pupil ; and I sho uld say, 
 Meletus, if you acknowledg e Euthyphron to be w ise in these 
 'inatfers-hmdll. n hold the true be li ef, then t hink the.same. 
 of me ? and do not put me on my trial ; but if you do not,, 
 ‘ wlmnj nnng a suit7 not 'agamsnhe,"buf~against my master 
 r corrupting his eiders; namely, me whom ho corrupts 
 by his doctrine, ancTBfs~own father whom he corrupts by 
 admonishing and chastisingTBrir: AncTT? I did not suc¬ 
 ceed in persuading’him to release me from the suit, or 
 to indict you in my place, then I could repeat my challenge 
 in court. 
 
 Euth. Yes, by Zeus, Socrates, I think I should find out 
 his weak points, if he were to try to indict me. I should- J 
 have a good deal to say about him in court long before I 
 spoke about myself. > 
 
 Socr. Yes, my dear friend, and knowing this, I am 
 anxious to become your pupil. I see that Meletus here, 
 and others too, seem not to notice you at all; but he sees 
 through me without difficulty and at once, and prosecutes 
 me for impiety forthwith. Now, therefore, please explain 
 to me what you were so confident just now that you knew. 
 Tell me what are piety and impiety with reference to mur¬ 
 der and everything else. I suppose that holiness is the 
 same in all actions ; and, that unjiniinassj s. aIways the oppo- 
 _site of holiness, and like itself, and that, as unhoI!negs7it”* 
 always lias the same essential nature, which will be found 
 in whatever is unholy. 
 
 Euth. Certainly, Socrates, I suppose so. 
 
 Socr. Tell me, then; what is holiness, and what is un¬ 
 holiness ? 
 
 Euth. Wel l, then. I sav that holiness means prosecuting 
 the wrong doer who has committed murder or sacrilege, or 
 any other such crime, as I am doing now, whether he be 
 your father or your mother or whoever he be; and I say 
 that unholiness means not prosecuting him. And observe, 
 Socrates, I will give you a clear proof, which I have already 
 
66 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 given to others, that it is so, and that doing right means 
 not suffering the sacrilegious man, whosoever he may be. 
 Men hold Zeus to be the best and the justest of the gods; 
 and they admit that Zeus bound his own father, Cronos, 
 for devouring his children wickedly; and that Cronos in 
 his turn castrated his father for similar reasons. And yet 
 these same men are angry with me because 1 proceed against 
 my father for doing wrong. So, you see, they say one 
 thing in the case of the gods and quite another in mine. 
 
 Socr. Is not that why 1 am being prosecuted, Euthy- 
 phron? I mean, because I am displeased when I hear peo¬ 
 ple say such things about the gods? I expect that I shall 
 be called a sinner, because I doubt those stories. Now if 
 you, who understand all these matters so well, agree in 
 holding all those tales true, then I suppose that I must 
 needs give way. What could I say when I admit myself 
 that I know nothing about them? But tell me, in the 
 name of friendship, do you really believe that these things 
 have actually happened. 
 
 Euth. Yes, and stranger ones too, Socrates, which the 
 multitude do not know of. 
 
 Socr. Then you really believe that there is war among 
 the gods, and bitter hatreds, and battles, such as the poets 
 tell of, and which the great painters have depicted in our 
 temples, especially in the pictures which cover the robe that 
 is carried up to the Acropolis at the great Panathenaic 
 festival. Are we to say that these things are true, Euthy- 
 phron ? 
 
 Euth. Yes, Socrates, and more besides. As I was say¬ 
 ing, I will relate to you many other stories about divine mat¬ 
 ters, if you like, which I am sure will astonish you when 
 you hear them. 
 
 Socr. I dare say. You shall relate them to me at your 
 leisure another time. At present please try to give a more 
 definite answer to the question which I asked you just now. 
 What I asked you, my friend, was. What is holiness? and 
 you have not explained it to me, to my satisfaction. You 
 only tell me that what you are doing now, namely prose¬ 
 cuting your father for murder, is a holy act. 
 
EUTHYPHRON. 
 
 Euth. Well, that is true, Socrates. 
 
 Socr. Very likely. But many other actions are holy, 
 are they not, Euthyphron ? 
 
 Euth. Certainly. 
 
 Socr. Remember, then, I did not ask you to tell me one 
 or two of all the many holy actions that there are; I 
 want to know what is the essential form of holiness which 
 makes all holy actions holy. You said, I think, that there 
 is one form which makes all holy actions holy, and another 
 form which makes all unholy actions unholy. Do you not 
 remember ? 
 
 Euth. I do. 
 
 Socr. Well, then, explain to me what is this form, that 
 I may have it to turn to, and to use as a standard whereby 
 to judge your actions, and those of other men, and be able 
 to say that whatever action resembles it is holy, and what¬ 
 ever does not, is not holy. 
 
 Euth. Yes, I will tell you that, if you wish it, Socrates. 
 
 Socr. Certainly I wish it. 
 
 I Euth. Well then, what is ple asimi-to the gods is h oly 
 and what is noi pleasi hem is unholy. 
 
 Socr. Beautiful, Euthyphron. Now you have given me 
 the answer that I wanted. Whether what you say is true, 
 I do not know yet. But of course you will go on to prove 
 the truth of it. 
 
 Euth. Certainly. 
 
 Socr. Come then, let us examine our words. The things 
 and the men that are pleasing to the gods are holy; and the 
 things and the men that are displeasing to the gods are 
 unholy. But holiness and unholiness are not the same: 
 they are as opposite as possible; was not that said ? 
 
 Euth. Certainly. 
 
 Socr. And I think that was very well said. 
 
 Euth. Yes, Socrates, that was certainly said. 
 
 Socr. Have we not also said, Euthyphron, that there 
 are factions, and disagreements, and hatreds among the 
 gods ? 
 
 Euth. We have. 
 
 Socr, But what kind of disagreement, my friend, causes 
 
G8 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 hatred and wrath ? Let us look at the matter thus. If 
 you and I were to disagree as to whether one number were 
 more than another, would that provoke us to anger, and 
 make us enemies? Should we not settle such dispute at 
 once by counting? 
 
 Eutli. Of course. 
 
 Socr. And if we were to disagree as to the relative size 
 of two things, we should measure them, and put an end to 
 the disagreement at once, should we not? 
 
 Eutli. Yes. 
 
 Socr. And should we not settle a question about the 
 relative weight of two things, by weighing them ? 
 
 Eutli. Of course. 
 
 . Socr. Then what is the question which would provoke j 
 I us to anger, and make us enemies, if we disagreed about it, * 
 and could not come to a settlement? Perhaps you have 
 not an answer ready: but listen to me. Is it not the ques¬ 
 tion of right and wrong, of the honorable and the base, of 
 the good and the bad ? Is it not questions about these mat¬ 
 ters which make you and me, and every one else quarrel, 
 when we do quarrel, if we differ about them, and can reach 
 no satisfactory settlement ? 
 
 Eutli. Yes, Socrates; it is disagreements about these 
 matters. 
 
 Socr. Well, Euthyphron, the gods will quarrel over these 
 things, if they quarrel at all, will they not? 
 
 Eutli. Necessarily. 
 
 Socr. Then, my excellent Euthyphron, you say that 
 some of the gods think one thing right, and others another: 
 and that what some of them hold to be honorable or good, 
 others hold to be base or evil. For there would not have 
 been factions among them if they had not disagreed on 
 these points, would there? 
 
 Eutli. You are right. 
 
 Socr. And each of them loves what he thinks honorable, 
 and good, and right, and hates the opposite, does he not? 
 
 Eutli. Certainly. 
 
 Socr. But you say that the same action is held by some 
 
 eelAna H ^ 
 
EUTHYPHRON. 
 
 09 
 
 of them to be right, and by others to be wrong; and that 
 then they dispute about it, and so quarrel and fight among 
 themselves. Is it not so ? 
 
 Euth. Yes. 
 
 Socr. Then the same thing is hated by the gods and loved 
 by them; and the same thing will be displeasing and pleas¬ 
 ing to them. 
 
 Euth. Apparently. 
 
 Socr. Then, according to your account, the same thing 
 
 will be holy and unholy. 
 Euth. So it seems. 
 
 Socr. Then, my good friend, you have not answered my 
 question. I did not ask you to tell me what action is both 
 holy and unholy; but it seems that whatever is pleasing to 
 the gods is also .displeasing to them. And so, Euthyphron, 
 I should not wonder if what you" are doing now in chastis¬ 
 ing your father is a deed well-pleasing to Zeus, but hateful 
 to Cronos and Ouranos, and acceptable to Hephaestus, but 
 hateful to Here; and if any of the other gods disagree 
 about it, pleasing to some of them and displeasing to 
 others. 
 
 Euth. But on this point, Socrates, I think that there is 
 no difference of opinion among the gods: they all hold that 
 if one man kills another wrongfully, he must be pun¬ 
 ished. 
 
 Socr. What, Euthyphron? Among mankind, have you 
 never heard disputes whether a man ought to be punished 
 for killing another man wrongfully, or for doing some 
 other wrong deed ? 
 
 Euth. Indeed, they never cease from these disputes, es¬ 
 pecially in courts of justice. They do all manner of wrong 
 things; and then there is nothing which they will not do 
 and say to avoid punishment. 
 
 Socr. Do they admit that they have done wrong, and at 
 the same time deny that they ought to be punished, 
 Euthyphron ? 
 
 Euth. No, indeed; that they do not. 
 
 Socr. Then it is not everything that they will do and say. 
 I take it, they do not venture to assert or argue that if they 
 
70 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 do do wrong they must not be punished. What they say is 
 that they have not done wrong, is it not ? 
 
 Euth. That is true. 
 
 Socr. Then they do no t dispute the propositi on, th at the 
 wrong doer must he pumsnea. 1'hey dispute ahmit. tha 
 <y.i st - who i.- a wrong «h or, and win n. ami wha; is a 
 wrong deed, do tlm y nnt? 
 
 Euth. That is trueT 
 
 Socr. Well, is not exactly the same thing true of the 
 gods, if they quarrel about right and wrong, as you say 
 they do? Do not some of them assert that the others are 
 doing wrong, while the others deny it ? No one, I suppose, 
 my dear friend, whether god or man, ventures to say that 
 a person who has done wrong must not be punished. 
 
 Euth. No, Socrates, that is true, in the main. 
 
 Socr. I take it, Euthyphron, that the disputants, whether 
 men or gods, if the gods do dispute, dispute about each 
 separate act. When they quarrel about any act, some of 
 them say that it was done rightly, and others that it was 
 done wrongly. Is it not so? 
 
 Euth. Yes. 
 
 Socr. Come then, my dear Euthyphron, please enlighten 
 me on this point. What proof have you that all the gods 
 think that a laborer who has been imprisoned for murder 
 by the master of the man whom he has murdered, and 
 who dies from his imprisonment before the master has had 
 time to learn from the seers what he should do, dies by in¬ 
 justice? How do you know, that it is right for a son to 
 indict his father, and to prosecute him for the murder of 
 such a man ? Come, see if you can make it clear to me that 
 the gods necessarily agree in thinking that this action of 
 3 T ours is right; and if you satisfy me, I will never cease 
 singing your praises for wisdom. 
 
 Euth. I could make that clear enough to you, Socrates; 
 but I am afraid that it would be a long business. 
 
 Socr. I see you think that I am duller than the judges. 
 To them of course you will make it clear that your father 
 has done wrong, and that all the gods agree in hating such 
 deeds, 
 
EUTj^PHRON. 
 
 
 Euih. I will indeed, Socrates, if they will only listen to 
 me. 
 
 Socr. They will listen, if only they think that you speak 
 well. But while you were speaking, it occurred to me to 
 ask myself this question: suppose that Euthyphron were 
 to prove to me as clearly as possible that all the gods think 
 such a death unjust; how has he brought me any nearer to 
 understanding what holiness and unholiness are? This 
 particular act, perhaps, may he displeasing to the gods., 
 but then we have just seen that holiness and unholiness 
 cannot be defined in that way: for we have seen that what 
 is displeasing to the gods is also pleasing to them. So I 
 will let you off on this point, Euthyphron; and all the 
 gods shall agree in thinking your father’s deed wrong, and 
 in hating it, if you like. But shall we correct our defini¬ 
 tion and say that whatever all the gods hate is unholy, and 
 whatever they all love is holy: while whatever some of them 
 love, and others hate , is eithcr-both or neither? Do you 
 wish us now to define holiness and unholiness in this man¬ 
 ner? 
 
 Euih. Why not, Socrates? 
 
 Socr. There is no reason why I should not, Euthyphron. 
 It is for you to consider whether that definition will help 
 you to instruct me as you promised. 
 f Euih. Well, I should say that holiness is what all the 
 v gods love, and that unholiness is what they all hate. 
 
 Socr. Are we to examine this definition, Euthyphron, 
 and see if it is a good one? or are we to he content to ac¬ 
 cept the bare assertions of other men, or of ourselves, with¬ 
 out asking any questions ? Or must we examine the asser¬ 
 tions ? 
 
 Euih. We must examine them. But for my part I #iink 
 that the definition is right this time. 
 
 Socr. We shall know that better in a little while, my 
 good friend. Now consider this question. Do the gods love 
 holiness because itis.holv.-or is it hoLv.because llievlmmlj EJl 
 
 Euth. I do not understand you, Socrates. 
 
 Socr. I will try to explain myself: we speak of a thing 
 being carried and carrying, and being led and leading, and 
 
72 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 being tseen and seeing; and you understand that all such" 
 expressions mean different things, and what the difference 
 is. 
 
 Euth. Yes, I think I understand. 
 
 Socr. And we talk of a thing being loved, and, which is 
 different, of a thing loving? 
 
 Euth. Of course. 
 
 Socr. Now tell me: is a thing which is being carried in 
 a state of being carried, because it is carried, or for some 
 other reason ? 
 
 Euth. No, because it is carried. 
 
 Socr. And a thing is in a state of being led, because it 
 is led, and of being seen, because it is seen ? 
 
 Euth. Certainly. 
 
 Socr. Then a thing is not seen because it is in a state 
 of being seen ; it is in a state of being seen because it is 
 seen: and a thing is not led because it is in a state of being 
 led; it is in a state of being led because it is led: and 
 a thing is not carried because it is in a state of being 
 carried; it is in a state of being carried because it is car¬ 
 ried. Is my meaning clear now, Euthyphron? I mean 
 this: if anything becomes, or is affected, it does not become 
 because it is in a state of becoming; it is in a state of be¬ 
 coming because it becomes; and it is not affected because 
 it is in a state of being affected: it is in a state of being 
 affected because it is affected. Do you not agree ? 
 
 Euth. I do. 
 
 Socr. Is not that which is being loved in a state, either 
 of becoming, or of being affected in some way by some¬ 
 thing ? 
 
 Euth. Certainly. 
 
 Socr. Then the same fs true here as in the former cases. 
 A thing is not loved by those who love it because it is in a 
 state of being loved. It is in a state of being loved because 
 they love it. 
 
 Euth. Necessarily. 
 
 Socr. Well, then, Euthyphron, what do we say about 
 holiness? Is it not loved by all the gods, according to your 
 definition? 
 
EUTHYPHRON. 
 
 73 
 
 Euth. Yes. 
 
 Socr. Because it is holy, or for some other reason? 
 
 Euth. No, because it is holy. 
 
 Socr. Then it is loved by the gods because it is holy: it 
 is not holy because it is loved by them ? 
 
 Euth. It seems so. 
 
 Socr. But then what is pleasing to the gods is pleasing 
 to them, and is in a state of being loved by them, because 
 they love it ? 
 
 Euth. Of course. 
 
 Socr. Then holiness is not what is pleasing to the gods* 
 and what is pleasing to the gods is not holy, as you say* 
 Euthyphron. They are different things. 
 
 Euth. And why, Socrates? 
 
 Socr. Because we are _a.gr eed th at the gods love holiness 
 because i [y ramTthat i t is not holy Decau se thev~ love 
 it. Is not .tins so.? 
 
 Euth. Yes. 
 
 Socr. And that what is pleasing to the gods because they 
 love it, is pleasing to them by reason of this same love: and 
 that they do not love it because it is pleasing to them. 
 
 Euth. True. 
 
 Socr. Then, my dear Euch ,, 'iron, holiness, and what 
 is pleasing to the gods, are different things. If the gods 
 had loved holiness because it is holy, they would also have 
 loved what is pleasing to them because it is pleasing to 
 them; but if what is pleasing to them had been pleasing 
 to them because they loved it, then holiness too would have 
 been holiness, because they loved it. But now you see that 
 they are opposite things, and wholly different from each 
 other. For the one is of the sort to be loved because it is 
 loved: while the other is loved, because it is of a sort to be 
 loved. My question, Euthyphron, was, What is holiness? 
 But it turns out that you have not explained to me the 
 essence of holiness; you have been content to mention an 
 attribute which belongs to it, namely, that all the gods love 
 it. You have not yet told me what is its essence. Do not, 
 if you please, keep from me what holiness is; begin again 
 and tell me that. Never mind whether the gods love it, 
 
74 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 or whether it has other attributes: we shall not differ on 
 that point. Do your best to make clear to me what is 
 holiness and what is unholiness. 
 
 Euth. But, Socrates, I really don’t know how to ex¬ 
 plain to you what is in my mind. Whatever we put for¬ 
 ward always somehow moves round in a circle, and will 
 not stay where we place it. 
 
 Socr. I think that your definitions, Euthyphron, are 
 worthy of my ancestor Daedalus. If they had been mine 
 and I had laid them down, I dare say you would have 
 made fun of me, and said that it was the consequence of 
 my descent from Daedalus that the definitions which I 
 construct run away, as his statues used to, and will not 
 stay where they are placed. But, as it is, the definitions 
 are yours, and +he jest would have no point. You yourself 
 see that they will not stay still. 
 
 Euth. Nay, Socrates, 1 think that the jest is very much 
 in point. It is not my fault that the definition moves 
 round in a circle and will not stay still. But you are the 
 Daedalus, I think: as far as I am concerned, my defini¬ 
 tions would have stayed quiet enough. 
 
 Socr. Then, my friend, I must be a more skilful artist 
 than Daedalus: he only used to make his own works move; 
 whereas I, you see, can make othe r people’s works move 
 tpo. And t'lie beaufy'of it is that I am wise against my 
 will. I would rather that our definitions had remained 
 firm and immovable than have all the wisdom of Daedalus 
 and all the riches of Tantalus to boot. But enough of 
 this. I will do my best to help you to explain to me what 
 holiness'is: for I think that you are indolent. Don’t 
 give in yet. Tell me; do you not think that all holiness 
 must be just? 
 
 Euth. I do. 
 
 Socr. Well, then, is all justice holy too? Or, while 
 all holiness is just, is a part only of justice holy, and the 
 rest of it something else? 
 
 Evth. I do not follow you, Socrates. 
 
 Socr. Yet you have the advantage over me in your youth 
 no less in your wisdom. But, as I say, the wealth of your 
 
EUTHYPHRON. 
 
 75 
 
 ■wisdom makes you indolent. Exert yourself, my good 
 friend: I am not asking you a difficult question. I mean 
 the opposite of what the poet said, when he wrote:— 
 
 “ Thou wilt not name Zeus the creator, who made all things : 
 for where, there is fear there also is reverence.” 
 
 Now I disagree with the poet. Shall I tell you why? 
 
 Filth. Yes. 
 
 Socr. I do not think it true to say that where there is 
 fear, there also is reverence. Many people who fear sick¬ 
 ness and poverty and other such evils, seem to me to have 
 fear, but no reverence for what they fear. Do you not 
 think so? 
 
 Euth. Ido. . yjiJL- " 
 
 Socr. But I think that where there is reverence, there 
 also is fear. Does any man feel reverence and a sense of 
 shame about anything, without at the same time dreading 
 and fearing the character of baseness? 
 
 Euth. No, certainly not. 
 
 Socr. Then, though, there is fear wherever there is 
 reverence, it is not correct to say that where there is fear 
 there also is reverence. Reverence d$> not always accom¬ 
 pany fear; for fear, I take it, is wider than reverence. It 
 is a part of fear, just as the odd is a part of number, so 
 that where you have the odd, you must also have number, 
 though where you have number, you do not necessarily 
 have the odd. Now I think you follow me ? 
 
 Euth. I do. 
 
 Socr. Well, then, this is what I meant by the ques¬ 
 tion which I asked you: is there always holiness where 
 there is justice? or, though there is always justice 
 where there is holiness, yet there is not always holiness 
 where there is justice, because holiness is only a part of 
 justice ? Shall we say this, or do you differ ? 
 
 Euth. No: I agree. I think that you are right. 
 
 Socr. Now observe the next point. If holiness is a part 
 of justice, we must find out, I suppose, what part of jus¬ 
 tice it is? Now, if you had asked me just now, for in¬ 
 stance, what part of number is the odd, and what number 
 is an odd number, I should, have said that whatever num¬ 
 ber is not even, is an odd number. Is it not so ? 
 
 f4 /Mm — 
 
?6 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 Euth. Yes. 
 
 Socr. Then see if you can explain to me what part of 
 justice is holiness, that I may tell Meletus that now that 
 I have learnt perfectly from you what actions are pious 
 and holy, and what are not, he must give up prosecuting 
 me unjustly for iinnietu. 
 
 Euth. Well, then, Socrates, I should say that piety and 
 holiness are that part of justice which has to do with the 
 attention which is due to the gods: and that what has to 
 do with the attention which is due to men, is the remaining 
 part of justice. 
 
 Socr. And I think that your answer is a good one, Euthy- 
 phron. But there is one little point, of which I still 
 want to hear more. I do not yet understand what the 
 attention or care which you are speaking of is. I suppose 
 you do not mean that the care which we show to the gods 
 is like the care which we show to other things. We say, 
 for instance, do we not, that not every one knows how to 
 take care of horses, but only the trainer of horses ? 
 
 Euth. Certainly. 
 
 Socr. For I suppose that the art that relates to horses 
 means the care of horses. 
 
 Euth. Yes. 
 
 Socr. And not every one understands the care of dogs, 
 but only the huntsman. 
 
 Euth. True. 
 
 Socr. For I suppose that the huntsman’s art means the 
 care of dogs. 
 
 Euth. Yes. 
 
 Socr. And the herdsman’s art means the. care of cattle. 
 
 Euth. Certainly. 
 
 Socr. And you say that holiness and piety mean the care 
 of the gods, Euthyphron? 
 
 Euth. I do. 
 
 Socr. Well, then, has not all care the same object? Is 
 it not for the good and benefit of that on which it is 
 bestowed? for instance, you see that horses are benefited 
 and improved when they are cared for by the art which is 
 concerned with them. Is it not so ? 
 
EUTHYPHRON. 
 
 77 
 
 Euth. Yes - ; I think so. 
 
 Socr. And dogs are benefited and improved by the hunts¬ 
 man’s art, and cattle by th'% herdsman’s, are they not 7 
 And the same is always true. Or do you think the care is 
 ever meant to hurt that on which it is bestowed ? 
 
 Euth. No indeed; certainly not. 
 
 Socr. But to benefit it? 
 
 Euth. Of course. 
 
 Socr. Then is holiness, which is the care which we be¬ 
 stow on the gods, intended to benefit the gods, or to 
 improve them ? Should you allow that you make any 
 of the gods better, when you do an holy action? 
 
 Euth. No indeed; certainly not. 
 
 Socr. No: I am quite sure that that is not your mean¬ 
 ing, Euthyphron: it was for that reason that I asked you 
 what you meant by the attention due to the gods. I 
 thought that you did not mean that. 
 
 Euth. You were right, Socrates. I do not mean that. 
 
 Socr. Good. Then what sort of attention to the gods 
 will holiness be? 
 
 Euth. The attention, Socrates, of slaves to their mas¬ 
 ters. 
 
 Socr. I understand: the n it. .is. a-kind of service to the 
 
 gocl&£ 
 
 Euth. Certainly. 
 
 Socr. Can you tell me what result the art which serves 
 a doctor serves to produce? Is it not health? 
 
 Euth. Yes. 
 
 Socr. And what result does the art which serves a 
 shipwright serve to produce? 
 
 Euth. A ship, of course, Socrates. 
 
 Socr. The result of the art which serves a builder is a 
 house, is it not? 
 
 Euth. Yes. 
 
 Socr. Then tell me, my excellent friend : What result 
 will the art whiclvserves the gods serve to produce? You 
 must know, seeing that you say that you know : mre about 
 divine things than any other man. 
 
 Euth. Well, that is true, Socrates. 
 
78 
 
 TRI AL AND DEATH OP S' *ORA I PS. 
 
 Socr. Then tell me, t beseech you, what is that grand 
 result which the gods use o .r services to produce? 
 
 Euth. The results are runny and noble, Socrates. 
 
 Socr. So are those, my dear sir, which a general pro¬ 
 duces. Yet it is easy to see that the crowning result of 
 them all is victory in war, is it not? 
 
 Euth. Of course. 
 
 Socr. And, t take it, the husbandman produces many 
 fine results; yet the crowning result of them all is that 
 he makes the earth produce food. 
 
 Euth,. Certainly. 
 
 Socr. Well, then, what is the crowning one of the many 
 and noble results which the gods produce? 
 
 Euth. I told you just now, Socrates, that it is not so 
 easy to learn the exact truth in all these matters. How¬ 
 ever. broadly I say this: if any man km ws that his words 
 and deeds in prayer and sacrifice are acceptable to the 
 gods, that is what is holy: that preserves the common 
 weal, as it does private households, from evil; but the 
 opposite of what is acceptable to the gods is impious, and 
 tins it is that brings ruin and destruction on all things. 
 
 Socr. Certainly, Euthvphron, if you had wished, you 
 could have answered my main question in far fewer words. 
 But you are evidently not anxious to instruct me: just 
 now, when you were just on the point of telling rue what 
 I want to know, you stopped short. If you had gone on 
 then, I should have learnt from you clearly enough by this 
 time what is holiness. But now I am asking you ques¬ 
 tions, and must follow wherever you lead me; so tell me, 
 what is it that you mean ly the holy and holiness? I)o 
 you not mean a science of jrrayer and sacrifice? 
 
 Euth. I do. 
 
 Socr. To sacrifice is to give to the gods, and to pray 
 is to ask of them, is it not ? 
 
 Euth. It is, Socrates. 
 
 Socr. Then you say that holiness is the science of asking 
 of the gods, and giving to them ? 
 
 Euth. You understand my meaning exactly, Socrates. 
 
 Socr. Yes, for I am eager to share your wisdom, lathy 
 
EUTHYPHRON. 
 
 79 
 
 phron, and so I am all attention: nothing that you say 
 will fall to the ground. But tell me, what is this service 
 of the gods? You say it is to ask of them, and to give 
 to them ? 
 
 Euth. I do. 
 
 Socr. Then, to ask rightly will be to ask of them what 
 we stand in need of from them, will it not? 
 
 Euth. Naturally. 
 
 Socr. And to give rightly will be to give back to them 
 what they stand in need of from us ? It would not be very 
 clever to make a present to a man of something that he has 
 no need of. 
 
 Euth. True, Socrates. 
 
 Socr. Then, holiness, Euthyphron, will be an art of 
 traffic between gods and men? 
 
 Euth. Yes, if you like to call it so. 
 
 Socr. Nay, I like nothing but wha f is true. But tell 
 me, how are the gods benefited by the gifts which they re¬ 
 ceive from us ? What they give us is plain enough. Every 
 good thing that we have is their gift. But how are they 
 benefited by what we give them? Have we the advantage 
 over the_mimtlns traffi c so much that we re ceive from them 
 all the good things we possess and give them..nothin g in 
 return ? 
 
 Euth. But do you suppose, Socrates, that the gods are 
 benefited by the gifts which they receive from us ? 
 
 Socr. But what are these gifts, Euthyphron, that we give 
 the gods? 
 
 Euth. What do you think but honor, and homage, and, 
 as I have said, what is acceptable to them. 
 
 Socr. Then holiness, Euthyphron, is acceptable to the 
 gods, but it is not profitable, nor dear to them? 
 
 Euth. I think that nothing is dearer to them. 
 
 Socr. Then I see that holiness means that which is dear 
 to the gods. 
 
 Euth. Most certainly. 
 
 Socr. After that, shall you be surprised to find that your 
 definitions move about, instead of staying where you place 
 them ? Shall you charge me with being the Daedalus that 
 
80 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 makes tliem move, when ) f ou yourself are far more skilful 
 than Daedalus was, and make them go round in a circle? 
 Do you not see that our definition has come round to 
 where it was befote? Surely you remember that we have 
 already seen that holiness, and what is pleasing to the gods, 
 are quite different things. Do you not remember? 
 
 Eutli. I do. 
 
 Socr. And now do you not see that you say that what 
 the gods love is holy ? But does not what the gods love 
 come to the same thing as what is pleasing to the gods? 
 
 Euth. Certainly. 
 
 Socr. Then either our former conclusion was wrong, or, 
 if that was right, we are wrong now. 
 
 Euth. So it seems. 
 
 Soc. Then we must begin again, and inquire what is 
 holiness. I do not mean to give in until I have found out. 
 Do not deem me unworthy; give your whole mind to the 
 question, and this time tell me the truth. For if any one 
 knows it, it is you ; and you are a Proteus-whonT I must 
 not let go until you have told me. It cannot be that you 
 would ever have undertaken to prosecute your aged father 
 for the murder of a laboring man unless you had known 
 exactly what is holiness and unholiness. You would have 
 feared to risk the anger of the gods, in case you should 
 be doing wrong, and you would have been afraid of what 
 men would say. But now 1 am sure that you think that 
 you know exactly what is holiness and what is not: so tell 
 me, my excellent Euthyphron, and do not conceal from me 
 what you hold it to be. 
 
 Euth. Another time, then, Socrates. I am in a hurry 
 now, and it is time for me to be off. 
 
 Soc. What are you doing, my friend ? Will you go away 
 and destroy all my hopes of learning from you what is 
 holy and what is not, and so of escaping Meletus? I 
 meant to explain to him that now Euthyphron has made 
 me wise about divine things, and that I no longer in my 
 ignorance speak rashly about them or introduce novelties 
 in them; and then I was going to promise him to live a 
 better life for the future. 
 
THE APOLOGY. 
 
CHARACTER. 
 
 Socrates. 
 
 Meletus. 
 
 Scene.— The Court of Justice. 
 
THE APOLOGY. 
 
 Socr. I cannot tell what impression my accusers have 
 have made upon you, Athenians: for my own part, I know 
 that they nearly made me forget who I was, so plausible 
 were they; and yet they have scarcely uttered one single 
 word of truth. But of all their many falsehoods, the one 
 whichTastonished me most, was when they said that I was 
 a clever speaker^ and that you must be careful not to let 
 me hhi.sleild-y.6n. I thought that it was most impudent 
 of them not to be ashamed to talk in that way; for as soon 
 as I open my mouth the lie will be exposed, and I shall 
 prove that I am not a clever speaker in any way ._at_a.ll-t- 
 unless, indeed, by a clever speaker they mean a man who 
 speaks the truth. If that is their meaning, I agree with 
 them that I am a much greater orator than they. Mv 
 accusers, then I repeat, have said little or nothings that is_ 
 
 true - ; but from me you shall hear the whole tru th. Cer- 
 
 tamly you wTTThofTTSar^rff elaborafe speech, Athenians, 
 dressed up, like theirs, with words and phrases. I will say 
 to you what I have to say, without preparation, and in the 
 words which come first, for I believe that my cause is 
 just; so let none of you expect anything else. Indeed, 
 my friends, it would hardly be seemly for me, at my age, 
 to come before you like a young man with his specious 
 falsehoods. But there is one thing, Athenians, which I do 
 most earnestly beg and entreat of you. Do not be sur-’ 
 prised and do not intrrupt, if in my defense I speak in 
 the same way that I am accustomed to speak in the market- 
 
 83 
 
TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 84 
 
 place, at the tables of the money-changers, where many 
 of you have heard me, and elsewhere. The truth is this, 
 I am more than seventy years old, and this is the first 
 time that 1 have ever come before a Court of Law; so your 
 manner of speech here is quite strange to me. If I had 
 been really a stranger, you would have forgiven me for 
 speaking in the language and the fashion of my native 
 country: and so now 1 ask you to grant me what I think 
 I have a right to claim. Never mind the style of my 
 speech—it may be better or it may be worse—give your 
 whole attention to the question, Is what I say just, or is 
 it not? That is what makes a good judge, as speaking the 
 truth makes a good advocate. 
 
 I have to defend myself, Athenians, first against the old 
 false charges of my old accusers, and then against the 
 later ones of my present accusers. For many men have 
 been accusing me to you, and for very many years, who 
 have not uttered a word of truth: and I fear them more 
 than I fear Anytus and his companions, formidable as 
 they are. But, my friends, those others are still more 
 formidable; for they got hold of most of you when you 
 were children, and they have been more persistent in accus¬ 
 
 ing me with lies, and in trying to persuade you that there 
 is one Socrates, a wise man, who speculates about the' 
 heavens, and who examines into all things that are beneath 
 the earth, and who can “make the worse appear theBetter 
 'reason.” These men, Athenians, who spread abroad this 
 report, are the accusers whom I fear; for their hearers 
 think that persons who pursue such inquiries never believe 
 in the gods. And then they are many, and their attacks 
 have been going on for a long time: and they spoke to you. 
 when you were at the age most readily to believe them: 
 for you were all young, and many of you were children: 
 and there was no one to answer them when they attacked 
 me. And the most unreasonable thing of all is that 
 commonly I do not even know their names: I cannot tell 
 you - who they are, except in the case of the comic poets. 
 But all the rest who have been trying to prejudice you 
 against me, from motives of spite and jealousy, and some- 
 
THE APOLOGY. 
 
 85 
 
 times, it may be, from conviction, are the enemies whom it 
 is hardest to meet. For I cannot call any one of them 
 forward in Court, to cross-examine him: I have, as it were, 
 simply to fight with shadows in my defense, and to put 
 questions which there is no one to answer. I ask you, 
 therefore, to believe that, as I say, I have been attacke d 
 by t wo classes of accuse rs—first by Meletus and his friends, 
 ancTthen bv those^dldeF^ne^^T^1ro'm^''i'" J haTe'"F5oR”en. 
 Ana, with your leave, I will defend myself first against 
 my old enemies: for you beard their accusations first, 
 and they were much more persistent than my present 
 accusers are. 
 
 Well, I must make my defense, Athenians, and try in the 
 short time allowed me to remove the prejudice which you 
 have had against me for a long time. I hope that I may 
 manage to do this, if it bo good for you and for me, and 
 that my defense may be successful; but I am quite aware 
 of the nature of my task, and I know that it is a difficult 
 one. Be the issue, however, as God wills, I must obey the 
 v ;*‘ law, and make my defense. 
 
 ^ Let us begin again, then, and see what is the charge 
 which has given rise to the prejudice against me, which, 
 was what Meletus relied on when he drew his indictment. 
 What is the calumny which my enemies have been spread¬ 
 ing about me? I must assume that they are formally 
 accusing me, and read their indictment. It would run_ 
 somewhat in this fashion: “ Socrates is an evil-doer, who : 
 meddles with inquiries into things beneath the earth, and 1 
 in heaven, and who ‘mak es the worse appear the b etter j 
 r eason/ and who teaches others these same things?’ That 
 is what they say; and in the Comedy of Aristophanes^ 
 you yourselves saw a man called Socrates swinging round 
 in a basket, and saying that he walked the air, and talking 
 a great deal of nonsense about matters of which I under¬ 
 stand nothing, either more or less. I do not mean to . 
 disparage that kind of knowledge, if there is any man who. 
 possesses it. I trust Meletus may never be able to prosecute 
 me for that. But, the truth is, Athenians, I have nothing 
 to do with these matters, and almost all of you are your-> 
 
ot) TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 selves my witnesses of this. I beg all of you who have 
 ever heard me converse, and they are many, to inform your 
 neighbors and tell them if any of you have ever heard me 
 conversing about such matters, either more or less. That 
 will show you that the other common stories about me are 
 as false as this one. 
 
 But, the fact is, that not one of these stories is true; 
 and if you have heard that I undertake to educate men, 
 and exact money from them for so doing, that is not true > 
 either; though I think that it would be a fine thing to be 
 able to educate men, as Gorgias of Leontini, and Prodicus 
 of Ceos, and Hippias of Elis do. For each of them, my 
 friends, can go into any city, and persuade the young men 
 to leave the society of their fellow-citizens, wfith any 
 of whom they might associate for nothing, and to be only 
 too glad to be allowed to pay money for the privilege of 
 associating with themselves. And I believe that there is 
 another wise man from Paros residing in Athens at this 
 moment. I happened to meet Callias, the son of Hipponi- 
 cus, a man who has spent more money on the Sophists 
 than every one else put together. So I said to him—he 
 has two sons—Callias, if your two sons had been foals or 
 calves, we could have hired a trainer for them who would 
 have made them perfect in the excellence which belongs 
 to their nature. He would have been either a groom or a 
 farmer. But whom do you intend to take to train them, 
 seeing that they are men ? Who understands the excellence 
 which belongs to men and to citizens? 1 suppose that you 
 must have thought of this, because of your sons. Is there 
 such a person, said I, or not? Certainly there is, he re¬ 
 plied. Who is he, said T, and where does he come from, 
 and what is his fee? His name is Evenus, Socrates, he 
 replied: he comes from Paros, and his fee is five minae. 
 Then I thought that Evenus was a fortunate person if he 
 really understood this art and could teach so cleverly. If 
 I had possessed knowledge of that kind. I should have 
 given myself airs and prided myself on it. But, Athen¬ 
 ians, the truth is that I do not possess it. 
 
 Perhaps some of you may reply: But, Socrates, what is 
 
THE APOLOGY. 
 
 89 
 
 this pursuit of jours? Whence come these calumnies 
 against you? You must have been engaged in some pur¬ 
 suit out of the common. All these stories and reports 
 of you would never have gone about, if you had not been 
 in some way different from other men. So tell us what 
 your pursuits are, that we may not give our verdict in the 
 dark. I think that that is a fair question, and I will try 
 to explain to you what it is that has raised these calumnies 
 against me, and given me this name. Listen, then: some" 
 of you perhaps will think that I am jesting; but; I assure 
 you that I will tell you the whole truth. I have gained 
 this name, Athenians, sjmply b y reason of a certain wis ¬ 
 dom. But by what kind of wisdom? It is. by just that 
 "wisclorii which is, I believe, possible to,men. In that, it 
 may be, I am really wise. But the men of whom I was 
 speaking just now must be wise in a wisdom which is 
 greater than human wisdom, or in some way which I cannot 
 describe, for certainly I know nothing of it myself, and 
 if any man says that I do, he lies and wants to slander 
 me. Do not interrupt me, Athenians, even if you think 
 that I am speaking arrogantly. What I am going to say 
 is not my ovtn: I will tell you who says it, and he is 
 worthy of your credit. I will bring the g od of Delph i 
 to be the_jyifness of the Yaet~o£ m : y-. wisdom and of its 
 nature. You remember H^haerephon. JFrom youth up¬ 
 wards he was my comrade; ancTHewent into exile with the 
 people, and with the people he returned. And you re¬ 
 member, too, Chasrephon’s character; how vehement he was 
 in carrying through whatever he took in hand. Dnee he 
 went to Delphi and ventured to put this question to the 
 oracle,—I entreat you again, my friends, not to cry out,— 
 he asked if there was any man whn_wj£_sasef-than I: and 
 the priestess answered that there was no man. Chaere- 
 phon himself is dead, but his brother here will confirm 
 what I say. 
 
 Now see why I tell you this. I am going to explain to 
 you the origin of my unpopularity. When I heard of the 
 oracle I began to reflect: What can God mean by this 
 dark saying ? I know very well that I 'am not wise, even 
 
Ot) 
 
 J TllIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 in the smallest degree. Then what can he mean by saying 
 that I am the wisest of men? It cannot be that he is 
 speaking falsely, for he is a god and cannot lie. And for 
 a long time I was at a loss to understand his meaning: 
 then, very reluctantly, 1 turned to seek for it in this 
 manner. I went to a man who was reputed to be -wise, 
 thinking that there, if anywhere, I should prove the answer 
 wrong, and meaning to point out to the oracle its mistake, 
 and to say, “You said that I was the wisest of men, but 
 this man is wiser than I am.” So I examined the man— 
 
 I need not tell you his name, he was a politician—but 
 this was the result, Athenians. When I conversed with\ 
 him I came to see that, though a great many persons, and \ 
 most of all he himself, thought that he was wise, yet he 
 was not wise. • And then I tried to prove to him that 
 he was not vise, though he fancied that he was: and by so 
 doing l made him, and many of the bystanders, my en¬ 
 emies. So when I went away, I thought to myself, “ I 
 am wiser than this man: neithe r, of us p robably-knows a ny- 
 1 hiiv that is rea lly good, but he thinks that he has knowl¬ 
 edge, when he has not, while I, having no knowledge, do 
 not thTnk that I have, I seem," at any rate, to be a little 
 wiser than he is on this point: I do not thin k, that 
 I know what I do not know.” Next I went to anofher 
 man who was reputed to be still wiser than the last, with 
 exactly the same result. .And there again I made him, 
 and many other men, my enemies. 
 
 Then i went on to one man after another, seeing .that-1 
 was making enemies every day, which caused me much 
 unhappiness and anxiety: still T thought that 1 must set 
 God^s command above everything. So I had to go to every 
 man who seemed to possess any knowledge, and search for 
 the meaning of the oracle: and, Athenians, Imust tell you 
 the truth; verily, by the dog of Egypt, this was the result 
 of the search which I made at God’s bidding. I found 
 that the men, whose reputation for, w isdom .hood highest, 
 were.nearly the most lacking in it; while others, who ■were 
 looked down on as comriion people, were much better fitted 
 to learn. Now, 1 must describe to you the wanderings 
 
THE APOLOGY. 
 
 89 
 
 which I undertook, like a series of Heraclean labors, to 
 make full proof of the oracle. -After the p olitician s, I 
 went to the poets, tra gijcu-dithyrambic, and others, thinking 
 that there I should find myself manifestly more ignorant 
 than they. So I took up the poems on which I thought 
 that they had spent most pains, and asked them what they 
 meant, hoping at the same time to learn something from 
 them. I am ashamed to tell you the truth, my friends, 
 but I must say it. Alm ost any one o f the bystanders 
 could have talked aboufTtlre works of these poets , better 
 thahthe poets themselves. So I soon found that it is not 
 by wisdom that the poets create their works, but by a cer¬ 
 tain natural power and by inspiration, like soothsayers 
 and p rophets, who say many fine thing s, but who under¬ 
 stand nothing of what they say. The poets seemed to me 
 to be in a similar case. And at the same time I perceived 
 that, because of their poetry, they thought that they were 
 the wisest of men in other matters too, which they were' 
 not. So I went away again, thinking that I had the same 
 advantage over the poets that I had over the politicians. 
 
 Finally, I went to the artisans, for I knew very well 
 that I possesed no knowledge at all, worth speaking of, 
 and I was sure that I should find that they knew many 
 fine things. And in that I was not mistaken. They knew 
 what I did not know, and so far they were wiser than I. 
 But, Athenians, it seemed to me that the skilled artisans 
 made the same mistake as the poets. Each of them be¬ 
 lieved himself to be extremely wise in matters of the great¬ 
 est importance, because he was skilful in his own art: and 
 this" mistake.'of theirs threw their real wisdom mto the 
 Shade. So I asked myself, on behalf of the oracle, whether 
 I would choose to remain as I was, without either their 
 wisdom or their ignorance, or to possess both, as they did. 
 And I made answer to myself and to the oracle that it was 
 better for me to remain as I was. 
 
 By reason of this, examination, Athenians, I have made 
 many enemies of a very fierce and bitter kind, who have 
 spread abroad a great number of calumnies about me, and 
 people say that I am “ a wise man.” For the bystanders 
 
90 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 always think that I am wise myself in any matter wherein 
 [ convict another man of ignorance. But, my friends, 
 '»•••. ih-il f "\ 1 y God really wise.: an d Ibat l.y 
 . oracle he meant that men’s wisdom is worth little or 
 : rtii n^T l do not think-tb qt >|f> ippqnl that .Socrates was 
 sc. He only made use of my name, and took me as an 
 example, as though he would say to men, “ li e amo ng you 
 is the wisest, who, like Socrates, Knows that in very 
 truth his wisdom i- worth not hing at all.” And therefore 
 ' I shall go about te.-tin and examining every man whom 
 1 think wise, whether he he a citizen or a stranger, as 
 God has commanded me; and whenever I find that he is 
 not wise, 1 point out to him on the part of God that he 
 is not wise. And I am so busy in this pursuit that I have 
 never had leisure to take any part worth mentioning in 
 public matters, or to look after my private affairs. I am 
 in very great poverty by reason of my service to God. 
 
 , And besides this, the young men who follow me about, 
 who are the sons of wealthy persons and have a great deal 
 of spare time, take a natural pleasure in hearing men 
 cross-examined: and they often imitate me among them¬ 
 selves : then they try their hands at cross-examining other 
 people. And, I imagine, they find a great abundance of 
 men who think that they know a great deal, when in fact 
 they know little or nothing. And then the persons who 
 are cross-examined, get angry with me instead of with 
 themselves, and say that Socrates is an abominable fellow 
 who corrupts young men. And when they are asked. 
 Why, what does he do ? what does he teach ? ” they do not 
 know what to say ; but, not to seem at a loss, they repeat 
 the stock charges against all philosophers, and allege that 
 he investigates things in the air and under the earth, and 
 that he teaches people to disbelieve in the gods, and “ to 
 make the worse appear the better reason.” Fo r, I fa ncy, 
 they jionld.Jiot dike to confess the t rut h, w hich is that they 
 are shown up as ignor anf uretendexs jto knowledge that 
 they do not possess. ■ And so they have been filling your 
 ears with their ’Bitter''calumnies for a long time, for they 
 are zealous and numerous and bitter against^me; and they 
 
THE APOLOGY. 
 
 are well disciplined and plausible in speech. On L 
 grounds Meletus and Anjbus and Lycon have attacked mt 
 Meletus is indignant with me on the part of the ppets, ana 
 Anytus on the part of the artisa ns and politicians, and 
 Lycon on the part of the oratojs. And so, as I said at the 
 beginning, I shall be surprised if I am able, in the short 
 time allowed me for my defense, to remove from your 
 minds this prejudice which has grown so strong. What 
 I have told you, Athenians, is the truth: I neither conceal, 
 nor do I suppress anything, small or great. And yet I 
 know that it is just this plainness of speech which makes 
 me enemies. But that is only a proof that my words are 
 true, and that the prejudice against me, and the causes 
 of it, are what I have said. And whether you look for 
 them now or hereafter, you will find that they are so. 
 
 What I have said must suffice as my defense against 
 the charges of my accusers. I will try next to defend 
 myself against that “ good patriot ” Meletus, as he calls 
 himself, and my later accusers. Let us assume that they 
 are a new set of accusers, and read their indictment, as 
 we did in the case of the others. It runs thus. He says- 
 that Socrates is an evil-doer who corrupts the youth,"and 
 who does not believe in the gods whom the city believes in, 
 but in other new divinities. Such is the charge. Let us 
 examine each point in it separately. Meletus says that I 
 do wrong by corrupting the youth: but I say, Athenians, 
 that he is doing wrong; for he is playing off a solemn jest 
 lry.bringing men lightly to trial, and p re tending to. ha.ve 
 a great zeal and interest in matters to which he has never 
 given a moment’s thought. And now I will try to prove 
 to you that it is so. 
 
 Come here, Meletus. Is it not a fact that you think it 
 very important that the younger men should be as excellent 
 as possible? 
 
 Meletus. It is. 
 
 Socrates. Come then: tell the judges, who is it who im¬ 
 proves them? You take so much interest in the matter 
 that of course you know that. You are accusing me, and 
 bringing me to trial, because, as you say, you have dis- 
 
TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 red that I am the corrupter of the youth. Come now, 
 
 real to the judges who improves them. You see, Mele¬ 
 tus, you have nothing to say; you are silent. But don’t 
 you think that this is a scandalous thing? Is not your 
 silence a conclusive proof of what I say, that you have 
 never given a moment’s thought to the matter? Come, 
 tell us, my good sir, who makes the young men better citi¬ 
 zens? 
 
 Mel. The laws. 
 
 Socr. My excellent sir, that is not my question. What 
 man improves the young, who starts with a knowledge of the 
 laws? 
 
 Mel. The judges here, Socrates. 
 
 Socr. What do you mean, Meletus? Can they educate 
 the young and improve them? 
 
 Mel. Certainly. 
 
 Socr. All of them? or only some of them? 
 
 Mel. All of them. 
 
 Socr. By Here, that is good news! There is a great 
 abundance of benefactors. And do the listeners here im¬ 
 prove them, or not? 
 
 Mel. They do. 
 
 Socr. And do the senators? 
 
 Mel. Yes. 
 
 Socr. Well then, Meletus; do the members of the assem¬ 
 bly corrupt the younger men ? or do they again all improve 
 them? 
 
 Mel. They too improve them. 
 
 Socr. Then all the Athenians, apparently, make the 
 young into fine fellows except me, and I alone corrupt 
 them. Is that your meaning? 
 
 Mel. Most certainly; that is my meaning. 
 
 Socr. You have discovered me to be a most unfortunate 
 man. Mow tell me: do you think that the same holds 
 good in the ease of horses ? Does one man do them harm 
 and every one else improve them? On the contrary, is 
 it not one man only, or a very few—namely, those who 
 are skilled in horses—who can improve them; while the 
 majority of men harm them, if they use them, and have 
 
THE APOLOGY. 
 
 ■ 43 
 
 93 
 
 to do with them? Is it not so, Meletus, both with horses 
 and with every other animal? Of course it is, whether 
 you and Anytus say yes or no. And young men would 
 certainly be very fortunate persons if only one man cor¬ 
 rupted them, and every one else did them good. The 
 truth is, Meletus, you prove conclusively that you have 
 never thought about the youth in your life. It is quite 
 clear, on your own showing, that you take no interest at 
 all in the matters about which you are prosecuting me. 
 
 Now, be so good as to tell us, Meletus, is it better to live 
 among good citizens or bad ones ? Answer, my friend: I 
 am not asking you at all a difficult question. Do not bad 
 citizens do harm to their neighbors and good citizens good ? 
 
 Mel. Yes. 
 
 Socr. Is there any man who would rather be injured 
 than benefited by his companions? Answer, my good sir: 
 you are obliged by the law to answer. Does any one like 
 to be injured ? 
 
 Mel. Certainly not. 
 
 Socr. Well then; are you prosecuting me for corrupting 
 the young, and making them worse men, intentionally or 
 unintentionally ? 
 
 Mel. For doing it intentionally. 
 
 Socr. What, Meletus? Do you mean to say that you, 
 who are so much younger than I, are yet so much wiser 
 than I, that you know that bad citizens always do evil, and 
 that good citizens always do good, to those with whom 
 they come in contact, while I am so extraordinarily stupid 
 as not to know that if I make any of my companions a 
 rogue, he will probably injure me in some way, and as 
 to commit this great crime, as you allege, intentionally? 
 You will not make me believe that, nor any one else either, 
 
 I should think. Either I do not corrupt the young at 
 all; or if I do, I do so unintentionally: so that you are 
 a liar in either case. And if I corrupt them uninten- - 
 tionally, the law does not call upon you to prosecute me 
 for a fault like that, which is an involuntary one: you 
 should take me aside and admonish and instruct me: for 
 of course I shall cease from doing wrong involuntarily, 
 
94 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 as soon as I know that 1 have been doing wrong. But 
 you declined to i nstruct m e :jyun.-wott4d-hayepnothing to do 
 with me: instead of that, you bring_mc_ up~before the 
 Court, where fhe law s ends persons, n ot for instruction, 
 but for punishment. 
 
 The truth is, Athenians, as I said, it is quite clear that 
 Meletus has never paid the slightest attention to these 
 matters. However, now tell us, Meletus, how do you say 
 that I corrupt the younger men? Clearly, according to 
 your indictment, by teaching them not to believe in the 
 gods of the city, but in other new divinities instead. You 
 mean that I corrupt young men by that teaching, do you 
 not? 
 
 Mel. Yes: most certainly; I mean that. 
 
 Socr. Then in the name of these gods of whom we are 
 speaking, explain yourself a little more clearly to me and 
 to the judges here. I canuot understand what you mean. 
 Do you mean that I* teach young men to believe in some 
 gods, but not in the gods of the city? Do you accuse me 
 of teaching them to believe in strange gods? If that is 
 your meaning, I myself believe in some gods, and my 
 crime is not that of absolute atheism. Or do you mean 
 that I do not believe in the gods at all myself, and that I 
 teach other people not to believe in them either? 
 
 Mel. I mean that you do not believe in the gods in any 
 way whatever. 
 
 Socr. Wonderful Meletus! Why do you say that? Do 
 you mean that I believe neither the sun nor the moon to be 
 gods, like other men? 
 
 Mel. I swear he does not, judges: he says that the sun 
 is a stone, and the moon earth. 
 
 Socr. My dear Meletus, do j r ou think that you are prose¬ 
 cuting Anaxagoras? You must have a very poor opinion 
 of the judges, and think them very unlettered men, if you 
 imagine that they do not know that the works of Anax¬ 
 agoras of Clazomenae are full of these doctrines. And so 
 young men learn these things from me, when they can 
 often buy places in the theater for a drachma at most, 
 and laugh Socrates to scorn, were he to pretend that these 
 
THE APOLOGY. 
 
 9n 
 
 doctrines, which are very peculiar doctrines too, were his. 
 But please tell me, do you really think that I do not be¬ 
 lieve in the gods at all ? 
 
 Mel. Most certainly I do. You are a comple te-atheist. 
 
 Socr.jX o one believes that, Meletus, and I think that 
 you know it to be a lie yourself. It seems to me, Athenians, 
 that Meletus is a very insolent and wanton man, and that 
 he is prosecuting me simply in the insolence and wanton¬ 
 ness of youth. He is like a man trying an experiment on 
 me, by asking me a riddle that has no answer. “ Will this 
 wise Socrates,” he says to himself, “ see that I am jesting 
 and contradicting myself ? or shall I outwit him and every 
 one else who hears me ? ” Meletus seems to me to contra¬ 
 dict himself in his indictment: it is as if he were to say, 
 “ Socrates is a wicked man who does not believe in the 
 gods, but who believes in the gods.” But that is mere 
 trifling. 
 
 Now, my friends, let us see why I think that this is his 
 meaning. Do you answer me, Meletus: and do you, 
 Athenians, remember the request which I made to you at 
 starting, and do not interrupt me if I talk in my usual 
 way. 
 
 Is there any man, Meletus, who believes in the existence 
 of things pertaining to men and not in the existence of 
 men ? Make him answer the question, my friends, without 
 these absurd interruptions. Is there any man who believes 
 in the existence of horsemanship and not in the existence of 
 horses ? or in flute-playing and not in flute-players ? There 
 is not, my excellent sir. If you will not answer, I will tell 
 both you and the judges that. But you must answer my 
 next question. Is there any man who believes in the exist¬ 
 ence of divine things and not in the existence of divinities ? 
 
 Mel. There is not. 
 
 Socr. I am very glad that the judges have managed to 
 extract an answer from you. Well then, you say that I 
 believe in divine beings, -whether they be old or new ones, 
 and that I teach others to believe in them; at any rate, ac¬ 
 cording to your statement, I believe in divine beings. That 
 you have sworn in your deposition. But if I believe in 
 
96 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 divine beings, I suppose it follows necessarily that I be¬ 
 lieve in divinities. Is it not so? It is. I assume that you 
 grant that, as you do not answer. But do we not believe 
 that divinities are either gods themselves or the children of 
 the gods ? I)o you admit that ? 
 
 Mel. I do. 
 
 Soar. Then you admit that I believe in divinities: now. if 
 these divinities are gods, then, as I say, you are jesting and 
 asking a riddle, and asserting that I do not believe in the 
 gods, and at the same time that I do, since I believe in di¬ 
 vinities. But if these divinities are the illegitimate chil¬ 
 dren of the gods, either by the nymphs or by other mothers, 
 as they are said to be, then, I ask, what man could believe 
 in the existence of the children of the gods, and not in the 
 existence of the gods? That would be as strange as be¬ 
 lieving in the existence of the offspring of horses and asses, 
 and not in the existence of horses and asses. You must 
 have indicted me in this manner, Meletus, either to test 
 my skill, or because you could not find any crime that you 
 could accuse me of with truth. But you will never con¬ 
 trive to persuade any man, even of the smallest understand¬ 
 ing, that a belief in divine things and Idlings of the gods 
 does not necessarily involve a belief in divinities, and in 
 the gods, and in heroes. 
 
 But in truth, Athenians, I do not think that I need say 
 very much to prove that I have not committed the crime 
 for which Meletus is prosecuting me. What I have said is 
 enough to prove that. But, I repeat, it is_j^rtain]y:True, 
 as I have already told you, that I have incurred much un¬ 
 popularity and made many enemies. And that is what will 
 cause mv condemnation, if I am condemned; not Meletus, 
 nor Anytus either, but the prejudice and suspicion of the 
 multitude. They have been the destruction of many good 
 men before me, and I think that they will be so again. 
 There is no fear that I shall be their last victim. 
 
 Perhaps some one will say: “Are you not ashamed, 
 Socrates, of following pursuits which are very likely now 
 to cause your death ? ” I should answer him with justice, 
 and say: My friend, if you think that a man of any 
 
THE APOLOGY. 
 
 9'< 
 
 worth at all ought to reckon the chances of life and death 
 when lie acts, or that he ought to think of anything but 
 whether he is acting rightly or wrongly, and as a good or 
 a bad man would act, you are grievously mistaken. Ac¬ 
 cording to you, the demigods who died at Troy would be 
 men of no great worth, and among them the son of Thetis, 
 who thought nothing of danger when the alternative was 
 disgrace. For when his mother, a goddess, addressed him, 
 as he was burning to slay Hector, I suppose in this fashion, 
 “ My son, if thou avengest the death of thy comrade Patro- 
 clus. and slayest Hector, thou wilt die thyself, for ‘ fate 
 awaits thee straightway after Hector’s death; ’ ” he heard 
 what she said, but he scorned danger and death; he feared 
 much more to live a coward, and not to avenge his friend. 
 “ Let me punish the evil-doer and straightway die,” he 
 said, “ that I may not remain here by the beaked ships, a 
 scorn of men, encumbering the earth.” Do you suppose 
 that he thought of danger or of death? For this, Athen¬ 
 ians, I believe to be the truth. Wherever a man’s post is, 
 whether he has chosen it of his own will, or whether he 
 has been placed at it by his commander, there it is his duty 
 to remain and face the danger, without thinking of death, 
 or of any other thing, except dishonor. 
 
 When the generals whom you chose to command me, 
 Athenians, placed me at my post at Potidsea, and at 
 Amphipolis, and at Delium, I remained where they placed 
 me, and ran the risk of death, like other men: and it 
 would be very strange conduct on my part if I were to 
 desert my post now from fear of death or of any other 
 thing, when God has commanded me, as I am persuaded 
 that he has done, to spend my life in searching for wisdom, 
 and in examining myself and others. That would indeed be 
 a very strange thing: and then certainly I might with jus¬ 
 tice be brought to trial for not believing in the gods: for I 
 should be disobeying the oracle, and fearing death, and 
 thinking myself wise, when I was not wise. For to fear 
 death, my friends,is only.to think ourselves wise, without 
 being wfse:_for it is to think that we know what we do not 
 know. For anything that men can tell, death may be the 
 _ . 7 . 
 
9$ 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 greatest goq$ that can happen to them: but they fear it 
 as if they knew quite well that it was the greatest of evils. 
 And what is this but that shameful ignorance of thinking 
 that we know what we do not know? In this matter too, 
 my friends, perhaps I am different from the mass of man¬ 
 kind : and if I were to claim to be at all wiser than others, 
 it would be because I do not think that I have any clear 
 knowledge about the other world, when, in fact, I have 
 none. But I do know very well that it is evil and base to 
 do wrong, and to disobey my superior, whether he be man 
 or god. And I will never do what I know to be evil, and 
 shrink in fear from what, for all that I can tell, may be a 
 good. And so, even if you acquit me now, and do not 
 listen to Anytus’ argument that, if I am to be acquitted, I 
 ought never to have been brought to trial at all; and that, 
 as it is, you are bound to put me to death, because, as he 
 said, if I escape, all your children will forthwith be utterly 
 corrupted by practising what Socrates teaches; if you were 
 therefore to say to me, “ Socrates, this time we will not 
 listen to Anytus: we will let you go; but on this condition, 
 that 7011 cease from carrying on this search of yours, and 
 from philosophy; if you are found following those pursuits 
 again, you shall die: ” I say, if you offered to let me go 
 on these terms, I should reply:—“ Athenians, I hold you 
 in the highest regard and love; but I will obey God rather 
 than you: and as long as I have breath and strength I will 
 not cease from philosophy, and from exhorting you, and 
 declaring the truth to every one of you whom I meet, say¬ 
 ing, as I am wont, ‘ My excellent friend, you are a citizen 
 of Athens, a city which is very great and very famous for 
 wisdom and power of mind; are you not ashamed of caring 
 so much for the making of money, and for reputation, and 
 for honor? Will you not think.or care about wisdom, and 
 truth, and the perfection of your soul ? ’ And if he dis¬ 
 putes my words, and says that he does care about these 
 things, I shall not forthwith release him and go away: I 
 shall question him and cross-examine him and test him: 
 and if I think that he has not virtue, though he says that 
 he has, I shall reproach him for setting the lower value on 
 
THE APOLOGY. 
 
 99 
 
 the most important things, and a higher value on those that 
 are of less account. This I shall do to every one whom I 
 meet, young or old, citizen or stranger : but more especially 
 to the citizens, for they are more nearly akin to me. For,' 
 know well, God has commanded me to do so. And I think 
 that no better piece of fortune has ever befallen you. in 
 Athens than my service to God. For I spend my whole x. e e 
 in going about and persuading you all to give your first an 
 chiefest care to the perfection of your souls, and not till 
 you have done that to think of your bodies, or your wealth ; . 
 and telling you that virtue does not come from wealth, but 
 that wealth, and every other good thing which men have,, 
 whether in public, or in private, comes from virtue. If • 
 then I corrupt the youth by this teaching, the mischief is 
 great: but if any man says that I teach anything else, he 
 speaks falsely. And therefore, Athenians,- I say, either 
 listen to Anytus, or do not listen to him: either acquit me, 
 or do not acquit me: but be sure that I shall not alter my 
 way of life; no, not I have to die for it many times. 
 
 Do not interrupt me, Athenians. Remember the request 
 which I made to you, and listen to my words. I think that 
 it will profit you to hear them. I am going to say some¬ 
 thing more to you, at which you may be inclined to cry 
 out: but do not do that. Be sure that if you put me to 
 death, who am what I have told you that I am, you will do 
 yourselves more harm than me. Meletus and Anytus can 
 do me no harm: that is impossible: for I am sure that God 
 will not allow a good man to be injured by a bad one. 
 They may indeed kill me, or drive me into exile, or deprive 
 me of my civil rights; and perhaps Meletus and others 
 think those things great evils. But'I do not think so: I 
 think that it is a much greater evil to do what he is doing 
 now, and to try to put a man to death unjustly. And now, 
 Athenians, I am not arguing in my own defense at all, as 
 you might expect me to do : I am trying to persuade you not 
 to sin against God, by condemning me, and rejecting his 
 gift to you. For if you put me to death, you will not easily 
 find another man to fill my place. God has sent me to at¬ 
 tack the city, as if it were a great and noble horse, to use 
 
100 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 a quaint simile, which was rather sluggish from its size, and 
 which needed to be aroused by a gadfly: and I think that I 
 am the gadfly that God has sent to the city to attack it; for 
 1 never cease from settling upon you, as it were, at every 
 point, and rousing, and exhorting, and reproaching each 
 man of you all day long. You will not easily find any 
 one else, my friends, to fill my place: and if you take my 
 advice, you will spare my life. You are vexed, as drowsy 
 persons are, when they are awakened, and of course, if you 
 listened to Anytus, you could easily kill me with a single 
 blow, and then sleep on undisturbed for the rest of your 
 lives, unless God were to care for you enough to send an¬ 
 other man to arouse you. And you may easily see that it 
 is God who has given me to your city: a mere human im¬ 
 pulse would never have led me to neglect all my own in¬ 
 terests, or to endure seeing my private affairs neglected now 
 for so many years, while it made me busy myself unceas¬ 
 ingly in your interests, and go to each man of you by him¬ 
 self, like a father, or an elder brother, trying to persuade 
 him to care for virtue. There would have been a reason 
 for it, if I had gained any advantage by this conduct, or 
 if I had been paid for my exhortations; but you see your¬ 
 selves that my accusers, though they accuse me of every¬ 
 thing else without blushing, have not had the effrontery to 
 say that I ever either exacted or demanded payment. They 
 could bring no evidence of that. And I think that I have 
 sufficient evidence of the truth of what I say in my poverty. 
 
 Perhaps it may seem strange to you that, though I am so 
 busy in going about in private with my counsel, yet I do 
 not venture to come forward in the assembly, and take 
 part in the public councils. You have often heard me 
 speak of my reason for this, and in many places: it is that 
 I have a certain divine sign'from God, which is the divin¬ 
 ity that Meletus has caricatured in his indictment. I have 
 had it from childhood: it is a kind of voice, which when¬ 
 ever I hear it, always turns me batfk from something which 
 I was going to do, but never urges me to act. It is this 
 which forbids me to take part in politics. And I think 
 that it does well to forbid me. For, Athenians, it is quite 
 
THE APOLOGY. 
 
 certain that if I had attempted to take pai 
 should have perished at once and long ago, v 
 any good either to you or to myself. And do n 
 with me for telling the truth. There is no man 
 preserve his life for long, either in Athens or else\> 
 he lirmly opposes the wishes of the people, and tries , 
 vent the commission of much injustice and illegality in 
 State. He who would really fight for justice, must do 
 as a private man, not in public, if he means to preserve hi. 
 life, even for a short time. 
 
 I will prove to you that this is so by very strong evidence, 
 not by mere words, but by what you value highly, actions. 
 Listen then to what has happened to me, that you may 
 know that there is no man who could make me consent to 
 do wrong from the fear of death ; but that I would perish 
 at once rather than give way. What I am going to tell yon 
 may be a commonplace in the Courts of Law; nevertheless 
 it is true. The only office that I ever held in the State, 
 Athenians, was that of Senator. When you wished to try 
 the ten generals;-' who did not rescue their men after the 
 battle of Arginusse, in a body, which was illegal, as you all 
 came to think afterwards, the tribe Antiochis, to which I 
 belong, held the presidency. On that occasion I alone of 
 all the presidents opposed your illegal action, and gave 
 mv vote against you. The speakers were ready to suspend 
 me and arrest me ; and you were clamoring against me, and 
 crying out to me to submit. But I thought that I ought to 
 face the danger out in the cause of law and justice, rather 
 than join with you in your unjust proposal, from fear of 
 imprisonment or death. That was before the destruction 
 of the democracy. When the oligarchy came, the Thirty 
 sent for me, with four others, to the Council-Chamber, 1 
 and ordered us to bring over Leon the Salaminian from 
 Salamis, that they might put him to death. They were in 
 the habit of frequently giving similar orders to many 
 others, wishing to implicate as many men as possible in 
 their crimes. But then I again proved, not by mere words, 
 but by my actions, that, if I may use a vulgar expression, 
 
 1 A building where the Pry tanes had their meals and sacrificed* 
 
L AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 e a straw for death; but that I do care very 
 ed about not doing anything against the laws 
 r man. That government with all its power did 
 rify me into doing anything wrong; but when we 
 ae Council-Chamber, the other four went over to 
 mis, and brought Leon across to Athens; and I went 
 .ay home: and if the rule of the Thirty had not been de- 
 Troyed soon afterwards, 1 should very likely have been put 
 to death for what I did then. Many of you will be my 
 witnesses in this matter. 
 
 Now do you think that I should have remained alive 
 all these } T ears, if I had taken part in public affairs, and had 
 always maintained the cause of justice like an honest man, 
 and had held it a paramount duty, as it is, to do so ? Cer¬ 
 tainly not, Athenians, nor any other man either. But 
 throughout my whole life, both in private, and in public, 
 whenever I have had to take part in public affairs, you will 
 find that 1 have never yielded a single point in a question 
 of right and wrong to any man; no, not to those whom my 
 enemies falsely assert to have been my pupils. But I was 
 never any man’s teacher. I have never withheld myself 
 from any one, young or old, who was anxious to hear me 
 converse while I was about my mission; neither do I con¬ 
 verse for payment, and refuse to converse without payment: 
 I am ready to ask questions of rich and poor alike, and if 
 any man wishes to answer me, and then listen to what I 
 have to say, he may. And I cannot justly be charged with 
 causing these men to turn out good or bad citizens: for 
 I never either taught, or professed to teach any of them 
 any knowledge whatever. And if any man asserts that he 
 ever learnt or heard anything from me in private, which 
 every one else did not hear as well as he, be sure that he 
 does not speak the truth. 
 
 Why is it, then, that people delight in spending so much 
 time in my company? You have heard why, Athenians. 
 I told you the whole truth when I said that they delight 
 in hearing me examine persons who think that they are 
 wise when they are not wise. It is certainly very amusing 
 to listen to that. And, I say, God has commanded me to 
 
THE APOLOGY. 
 
 103 
 
 exami ne m en in oracles, and in dreams, and in every way in 
 which the divine "will was ever declared to man. This is 
 the truth, Athenians, and if it were not the truth, it would 
 be easily refuted. For if it were really the case that I have 
 already corrupted some of the young men, and am now 
 corrupting others, surely some of them, finding as they 
 grew older that I had given them evil counsel in their 
 youth, would have come forward to-day to accuse me and 
 take their revenge. Or if they were unwilling to do so 
 themselves, surely their kinsmen, their fathers, or brothers, 
 or other relatives, would, if I had done them any harm, 
 have remembered it, and taken their revenge. Certainly I 
 see many of them in Court. Here is Crito, of my own deme 
 and of my own age, the father of Critobolus; here is 
 ] /ysanias of Sphettus, the father of iEschinus: here is also 
 Antiphon of Cephisus, the father of Epigenes. Then here 
 are others, whose brothers have spent their time in my com¬ 
 pany; Nicostratus, the son of Theozotides, and brother 
 of Theodotus—and Theodotus is dead, so he at least cannot 
 entreat his brother to be silent: here is Paralus, the son of 
 Demodocus, and the brother of Theages: here is Adei- 
 mantus, the son of Ariston, whose brother is Flato here: 
 and HCantodorus, whose brother is Aristodorus. And I can 
 name many others to you, some of whom Meletus ought to 
 have called as witnesses in the course of his own speech: 
 but if he forgot to call them then, let him call them now— 
 I will' stand aside while he does so—and tell us if he has 
 any such evidence. No, on the contrary, my friends, you 
 w ill find all these men ready to support me, the corrupter, 
 the injurer of their kindred, as Meletus and Anytus call 
 me. Those of them who have been already corrupted might 
 perhaps have some reason for supporting me: but what 
 reason can their relatives, who are grown up, and who are 
 uncorrupted, have, except the reason of truth and justice, 
 that they know very well that Meletus is a liar, and that 
 I am speaking the truth ? 
 
 Well, my friends, this, together it may be with other 
 things of the same nature, is 'pretty much what I have to 
 say in my defense. There may be some one among you 
 
104 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 who will he vexed when he remember? how, even in a less 
 important trial than this, he prayed and entreated the 
 judges to acquit him with many tears, and brought forward 
 his children and many of his friends and relatives in Court, 
 in order to appeal to your feelings; and then finds that I 
 shall do none of these things, though I am in what he 
 would think the supreme danger. Perhaps he will harden 
 himself against me when he notices this: it may make 
 him angry, and he may give his vote in anger. If it is so t 
 with any of you—I do not suppose that it is, but in case it 
 should be so—I think that I should answer him reasonably 
 if I said: “ My friend, I have kinsmen too, for, in the 
 
 words of Homer, ‘ I am not born of stocks and stones/ but 
 of woman; ” and so, Athenians, I have kinsmen, and I have 
 three sons, one of them a lad, and the other two still chil¬ 
 dren. Yet I will not bring any of them forward before you, 
 and implore you to acquit me. And why will I do none of 
 these things? It is not from arrogance, Athenians, nor 
 because I hold you cheap: whether or no I can face death 
 bravely is another question: but for my own credit, and 
 for your credit, and for the credit of our city, I do not , 
 think it well, at my age, and with my name, to do anything 
 of that kind. Rightly or wrongly, men have made up their 
 minds that in some way Socrates is different from the 
 mass of mankind. And' it will be a shameful thing if 
 those of you who are thought to excel in wisdom, or in 
 braver)’, or in any other virtue, are going to act in this 
 fashion. I have often seen men with a reputation behaving 
 in a strange way at their trial, as if they thought it a terri¬ 
 ble fate to be killed, and as though they expected to live for¬ 
 ever, if you did not put them to death. Such men seem to 
 me to bring discredit on the city: for any stranger would 
 suppose that the best and most eminent Athenians, who 
 are selected by their fellow-citizens to hold office, and for 
 other honors, are no better than women. Those of you, 
 Athenians, who have any reputation at all. ought not to do 
 these things: and you ought not to allow us to do them: 
 you should show that you will be much more merciless to 
 men who make the city ridiculous by these pitiful pieces 
 of acting, than to men who remain quiet. 
 
THE APOLOGY. 
 
 105 
 
 But apart from the question of credit, my friends, I do 
 not think that it is right to entreat the judge to acquit us, 
 or to escape condemnation in that way. It is our duty to 
 convince his mind by reason. He does not sit to give 
 away justice to his friends, but to pronounce judgment: 
 and he has sworn not to favor any man whom he would 
 like to favor, but to decide questions according to law. 
 And therefore we ought not to teach you to forswear your¬ 
 selves : and you ought not to allow yourselves to be taught, 
 for then neither you nor we would be acting righteously. 
 Therefore, Athenians, do not require me to do these things, 
 for I believe them to be neither good nor just nor holy ; 
 and. more especially do not ask me to do them to-day, 
 when Meletus is prosecuting me for impiety. For were I 
 to be successful, and to prevail on you by my prayers to 
 break your oaths, I should be clearly teaching you to be¬ 
 lieve that there are no gods; and I should be simply accu¬ 
 sing myself by my defense of not believing in them. But, 
 Athenians, that is very far from the truth. I do believe 
 in the gods as no one of my accusers believes in them : 
 and t o you and to God I commit my cause to be decided as 
 is best - for you and for me. 
 
 (He is found guilty by 2S1 votes to 220.) 
 
 I am not vexed at the verdict which you have given, 
 Athenians, for many reasons. I expected that, you would, 
 find me guilty; and I am not so much surprised at that, as 
 at the numbers of the votes. I, certainly, never thought 
 that the majority against me would have been so narrow. 
 But now it seems that if only thirty votes had changed 
 sides, I should have escaped. So I think that I have es- 
 saped Meletus, as it is : and not only have I escaped him; 
 for it is perfectly clear that if Anytus and Lycon had not 
 come forward to accuse me too, he would not have obtained 
 the fifth part of the votes, and would have had to pay a 
 fine of a thousand drachmae. 1 
 
 1 Any prosecutor who did not obtain the votes of one-fifth of 
 the dicasts or judges, incurred a fine of 1,000 drachmae, and cer¬ 
 tain other disabilities, Cf, Diet. Antiq. s. v. 
 
106 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 So he proposes death as the penalty. Be it so. And 
 what counter-penalty shall I propose to you, Athenians? 
 What I deserve, of course, must I not? What then do I 
 deserve to pay or to suffer for having determined not to 
 spend my life in ease? I neglected the things which most 
 men value, such as wealth, and family interests, and mili¬ 
 tary commands, and popular oratory, and all the political 
 appointments, and clubs, and factions, that there are in 
 Athens; for I thought that I was really too conscientious a 
 man to preserve my life if I engaged in these matters. So 
 1 did not go where I should have done no good either to you 
 or to myself. 1 went instead to each one of you by himself, 
 to do him, as I say, the greatest of services, and strove to 
 pers uade him n ot to think of bis affairs, until he had 
 thought of himself, and tried to make himself as perfect 
 and wise" as possible; nor to think of the affairs of Athens, 
 until he had thought of Athens herself; and in all cases to 
 bestow his thoughts on things in the same manner. Then 
 what do I deserve for such a life? Something good, Athen¬ 
 ians, if T am really to propose what I deserve; and some¬ 
 thing good which it would be suitable to me to receive. 
 Then what is a suitable reward to be given to a poor bene¬ 
 factor, who requires leisure to exhort you? There is no 
 reward, Athenians, so suitable for him as a public main¬ 
 tenance in the Prytaneum. It is a much more suitable 
 reward for him than for any of you who has won a victory 
 at the Olympic games with his horse or his chariots. Such 
 a man only makes you seem happy, but I make you really 
 happy: and he is not in want, and I am. So if I am to 
 propose the penalty which I really deserve, I propose this, 
 a public maintenance in the Prytaneum. 
 
 Perhaps you think me stubborn and arrogant in what I 
 am saying now, as in what I said about the entreaties and 
 tears. It is not so, Athenians; it is rather that I am con¬ 
 vinced that I never wronged any man intentionally, though 
 I cannot persuade you of that, for we have conversed to¬ 
 gether only a little time. If there were a law at Athens, 
 as there is elsewhere, not to finish a trial of life and death 
 in a single day, I think that I could have convinced you 
 
THE APOLOGY. 
 
 It 
 
 of it: but now it is not easy in so short a time to clear my¬ 
 self of the gross calumnies of my enemies. But when I am 
 convinced that I have never wronged any man, I shall cer- _ 
 tainly not wrong myself, or admit that I deserve to suffer 
 any evil, or propose any evil for myself as a penalty. Why 
 should I ? Lest I should suffer the penalty which Meletus 
 proposes, when I say that I do not know whether it is a 
 good or an evil? Shall I choose instead of it something 
 which I know to be an evil, and propose that as a penalty ? 
 Shall I propose imprisonment? And why should I pass 
 the rest of my days in prison, the slave of successive offi¬ 
 cials? Or shall I propose a fine, with imprisonment until 
 it is paid? I have told you why I will not do that. I 
 should have to remain in prison for I have no money to pay 
 a fine with. Shall I then propose exile? Perhaps you 
 would agree to that. Life would indeed be very dear to ' 
 me, if I were unreasonable enough to expect that strangers > 
 would cheerfully tolerate my discussions and reasonings, 
 when you who are my fellow-citizens cannot endure them,- 
 and have found them so burdensome and odious to you, 
 that you are seeking now to be released from them. No, 
 indeed, Athenians, that is not likely. A fine life I should’ 
 lead for an old man, if I were to withdraw from Athens, 
 and pass the rest of my days in wandering from city to, 
 city, and continually being expelled. For I know very 
 well that the young men will listen to me, wherever I go, 
 as they do here; and if I drive them away, they will per¬ 
 suade their elders to expel me : and if I do not drive them 
 away, their fathers and kinsmen will expel me for their 
 sakes. 
 
 Perhaps some one will say, “ Why cannot you withdraw 
 from Athens, Socrates, and hold your peace ? ” It is the 
 most difficult thing in the world to make you understand 
 why I cannot do that. If I say that I cannot hold my 
 peace, because that would be to disobey God, you will think 
 that I am not in earnest and will not believe me. And if I 
 tell you that n o better thing can happen to a man than to 
 converse every day abo ut virtue and the other matters about 
 which you have heard me conversing and examining my- 
 
108 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 self and others, and that an unexamined life is not worth 
 living, then you will believe me still less. But that is the 
 truth, my friends, though it is not easy to convince you of 
 it. And, what is more, I am not accustomed to think that 
 I deserve any punishment. If I had been rich, I would 
 have proposed as large a fine as I could pay: that would 
 have done me no harm. But I am not rich enough to pay a 
 fine, unless you are willing to fix it at a sum within my 
 means. Perhaps 1 could pay you a mina: 1 so I propose 
 that. Plato here, Athenians, and Crito, and Critobulus, 
 and Apollodorus bid me propose thirty mime, and they will 
 be sureties for me. So I propose thirty minse. They 
 will be sufficient sureties to you for the money. 
 
 (lie is condemned to death.) 
 
 You have not gained very much time, Athenians, and, 
 as the price of it, you will have an evil name from all who 
 wish to revile the city, and they will cast in your teeth that 
 you put Socrates, a wise man, to death. For they will cer¬ 
 tainly call me wise, whether I am wise or not, when they 
 want to reproach you. If you would have waited for a 
 little while, your wishes would have been fulfilled in th<? 
 course of nature; for you see that I am an old man, far 
 advanced in years, and near to death. I am speaking not 
 to all of you, only to those who have voted for my death. 
 And now I am speaking to them still. Perhaps, my 
 friends, you think that I have, been defeated because I was 
 wanting in the arguments by which I could have persuaded 
 you to acquit me, if, that is, I had thought it right to do 
 or to say anything to escape punishment. It is not so. I 
 have been defeated because I was wanting, not in argu¬ 
 ments, but in ovcrboldness and effrontery; begause I 
 would not plead before you as you would have liked to 
 hear me plead, or appeal to you with weeping and wailing, 
 or say and do many other things, which 1 maintain are un¬ 
 worthy of me, but which you have been accustomed to from 
 other men. But when I was defending myself, I thought 
 
 1 A mina was equivalent then to $ 19 . 70 , 
 
CRITO. 
 
CHARACTERS OF THE DIALOGUE. 
 
 Socrates. 
 
 Crito. 
 
 Scene. —The prison of Socrates. 
 
CRITO. 
 
 Socr. Why have you come at this hour, Crito? Is it 
 not still early ? 
 
 Crito. Yes, very early. 
 
 Socr. About what time is it ? 
 
 Crito. It is just daybreak. 
 
 Socr. I wonder that the jailer was willing to let you in. 
 
 Crito. He knows me now, Socrates, I come here so often; 
 and besides, I have done him a service. 
 
 Socr. Have you been here long? 
 
 Crito. Yes; some time. 
 
 Socr. Then why did you sit down without speaking? 
 why did you not wake me at once ? 
 
 Crito. Indeed, Socrates, I wish that I myself were not so 
 sleepless and sorrowful. But I have been wondering to 
 see how sweetly you sleep. And I purposely did not wake 
 you, for I was anxious not to disturb your repose. Often 
 before, all through your life, I have thought that your 
 temper was a happy one; and I think so more than ever 
 now, when I see iiow easily and 'calmly yoif bear the 
 calamity that has come to you. 
 
 Socr. Hay, Crito, it would be absurd if at my age I 
 were angry at having to die. 
 
 Crito. Other men as old are overtaken by similar calami-' 1 
 ties, Socrates ; but their age does not save them from being 
 angry with their fate. 
 
 Socr. That is so: but tell me, why are you here sq, early? 
 
 Crito. I am the bearer of bitter news, Socrates: not bit¬ 
 ter, it seems, to you; but to me, and to all your friends, 
 
 115 
 
,,JAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 jitter and grievous: and to none of them, I think, is 
 v more grievous than to me. 
 
 Socr. What is it? Has the ship come from Delos, at 
 the arrival of which I am to die ? 
 
 Crito. No, it has not actually arrived: but I think that 
 it will be here to-da}', from the news which certain persons 
 have brought from Sunium, who left it there. It is clear 
 from their news that it will be here to-day; and then, 
 Socrates, to-morrow your life will have to end. 
 
 Socr. Well, Crito, may it end fortunately. Be it so, if 
 so the gods will. But I do not think that the ship will be 
 here to-day. 
 
 Crito. Why do you suppose not? 
 
 Socr. I will tell you. I am to die on the day after the 
 ship arrives, am I not? 
 
 Crito. That is what the authorities say. 
 
 Socr. Then I do not think that it will come to-day, 
 but to-morrow. I judge from a certain dream which I saw 
 a little while ago in the night: so it seems to be fortunate 
 that you did not wake me. 
 
 Crito. And what was this dream? 
 
 Socr. A fair and comely woman, clad in white garments, 
 seemed to come to me, and call me and say, “ 0 Socrates 
 “ The third day hence shaft thou fair Phthia reach.” 1 
 
 Crito. What a strange dream, Socrates! 
 
 Socr. But its meaning is clear; at least to me, Crito. 
 
 Crito. Yes, too clear, it seems. But, 0 my good Soc¬ 
 rates, I beseech you for the last time to listen to me and 
 save yourself. For to me your death will be more than a 
 single disaster: not only shall I lose a friend the like of 
 whom I shall never find again, but many persons, who do 
 not know you and me well, will think that I might have 
 saved you if I had been willing to spend money, but that 
 I neglected to do so. And what character could be more 
 disgraceful than the character of caring more for money 
 than for one’s friends ? The world will never believe that 
 we were anxious to save you, but that j'ou yourself refused 
 to escape. 
 
 1 Horn. II. ix. 363. 
 
CRITO. 
 
 117 
 
 Socr. But, my excellent Crito, why should we care so 
 much about the opinion of the world? The best men, of 
 whose opinion it is worth our while to think, will believe 
 that we acted as we really did. 
 
 Crito. But you see, Socrates, that it is necessary to care 
 about the opinion of the world too. This very thing that 
 has happened to you proves that the multitude can do a 
 man not the least, but almost the greatest harm, if he be 
 falsely accused to them. 
 
 Son-. I wish that the multitude were able to do a man 
 the greatest harm, Crito, for then they would be able to 
 do him the greatest good too. That would have been weli. 
 But, as it is, they can do neither. They^caimat .make a 
 man either wi se or fQn li^h^the.y^ct^yh,QUy.-.a'Lj.andom, 
 
 "Cnto . Well, be it so. But tell me this, Socrates. _ You 
 surely are not anxious about me and your other niends, 
 and afraid lest, if you escape, the informers should say that 
 we stole you away, and get us into trouble, and involve 
 us in a great deal of expense, or perhaps in the loss of all 
 our property, and, it may be, bring some other punish¬ 
 ment upon us besides? If you have any fear of that kind, 
 dismiss it. For of course we are bound to run those risks, 
 and still greater risks than those if necessary', in saving 
 you. So do not, I beseech you, refuse to listen to me. 
 
 Socr. I am anxious about that, Crito, and about much 
 besides. 
 
 Crito. Then have no fear on that score. There are men 
 who, for no very large sum, are ready to bring you^ out of 
 prison into safety. And then, you know, these informers 
 are cheaply bought, and there would be no need to spend 
 much upon them. My fortune is at your service, and I 
 think that it is sufficient: and if you have any feeling about 
 making use of my money, there are strangers in Athens, 
 whom, you know, ready to use theirs; and one of them, 
 Simmias of Thebes, has actually brought enough for this 
 very purpose. And Cebes and many others are ready too. 
 And therefore I repeat, do not shrink from saving your¬ 
 self on that ground. And do not let what you said in the 
 Court, that if you went into exile you would not know what 
 
118 
 
 TRIAL AND DExVTH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 to do with 3'ourself, stand in your way; for there are many 
 places for you to go to, where you will be welcomed. If 
 you choose to go to Thessaly, I have friends there who will 
 make much of you, and shelter you from any annoyance 
 from the people of Thessaly. 
 
 And besides, Socrates, I^think that you will be doing 
 what is w'rong, if you abandon yffllrTiJeTwhem"you^might 
 preserve it. You are simply playing The game of your 
 enemies; it is exactly the game of those who wanted to 
 destroy you. And what is more, to me you seem to be 
 abandoning your children too: you will leave them to take 
 their chance in' life, as far as you are concerned, when you 
 might bring them up and educate them. Most likely their 
 fate will be the usual fate of children who are left orphans. 
 But you ought not to beget children unless you mean to 
 take the trouble of bringing them up and educating them. 
 It seems to me that you are choosing the easy way, and not 
 the way of a good and brave man, as you ought, when you 
 have been talking all your life long of the value that you 
 set upon virtue. For my part, I feel ashamed both for you, 
 and for us who are your friends. Men will think that the 
 whole of this thing which has happened to you—your ap¬ 
 pearance in court to take your trial, when you need not 
 have appeared at all; the very way in which the trial was 
 conducted; and then lastly this, for the crowning absurdity 
 of the whole affair, is due to our cowardice. It will look 
 as if we had shirked the danger out of miserable cowardice; 
 for we did not save you, and you did not save yourself, 
 when it was quite possible to do so, if we had been good for 
 anything at all. Take care, Socrates, lest these things 
 be not evil only, but also dishonorable to you and to us. 
 Consider then; or rather the time for consideration is past; 
 we must resolve; and there is only one plan possible. 
 Everything must be done to-night. If we delay any longer, 
 we are lost. 0 Socrates, I implore you not to refuse to lis¬ 
 ten to me. 
 
 Socr. My dear Crito, if your anxiety to save me be right, 
 it is most valuable: but if it be not right, its greatness 
 makes it all the more dangerous. We must consider then 
 
CRITO. 
 
 whether we are to do as you say, or net ; t'c 
 I always have been, a man who will listen., 
 the voice of the reasoning 7 which on considera 
 be Truest. I cannot cast aside my former arg 
 cause" this misfortune has come to. me. They set- 
 to be as true as ever they were, and I hold exactly ti 
 ones in honor and esteem as I used to: and if we ha 
 better reasoning to substitute for them, I certainly si 
 not agree to your proposal, not even though the power c 
 the multitude should scare us with fresh terrors, as chil¬ 
 dren are scared with hobgoblins, and inflict upon us new 
 fines, and imprisonments, and deaths. How then shall we 
 most fitly examine the question? Shall we go back first 
 to what you say about the opinions of men, and ask if we 
 used to be right in thinking that we ought to pay attention 
 to some opinions, and not to others ? Used we to he right 
 in saying so before I was condemned to die, and has it 
 now become apparent that we were talking at random, 
 and arguing for the sake of argument, and that it was 
 really nothing but play and nonsense? I am anxious, 
 Crito, to examine our former reasoning with your help, 
 and to see whether my present position will appear to me 
 to have affected its truth in any way, or not; and whether 
 we are to set it aside, or to yield assent to it. Those of us 
 who thought at all seriously, used always to say, I think, 
 exactly what I said just now, namely, that we ought to es¬ 
 teem some of the opinions which men form highly, and not 
 others. Tell me, Crito, if you please, do you not think 
 that they were right ? For you, humanly speaking, will not 
 have to die to-morrow, and your judgment will not be 
 biassed by that circumstance. Consider then : do you not 
 think it reasonable to say that we should not esteem all the 
 opinions of men, but only some, nor the opinions of all 
 men, but only of some men ? What do you think ? Is not 
 this true ? 
 
 Crito. It is. 
 
 Socr. And we should esteem the good opinions, and not 
 the worthless ones ? 
 
 Crito. Yes. 
 
aL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 the good opinions are those of the wise, and 
 .ess ones those of the foolish? 
 
 Of course. 
 
 . And what used we to say about this? Does a 
 who is in training, and who is in earnest about it, 
 
 end to the praise and blame and opinion of all men, or 
 ,f the one man only who is a doctor or a trainer ? 
 
 Crito. lie attends only to the opinion of the one man. 
 
 Socr. Then he ought to fear the blame and welcome the 
 praise of this one man, not of the many? 
 
 Crito. Clearly. _ 
 
 Socr. Then he must act and exercise, and eat and drink 
 in whatever way the one man who is his master, and who 
 understands the matter, bids him; not as others bid him ? 
 
 Crito. That is so. 
 
 Socr. Good. But if he disobeys this one man, and disre¬ 
 gards his opinion and his praise, and esteems instead what 
 the many, who understand nothing of the matter, say, will 
 he not suffer for it ? 
 
 Crito. Of course he will. 
 
 Socr. And how will he suffer? In what direction, and 
 in what part of himself? 
 
 Crito. Of course in his body. That is disabled. 
 
 Socr. You are right. And, Crito, to be brief, is it not 
 the same, in everything? And, therefore, in questions of 
 right and wrong, and of the base and the honorable, and 
 of good and evil, which we are now considering, ought we 
 to follow the opinion of the many and fear that, or the 
 opinion of the one man who understands these matters (if 
 we can find him), and feel more shame and fear before 
 him than before all other men? For if we do not follow 
 him, we shall cripple and maim that part of us which, we 
 used to sav. is improved by right and disabled by wrong. 
 Or is this not so ? 
 
 Crito. No, Socrates, I agree with you. 
 
 Socr. Now, if, by listening to the opinions of those who 
 do not understand, we disable that part of us which is im¬ 
 proved by health and crippled by disease, is our life worth 
 living, when it is crippled? It is the body, is it not? 
 
CRITO. 
 
 121 
 
 Grito. Yes. 
 
 Socr. Is life worth living with the bod}' crippled and in 
 a bad state ? 
 
 Crito. No, certainly not. 
 
 Socr. Then is life worth living when that part of ns 
 which is maimed by wrong and benefited by- right is crip¬ 
 pled ? Or do we consider that part of us, whatever it is, 
 which has to do with right and wrong to be of less con¬ 
 sequence than our body? 
 
 Crito. No, certainly not. 
 
 Socr. But more valuable ? 
 
 Crito. Yes, much more so. 
 
 Socr. Then, my excellent friend, we must not think so 
 much of what the many will say of us; we must think of 
 what the one man, who understands right and wrong, and 
 of what Truth herself will say of us. And so you are mis¬ 
 taken to begin with, when you invite us to regard the opin¬ 
 ion of the multitude concerning the right and the honorable 
 and the good, and their opposites. But, it may be said, the 
 multitude can put us to death? 
 
 Crito. Yes, that is evident. That may be said, Socrates. 
 
 Socr. True. But, my excellent friend, to me it appears 
 that the conclusion which we have just reached, is the 
 same as our conclusion of former times. Now consider 
 whether we still hold to the belief, that we should setjhe 
 higheskTaluepnot on living,' 1 j utkhriTNngNveTr? 
 
 Crito. Yes, avo do. 
 
 Socr. A nd living we ll andjrono rabl y and right!}'mean 
 the same thing: do AvcTmTd t o 'that or not ? 
 
 ~~~Cnto. We do. 
 
 Socr. Then, starting from these premises, we have to 
 consider whether it is right or not right for me to try to 
 escape from prison, without the consent of the Athenians. 
 If we find that it is right, we will try: if not, we will let 
 it alone. I am afraid that considerations of expense, and 
 of reputation, and of bringing up my children, of AV'hich 
 you talk, Crito, are only the reflections of our friends, the 
 many, who lightly put men to death, and Avho would, if 
 they could, as lightly bring them to life again, without a 
 
122 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 thought. But reason, which is our guide, shows us that 
 we can have nothing o consider but the question which I 
 asked just now: namely, shall we be doing right if we 
 give money and thanks to the men -who are to aid me in 
 escaping, and if we ourselves take our respective parts in 
 my escape? Or shall we in truth be doing wrong, if we 
 do all this? And if we find that we should be doing wrong, 
 then we must not take any account either of death, or of 
 any other evil that may be the consequence of remaining 
 quietly here, but only of doing wrong. 
 
 Criio. I think that you are right, Socrates. But what 
 are we to do? 
 
 Socr. Let us consider that together, my good sir, and if 
 you can contradict anything that I say, do so, and I will 
 be convinced: but if you cannot, do not go on repeating to 
 me any longer, my dear friend, that I should escape with¬ 
 out the consent of the Athenians. I am very anxious to 
 act with your approval: I do not want you to think me 
 mistaken. But now- tell me if you agree with the doctrine 
 from which I start, and try to answer my questions as you 
 think best. 
 
 Crito. 1 will try. 
 
 Socr. Ought we never to do wrong intentionally at all; 
 or may we do wrong in some ways, and not in others? Or, 
 as we have often agreed in former times, is it never either 
 good or honorable to do wrong? Have all our former con¬ 
 clusions been forgotten in these few days? Old men as 
 we were, Crito, did we not see. in days gone by, when we 
 were gravely conversing with each other, that we were no 
 better than children ? Or is not what we used to say most 
 assuredly the truth, whether the world agrees with us or 
 not? Is not wrong-doing an evil and a shame to the 
 •wrong-doer in every case, whether we incur a heavier or a 
 lighter punishment than death as the consequence of doing 
 right ? D<? we believe that ? 
 
 Crito. We do. 
 
 Socr. Then we ought never to do wrong at all? 
 
 Crito. Certainly not. 
 
 Socr. Neither, if we ought never to do wrong at all, 
 
CRITO. 123 
 
 ought we to repay wrong with wrong, as the world thinks 
 we may? 
 
 Crito. Clearly not. 
 
 Socr. Well then, Crito, ought we to do evil to any one ? 
 
 Crito. Certainly I think not, Socrates. 
 
 , Socr. And is it right to repay evil with evil, as the 
 world thinks, or not right? 
 
 Crito. Certainly it is not right. 
 
 Socr. For there is no difference, is there, between doing 
 evil to a man, and wronging him? 
 
 Crito. True. 
 
 Socr. Then we ought not to repay wrong with wrong or 
 do harm to any man, no matter what we may have suffered 
 from him. And in conceding this, Crito, be careful that 
 3 r ou do not concede more than you mean. For I know 
 that only a few men hold, or ever will hold this opinion. 
 And so those who hold it, and those who do not, have no 
 common ground of argument; they can of necessity only 
 look with contempt on each other’s belief. Do you there¬ 
 fore consider very carefully whether you agree with me 
 and share my opinion. Are we to start in our inquiry from 
 the doctrine that it is never right either to do wrong, or to 
 repay wrong with wrong, or to avenge ourselves on any 
 man who harms us, by harming him in return? Or do 
 you disagree with me and dissent from my principle? I 
 myself have believed in it for a long time, and I believe in 
 it still. But if you differ in any way, explain to me how. 
 If you still hold to our former opinion, listen to my next 
 point. 
 
 Crito. Yes, I hold to it, and I agree with you. Go on. 
 
 Socr. Then, my next point, or rather my next question, 
 is this: Ought a man to perform his just agreements, or 
 may he shuffle out of them ? 
 
 Crito. He ought to perform them. 
 
 Socr. Then consider. If I escape without the state’s 
 consent, shall I be injuring those whom I ought least to 
 injure, or not? Shall I be abiding by my just agreements 
 or not ? 
 
124 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 Crito. I cannot answer your question, Socrates. I do not 
 understand it. 
 
 Socr. Consider it in this way. Suppose the laws and the 
 commonwealth were to come and appear to me as I was 
 preparing to run away (if that is the right phrase to 
 describe my escape) and were to ask, “ Tell us, Socrates, 
 what have you in your mind to do? What do you mean by 
 trying to escape, but to destroy us the laws, and the whole 
 city, so far as in you lies? Do you think that a state can 
 exist and not be overthrown, in which the decisions of law 
 are of no force, and are disregarded and set at nought by 
 private individuals?” How shall we answer questions 
 like that, Crito? Much might be said, especially by an 
 orator, in defense of the law which makes judicial de¬ 
 cisions supreme. Shall I reply, “ But the state has in¬ 
 jured me: it has decided my cause wrongly.” Shall we 
 say that? 
 
 Crito. Certainly we will, Socrates. 
 
 Socr. And suppose the laws were to reply, “Was that 
 our agreement ? or was it that you would submit to what¬ 
 ever judgments the state should pronounce?” And if we 
 were to wonder at their words, perhaps they would say, 
 “Socrates, wonder not at our words, but answer us; you 
 yourself are accustomed to ask questions and to answer 
 them. What complaint have you against us and the city, 
 that you are trying to destroy us ? Are we not, first, your 
 parents? Through us your father took your mother and 
 begat you. Tell us, have you any fault to find with those 
 of us that are the laws of marriage ? ” “I have none,” I 
 should reply. “ Or have you any fault to find with those of 
 us that regulate the nurture and education of the child, 
 which you, like others, received? Did not we do well in 
 bidding your father educate you in music and gymnastic? ” 
 “ You did,” I should say. ' “ Well then, since you were 
 brought into the world and nurtured and educated by us, 
 how, in the first place, can you deny that you are our child 
 and our slave, as your fathers were before you? And if 
 this be so, do you think that your rights are on a level with 
 ours? Do you think that you have a right to retaliate 
 
CRITO. 
 
 125 
 
 upon us if we should try to do anything to you. You had 
 not the same rights that your father had, or that your 
 master would have had, if you had been a slave. You had 
 no right to retaliate upon them if they ill-treated you, or to 
 answer them if they reviled you, or to strike them back 
 if they struck you, or to repay them evil with evil in any 
 way. And do you think that you may retaliate on your 
 country and its laws? If we try to destroy you, because 
 we think i + right, will you in return do all that you can to 
 destroy us, the laws, and your country, and say that in so 
 doing you are doing right, you, the man, who in truth 
 thinks so much of virtue? Or are you too wise to see that 
 your country is worthier, and more august, and more 
 sacred, and holier, and held in higher honor both by the 
 gods and by all men of understanding, than your father 
 and your mother and all your other ancestors; and that 
 it is your bounden duty to reverence it, and to submit to 
 it, and to approach it more humbly than you would ap¬ 
 proach your father, when it is angry with you; and either 
 to do whatever it bids you to do or to persuade it to excuse 
 you; and to obey in silence if it orders you to endure 
 stripes or imprisonment, or if it send you to battle to be 
 wounded or to die ? That is what is your duty. You must 
 not give way, nor retreat, nor desert your post. In war, 
 and in the court of justice, and everywhere, you must do 
 whatever your city and your country bid you do, or you 
 must convince them that their commands are unjust. 
 But it is against the law of God to use violence to your 
 father or to your mother; and much more so is it against 
 the law of God to use violence to your country.” What 
 answer shall we make, Crito ? Shall we say that the laws 
 speak truly, or not ? 
 
 Crito. I think that they do. 
 
 iSoer. “'Then consider, Socrates,” perhaps they would 
 say, “if we are right in saying that by attempting to 
 escape you are attempting to injure us. We brought you 
 into the world, we nurtured you, we educated you, we gave 
 you and every other citizen a share of all the good things 
 we could. Yet we proclaim that if any man of the Athen- 
 
126 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 ians is dissatisfied with us, he may take his goods and go 
 away whithersoever he pleases: we give that permission 
 to every man who chooses to avail himself of it, so soon as 
 he has reached man’s estate, and sees us, the laws, and the 
 administration of our city. No one of us stands in his way 
 or forbids him to take his goods and go wherever he likes, 
 whether it be to an Athenian colony, or to any foreign 
 country, if he is dissatisfied with us and with the city. But 
 we say that every inan of you who remains here, seeing how 
 we administer justice, and how we govern the city in other 
 matters, has agreed, by the very fact of remaining here, to 
 do whatsoever we bid him. And, we say, he who disobeys 
 us, does a threefold wrong: he disobeys us who are his 
 parents, and he disobeys us who fostered him, and he dis¬ 
 obeys us after he has agreed to obey us, without persuading 
 us that we are wrong. Yet we did not bid him sternly to 
 do whatever we told him. We offered him an alternative; 
 we gave him his choice, either to obey us, or to convince 
 us that we were wrong: but he does neither. 
 
 “ These are the charges, Socrates, to which we say that 
 vou will expose yourself, if you do what you intend ; and 
 that not less, but more than other Athenians.” And if 
 I were to ask, “ And why? ” they might retort with justice 
 that I have bound myself by the agreement with them more 
 than other Athenians. They would say, “ Socrates, we 
 have very strong evidence that you were satisfied with us 
 and with the city. You would not have been content to 
 stay at home in it more than other Athenians, unless you 
 had been satisfied witn it more than they. You never 
 went away from Athens to the festivals, save once to the 
 Isthmian games, nor elsewhere except on military service; 
 you never made other journeys like other men; you had no 
 desire to see other cities or other laws; you were contented 
 with us and our city. So strongly did you prefer us, and 
 agree to be governed bv us: and what is more, you begat 
 children in this city, you found it so pleasant. And be¬ 
 sides, if you had wished, you might at your trial have 
 offered to go into exile. At that time you could have done 
 ■with the state’s consent, what you are trying now to do 
 
CRITO. 
 
 12 ? 
 
 without it. But then you gloried in being willing to die. 
 You said that you preferred death to exile. And now you 
 are not ashamed of those words: you do not respect us the 
 laws, for you are trying to destroy us : and you are acting 
 just as a miserable slave would act, trying to run away, 
 and breaking the covenant and agreement which you made 
 to submit to our government. First, therefore, answer 
 this question. Are we right, or are we wrong, in saying 
 that you have agreed not in mere words, but in reality, to 
 live under our government ? ” What are we to say, Crito ? 
 Must we not admit that it is true? 
 
 Crito. We must, Socrates. 
 
 Socr. Then they would say, “ Are you not breaking your 
 covenants and agreements with us ? And you were not led 
 to make them by force or by fraud: you had not to make 
 up your mind in a hurry. You had seventy years in 
 which you might have gone away, if you had been dissatis¬ 
 fied with us, or if the agreement had seemed to you 
 unjust. But you preferred neither Lacedaemon nor Crete, 
 though you are fond of saying that they are well governed, 
 nor any other state, either of the Hellenes, or the Barbar¬ 
 ians. You went away from Athens less than the lame and 
 the blind and the cripple. Clearly you, far more than 
 other Athenians, were satisfied with the city, and also with 
 us who are its laws: for who would be satisfied with a 
 city which had no laws? And now will you not abide by 
 your agreement? If you take our advice, you will, Soc¬ 
 rates : then you will not make yourself ridiculous by going 
 away from Athens. 
 
 “ For consider : what good will you do yourself or your 
 friends by thus transgressing, and breaking your agree¬ 
 ment ? It is tolerably certain that they, on their part, will 
 at least run the risk of exile, and of losing their civil 
 rights, or of forfeiting their property. For yourself, you 
 might go to one of the neighboring cities, to Thebes or to 
 Megara for instance—for both of them are well governed-— 
 but, Socrates, you will come as an enemy to these common¬ 
 wealths ; and all who care for their city will look askance 
 at you, and think that you are a subverter of law. And you 
 
128 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 will confirm the judges in their opinion, and make it seem 
 that their verdict was a just one. For a man who is a 
 subverter of law, may well be supposed to. be a corrupter 
 of the young and thoughtless. Then will you avolcTwell- 
 governed states and civilized men? Will life be worth 
 having, if you do? Or will you consort with such men, 
 and converse without shame—about what, Socrates? 
 About the things which you talk of here? Will you tell 
 them that virtue, and justice, and institutions, and law 
 are the most precious things that men can have? And 
 do you not think that that will be a shameful thing in 
 Socrates? You ought to think so. But you will leave 
 these places; you will go to the friends of Crito in Thes¬ 
 saly: for there there is most disorder and licence: and 
 very likely they will be delighted to hear of the ludicrous 
 way in which you escaped from prison, dressed up in 
 peasant’s clothes, or in some other disguise which people 
 put on when they are running away, and with your ap¬ 
 pearance altered. But will no one say how you, an old 
 man, with probably only a few more years to live, clung 
 so greedily to life that you dared to transgress the highest 
 laws? Perhaps not, if you do not displease them. But 
 if you do, Socrates, you will hear much that will make you 
 blush. You will pass your life as the flatterer and the 
 slave of all men; and what will you be doing but feasting 
 in Thessaly ? It will be as if you had made a journey to 
 Thessaly for an entertainment. And where will be all 
 our old*sayings about justice and virtue then? But you 
 wish to live for the sake of your children? You want 
 to bring them up and educate them ? What ? will you take 
 them with you to Thessaly, and bring them up and educate 
 them there? Will you make them strangers to their own 
 country, that you may bestow this benefit on them too ? Or 
 supposing that you leave them in Athens, will they be 
 brought up and educated better if you are alive, though 
 you are not with them? Yes; your friends will take care 
 of them. Will your friends take care of them if you make 
 a journey to Thessaly, and not if you make a journey to 
 Hades? 'You ought not to think that, at least if those 
 
CRITO. 129 
 
 who call themselves your friends are good for anything at 
 all. 
 
 “ No, Socrates, be advised by ns who have fostered you. 
 Think neither of children, nor of life, nor of any other 
 thing before justice, that when you come to the other world 
 you may be able to make your defense before the rulers 
 who sit in judgment there. It is clear that neither you 
 nor any of your friends will be happier, or juster, or holier 
 in this life, if you do this thing, nor will you be happier 
 after you are dead. Now you will go away wronged, not 
 by us, the laws, but by men. But if you repay evil with 
 evil, and wrong with wrong in this shameful way, and 
 break your agreements and covenants with us, and injure 
 those whom you should least injure, yourself, and your 
 friends, and your country, and us, and so escape, then we 
 shall be angry with you while you live, and when you die 
 our brethren, the laws in Hades, will not receive you 
 kindly j.for they will know that on earth you did all that 
 you could to destroy us. Listen then to us, and let not 
 Crito persuade you to do as he says.” 
 
 Ivnow well, my dear friend Crito, that this is what I 
 seem to hear, as the worshipers of Cybele seem, in their 
 frenzy, to hear the music of flutes: and the sound of these 
 words rings loudly in my ears, and drowns all other words. 
 And I feel sure that if you try to change my mind you will 
 speak in vain; nevertheless, if you think that you will 
 succeed, say on. 
 
 Crito. I can say no more, Socrates. 
 
 Socr. Then let it be, Crito: and let us do as I say, seeing 
 that God so directs us. 
 
 9 
 

 
PII .EDO 
 
CHARACTERS OF THE DIALOGUE. 
 
 Pfledo. 
 
 Echecrates. 
 
 Socrates. 
 
 Cebes. 
 
 Simmias. 
 
 Apollodorus. 
 
 Crito. 
 
 The Servant of the Eleven. 
 
 Scene.— First Phlius, then the Prison of Socrates. 
 
PHJEDO. 
 
 Echecrates. Were you with Socrates yourself, Piueclo, 
 on that day when he drank the poison in the prison, or 
 did you hear the story from some one else ? 
 
 Phcedo. I was there myself, Echecrates. 
 
 Ech. Then what was it that our master said before his 
 death, and how did he die? I should be very glad if you 
 would tell me. None of our citizens go very much to 
 Athens now; and no stranger has come from there for a 
 long time, who could give us any definite account of these 
 things, except that he drank the poison and died. We 
 could learn nothing beyond that. 
 
 Phcedo. Then have you not heard about the trial either, 
 how that went? 
 
 Ech. Yes, we were told of that: and we were rather sur¬ 
 prised to find that he did not die till so long after the 
 trial. Why was that, Phaedo? 
 
 Phcedo. It was an accident, Echecrates. The stem of 
 the ship, which the Athenians send to Delos, happened to 
 have been crowned on the day before the trial. 
 
 Ech. And what is this ship? 
 
 Phcedo. It is the ship, as the Athenians say, in which 
 Theseus took the seven youths and the seven maidens to 
 Crete, and saved them from death, and himself was saved. 
 The Athenians made a vow then to Apollo, the story goes, 
 to send a sacred mission to Delos every year, if they should 
 be saved; and from that time to this they have always 
 sent it to the god, every year. They have a law to keep 
 the city pure as soon as the mission begins, and not to 
 
 133 
 
134 
 
 THE TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 execute any sentence of death until the ship has'returned 
 from Delos; and sometimes, when it is detained bv con¬ 
 trary winds, that is a long while. The sacred mission 
 begins when the priest of Apollo crowns the stern of the 
 ship: and, as I said, this happened to have been done on 
 the day before the trial. That was why Socrates lay so 
 loug in prison between his trial and his death. 
 
 Ech. But tell me about his death, Phfedo. What was 
 said and done, and which of his friends were with our 
 master? Or would not the authorities let them be there? 
 Did he die alone? 
 
 Plicedo. Oh, no: some of them were there, indeed several. 
 
 Ech. It would be very good of you, if you are not busy, 
 to tell us the whole story as exactly as you can. 
 
 Phcedo. No: I have nothing to do and I will try to 
 relate it. Nothing is more pleasant to me than to recall 
 Socrates to my mind, whether by speaking of him myself, 
 or by listening to others. 
 
 Ech. Indeed, Phaedo, you will have an audience like 
 yourself. But try to tell us everything that happened 
 as precisely as you can. 
 
 Phcedo. Well, I myself was strangely moved on that day. 
 I did not feel that I was being present at the death of a 
 dear friend: I did not pity him, for he seemed to me 
 happy, Echecrates, both in his bearing and in his words, 
 so fearlessly and nohlv did he die. I could not help 
 thinking that the gods would watch over him still on 
 his journey to the other world, and that when he arrived 
 there it would he well with him, if it was ever well with 
 any man. Therefore 1 had scarcely any feeling of pity, 
 as you would expect at such a mournful time. Neither 
 did I feel the pleasure which I usually felt at our philo¬ 
 sophical discussions; for our talk was of philosophy. A 
 very singular feeling came over me, a strange mixture of 
 pleasure and of pain when I remembered that he was 
 presently to die. All of us- who were there were in much 
 the same state, laughing and crying by turns; particularly 
 Apollodorus. I think you know the man and his ways. 
 
 Ech. Of course I do. 
 
PHiEDO. 135 
 
 Phcedo. Well, he did not restrain himself at all; and I 
 myself and the others were greatly agitated too. 
 
 Ech. Who were they, Phsedo ? 
 
 Phcedo. Of native Athenians, there was this Apollodorus, 
 and Critobulus, and his father Crito, and Hermogenes, and 
 Epigenes, and iEschines, and Antisthenes. Then there 
 was Ctesippus the Pteanian, and Menexenus, and some 
 other Athenians. Plato, I believe was ill. 
 
 Ech. Were any strangers there ? 
 
 Pluedo. Yes, there was Simmies of Thebes, and Cebes, 
 and Phaedondes; and Eucleides and Terpsion from Me- 
 gara. 
 
 Fell. But Aristippus and Cleombrotus? were they 
 present ? 
 
 Phcedo. Xo, they were not. They were said to be in 
 iEgina. 
 
 Ech. Was any one else there? 
 
 Phcedo. No, I think that these were all. 
 
 Ech. Then tell us about your conversation. 
 
 Phcedo. I will try to relate the whole story to you from 
 the beginning. On the previous days I and the others had 
 always met in the morning at the court where the trial 
 was held, which was close to the prison; and then we had 
 gone in to Socrates. We used to wait each morning until 
 the prison was opened, conversing: for it was not opened 
 early. When it was opened we used to go in to Socrates, 
 and we generally spent the whole day with him. But on 
 that morning we met earlier than usual; for the evening 
 before we had learn, on leaving the prison, that the ship 
 had arrived from Delos. So we arranged to be at the 
 usual place as early as possible. . When we reached the 
 prison the porter, who generally let us in, came out to 
 us and bade us wait a little, and not to go in until he sum¬ 
 moned us himself; “for the Eleven,” he said, “are re¬ 
 leasing Socrates from his fetters, and giving directions for 
 his death to-day/’ In no great while he returned and 
 bade us enter. So we went in and found Socrates just 
 released, and Xanthippe—you know her—sitting by him, 
 holding his child in her arms. When Xanthippe saw 
 
136 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 us, she -wailed aloud, and cried, in her woman’s way, 
 “ This is the last time, Socrates, that you will talk with 
 your friends, or they with you.” And Socrates glanced 
 at Crito, and said, “ Crito, let her be taken home.” So 
 some of Crito’s servants led her away, weeping bitterly 
 and beating her breast. But Socrates sat up on the bed, 
 and bent his leg and rubbed it with his hand, and while 
 he was rubbing it said to us. How strange a thing is what 
 men call pleasure! How wonderful is its relation to pain, 
 which seems to be the opposite of it! They will not corrie 
 to a man together: but if he pursues the one and gains it, 
 he is almost forced to take the other also, as if they were 
 tw r o distinct things united at one end. And I think, said 
 he, that if iEsop had noticed them he would have com¬ 
 posed a fable about them, to the effect that God had 
 wished to reconcile them when they were quarreling, and 
 that, when he could not do that, he joined their ends to¬ 
 gether; and that therefore whenever the one comes to a 
 man, the other is sure to follow. . That is just the case 
 with me. There was pain in my leg caused by the chains: 
 and now, it seems, pleasure is come following the pain. 
 
 Cebes interrupted him and said, By the bye, Socrates, I 
 am glad that you reminded me. Several people have been 
 inquiring about your poems, the hymn to Apollo, and 
 yEsop’s fables which you have put into metre, and only 
 a day or two ago Evenus asked me what was your reason 
 for writing poetry on coming here, when you had never 
 written a line before. So if you wish me to be able to 
 answer him when he asks me again, as I know that he will, 
 tell me what to say. 
 
 Then tell him the truth, Cebes, he said. Say that it was 
 from no wish to pose, as a rival to him, or to his poems. 
 I knew that it would not be easy to do that. I was only 
 testing the meaning of certain dreams, and acquitting 
 my conscience about them, in case they should be bidding 
 me make this kind of music. The fact is this. The same 
 dream used often to come to me in my past life, appearing 
 in different forms at different times, but always saying the 
 same words, “ Socrates, work at music gnd compose it,” 
 
PHJEDO. 
 
 137 
 
 [Formerly I used to think that the dream was encouraging 
 me and cheering me on in what was already the work of 
 my life, just as the spectators cheer on different runners 
 in a race. I supposed that the dream was encouraging me 
 to crea t e the mu sic at w hich I. was working already^for I 
 thought that is ophy was the highest music, and, my life 
 was spent in philosophy. But then, after the trial, when 
 the feast of the god delayed my death, it occurrd to me that 
 the dream might possibly he bidding me create music in 
 the popular sense, and that in that case I ought to do so, 
 and not to disobey: I thought that it would be safer to ac¬ 
 quit my conscience by creating poetry in obedience to the 
 dream before I departed. So first I composed a hymn to 
 the god whose feast it was. And then I turned such fables 
 of ^®sop as I knew, and had ready to my hand, into verse, 
 taking those which came first: for I reflected that a man 
 who means to be a poet has to use fiction and not facts 
 for his poems; and I could not invent fiction myself. 
 
 Tell Evenus this, Cebes, and bid him farewell for me; 
 and tell him to follow me as quickly as he can, if he is 
 wise. (I, it seems, shall depart to-day, for that is the 
 will of the Athenians.‘\ 
 
 And Simmias said. What strange advice to give Evenus, 
 Socrates! I have often met him, and from what I have 
 seen of him, I think that he is certainly not at all the man 
 to take it, if he can help it. 
 
 What? he said, is not Evenus a philosopher? 
 
 Yes, I suppose so, replied Simmias. 
 
 Then Evenus will wish to die, he said, and so will every 
 manwho is*worthy of having any part in this study. But 
 he will not lay violent hands on himself; for that, they 
 say, is wrong. And as he spoke he put his legs off the 
 bed on to the ground, and remained sitting thus for the 
 rest of the conversation. 
 
 Then Cebes asked him, What do you mean, Socrates, 
 by saying that it is wrong for a man to lay violent hands 
 on himself, but that the philosopher will wish to follow 
 the dying man? 
 
138 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 What, Cebes ? Have you and Simmias been with Philo* 
 laus, and not heard about these things? 
 
 Nothing very definite, Socrates. 
 
 Well, I myself only speak of them from hearsay: yet 
 there is no reason why 1 should not tell you what I have 
 heard. Indeed, as I am setting out on a journey to the 
 other world, what could be more fitting for me than to 
 talk about my journey, and to consider what we imagine 
 to be its nature ? How could we better employ the interval 
 between this and sunset ? 
 
 Then what is their reason for saying that it is wron. for 
 a man to kill himself, Socrates? It is quite true that I 
 have heard Philolaus say, when he was living ai Thebes, 
 that it is not right: and I have heard the same thing from 
 others too : but I never heard anything definite on the sub¬ 
 ject from any of them. 
 
 You must be of good cheer, said he, possibly you will 
 hear something some day. But perhaps you will be sur¬ 
 prised if I say that this law, unlike every other law to 
 which mankind are subject, is absolute and without ex¬ 
 ception ; and that it is not true that death is better than life 
 only for some persons and at some times. And perhaps you 
 will be surprised if I tell you that these men, for whom it 
 would be better to die, may not do themselves a service, 
 that they must await a benefactor from without. 
 
 Oh indeed, said Cebes, laughing quietly, and speaking in 
 his native dialect. 
 
 Indeed, said Socrates, so stated it may seem strange: and 
 yet perhaps a reason may be given for it. The reason 
 which the secret teaching 1 gives, that man is in a kind of 
 prison, and that he may not set himself free, nor escape 
 from it. seems to me rather profound and not easy to 
 fathom. But I do think. Cebes, that it is true_that the gods 
 are our guardians, and that we men are, a part of their 
 property. Do you not think so ? 
 
 I do, said Cebes. 
 
 Well then, said he, if one of your possessions were to 
 kill itself, though you had not signified that you wished it 
 1 The Esoteric system of the Pythagoreans. 
 
PHiEDO. 
 
 139 
 
 to die, should you not be angry with it ? Should you not 
 punish it, if punishment were possible? 
 
 Certainly, he replied. 
 
 Then in this way perhaps it is not unreasonable to hold 
 that no man has a right to take his own life, but that he 
 must wait until Cod sendriome 
 been sent upoii me. 
 
 Yes, said Cebes, that does seem natural. But you were 
 saying just now that the philosopher will desire to die. Is 
 not that a paradox, Socrates, if what we have just been 
 saying, that God is our guardian and that we are his prop¬ 
 erty, be true. It is not reasonable to say that the wise 
 man will be content to depart from this service, in which 
 the gods, who are the best of all rulers, rule him. He will 
 hardly think that when he becomes free he will take better 
 care of himself than the gods take of him. A fool perhaps 
 might think so, and say that he would do well to run away 
 from his master: he might not consider that he ought not 
 to run away from a good master, but that he ought to re¬ 
 main with him as long as possible, and so in his thought¬ 
 lessness he might run away. But the wise man will surely 
 desire to remain always with one who is better than himself. 
 But if this be true, Socrates, the reverse of what you said 
 just now seems to follow. The wise man should grieve to 
 die, and the fool should rejoice. 
 
 I thought Socrates was pleased with Cebes’ insistence. 
 He looked at us, and said, Cebes is always examining argu¬ 
 ments. He will not be convinced at once by anything that 
 one says. 
 
 Yes, Socrates, said Simmias, but I do think that now 
 there is something in what Cebes says. Why should really 
 wise men want to run away from masters who are better 
 than themselves,- and lightly quit their service? And I 
 think Cebes is aiming his argument at you, because you 
 are so ready to leave us, and the gods, who are good rulers, 
 as you yourself admit. 
 
 You are right,, he said. I suppose you mean that I 
 must defend myself against your charge, as if I were in a 
 court of justice. 
 
140 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 That is just our meaning, said Simmias. 
 
 Well then, he replied, let me try to make a more success¬ 
 ful defense to you than 1 did to the judges at my trial. 
 I should be wrong, Cebes and Simmias, he went on, not 
 to grieve at death. If 1 did not think that I was 
 going to live both with other gods who are good and 
 wise, and with men who have died, and who are better 
 than the men of this world. But you must know that I 
 hope that I am going to live among good men, though I 
 am not quite sure of that. But I am as sure as I can be 
 in such matters that 1 am going to live with gods who 
 arc very’ good masters. And therefore I am not so much 
 grieved at death: T am confident that the dead have some 
 kind of existence, and, as has been said of old, an existence 
 that is far better for the good than for the wicked. 
 
 Well, Socrates, said Simmias, do you mean to go away 
 and keep this belief to yourself, or will you let us share it 
 with you ? It seems to me that we too have an interest in 
 this good. And it will also serve as your defense, if you 
 can convince us of what you say. 
 
 I will try, he replied. But I think Crito has been want¬ 
 ing to speak to me. Let us first hear what he has to say. 
 
 Only, Socrates, said Crito, that the man who is going 
 to give you the poison has been telling me to warn you not 
 to talk much. lie says that talking heats people, and that 
 the action of the poison must not be comiteracted by heat. 
 Those who excite themselves sometimes have to drink it 
 two or three times. 
 
 Let him be, said Socrates: let him mind his own business, 
 and be prepared to give me the poison twice, or, if need 
 be, thrice. 
 
 I know that would be your answer, said Crito: but the 
 man has been importunate. 
 
 Never mind him, he replied. But I wish now to explain 
 to you, my judges, why it seems to me that a man who has 
 really spent his life in philosophy has reason to be of good 
 cheer when he is about to die, and may well hope after 
 death to gain in the other world the greatest good. I will 
 try to show you, Simmias and Cebes, how this may be. 
 
KLEDO. 
 
 141 
 
 The world, perhaps, does not see that those wh o rightly 
 engage in .philosophy, study only dying and death. And, i f 
 this be true, it would be surely strange for a man all 
 through his life to desire only death, and then, when death 
 comes to him, to be vexed at it, when it has been his study 
 and his desire for so long. 
 
 Simmias laughed, and said: Indeed, Socrates, you make 
 me laugh, though I am scarcely in a laughing humor now. 
 If the multitude heard that, I fancy they would think that 
 what you say of philosophers is quite true ; and my country¬ 
 men would entirely agree with you that philosophers are 
 indeed eager to die, and they would say that they know full 
 well that philosophers deserve to be put to death. 
 
 And they would be right, Simmias, except in saying that 
 they know it. They do not know in what sense the true 
 philosopher is eager to die, or what kind of death he de¬ 
 serves, or in what sense he deserves it. Let us dismiss them 
 from our thoughts, and converse by ourselves. Do we be¬ 
 lieve death to be anything? 
 
 We do, replied Simmias. 
 
 AmLdmwemot behevnjLto be the separation of the soul S 
 from the body ? Does not death mean that tlie body comes ( 
 to exist by itself, separated from the soul, and that the soul 
 exists by herself, separated from the body ? What is 
 death but that ? 
 
 It is that, he said. 
 
 Now consider, my good friend, if you and I are agreed 
 on another point which I think will help us to understand 
 the question better. Do you think that a philos opher will 
 care very much about what are called pleasures, such as the 
 pleasures of eating and drinking? 
 
 Certainly not, Socrates, said Simmias. 
 
 Of about the pleasures of sexual passion ? 
 
 Indeed, no. 
 
 And, do you think that he holds the remaining cares of 
 the body in high esteem ? Will he think much of getting 
 fine clothes, and sandals, and other bodily'adornments, or 
 will he despise them, except so far. as he is absolutely 
 forced to meddle with them ? 
 
142 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 The real philosopher, I think, will despise them, he re¬ 
 plied. 
 
 In short, said he, you think that h is studies are not en n- 
 cerned with the body ? He stands alool irom it, as iar au 
 lie can, and turns towards the soul? 
 
 1 do. 
 
 Well then, in these matters, first, it is clear that the phil¬ 
 osopher releases his soul from communion with the body, 
 so far as he can, beyond all other men? 
 
 It is. 
 
 And does not the world think, Simmias, that if a man 
 has no pleasure in such things, and does not take his share 
 in them, his life is not worth living? Do not they hold 
 that he M ho thinks nothing of bodily pleasures is almost 
 as good as dead ? 
 
 Indeed you are right. 
 
 But what about the actual acquisition of wisdom? If 
 the body is taken as a companion in the search for wisdom, 
 is it a hindrance or not? For example, do sight and hear¬ 
 ing convey any real truth to men ? Are not the very poets 
 forever telling us that we neither hear nor see anything 
 accurately? But if these senses of the body are not accu¬ 
 rate or clear, the others will hardly be so, for they are all 
 less perfect than these, are they not? 
 
 Yes, I think so, certainly, he said. 
 
 Then when does the soul attain truth? he asked. We 
 see that, 'as often” as she seeks to investigate anything in 
 company with the body, the body leads her astray. 
 
 True. 
 
 Is it not by reasoning, if at all, that any real truth be¬ 
 comes manifest to her? 
 
 Yes. 
 
 And she reasons best, I suppose, w hen none of the s enses, 
 whether hearing, or sight, or pain, or pleasure, harasses her: 
 when she has dismissed the body, and released herself as 
 far as she can from all intercourse or contact with it, and 
 so, coming to be as much alone with herself as is possible, 
 strives after real truth. 
 
 That is so. 
 
PHiEDO. 
 
 143 
 
 And here too the soul of the philosopher very greatly 
 des p’ses the body, and flies from it, and seeks to be alone 
 by herself, does she not? 
 
 Clearly. 
 
 And what do you say to the next point, Simmias? Do 
 we say that there is such a thing as absolute justice, or 
 not ? 
 
 Indeed we do. 
 
 And absolute beauty, and absolute good ? 
 
 Of course. 
 
 Have you ever seen any of them with your eyes ? 
 
 Indeed, I have not, he replied. 
 
 Did you ever grasp them with any bodily sense ? I am 
 speaking of all absolutes, whether size, or health, or 
 strength; in a word of the essence or real being of every¬ 
 thing. Is the very truth of things contemplated by the 
 
 body? Is it not rather the case that the man.. who prp- 
 
 pares himself most carefully to apprehend by his intellect 
 ihe essence of each thing which, he ex amines, will come 
 nearest to the knowledge of. it? 
 
 Certainly. 
 
 And will not a man attain to this pure thought most 
 completely, if he goes to each thing, as far as he can, 
 
 h his mind alone, taking neither sight, nor any other 
 sense along with his .reason in the process of thought, to be 
 an encumbrance? In every case he will pursue pure and 
 absolute being, with his pure intellect alone. He will be 
 set free as far as possible from the eye, and the ear, and, 
 in short, from the whole body, because intercourse with the 
 body troubles the soul, and hinders her from gaining truth 
 and wisdom. Is it not he who will attain the knowledge of 
 real being, if any man will ? 
 
 Your words are admirably true, Socrates, said Simmias. 
 
 And, he said, must not all this cause real philosophers 
 to reflect, and make them say to each other. It seems that 
 there is a narrow path which will bring us safely to our 
 journey’s end, with reason as our guide. As long as we 
 have this body, and an evil of that sort is mingled with our 
 souls, we shall never fully gain what we desire; and that is 
 
TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 144 
 
 truth. For the body is forever taking up our time with the 
 care which it needs: and, besides, whenever diseases attack 
 it, they hinder us in our pursuit of real being. It fills us 
 with passions, and desires, and fears, and all manner of 
 phantoms, and much foolishness: and so, as the saying 
 goes, in very truth we can never think at all for it. It 
 alone, and its desires, cause wars and factions and battles: 
 for the origin of all wars is the-pursuit of wealth, and we 
 are forced to pursue wealth because we lave, in slavery to the 
 cares of the body. And therefore, for all these reasons, we 
 have no leisure for philosophy. And last of all, if we ever 
 are free from the bod)' for a time, and then turn to examine 
 some matter, it falls in our way at every step of the inquiry, 
 and causes confusion and trouble and panic, so that we can¬ 
 not see the truth for it. Verily we hav e learnt that if w e 
 are to have aity pure knowledge^ at all_, w e mu st be free d 
 from the body; the soul by herself mustj>elx>iy filings as 
 they are. Then, it seems, after we are dead, we shall gain 
 the wisdom which we desire, and for which we say we 
 have a passion, but not while we are alive, as the argument 
 shows. For if it be not possible to have pure knowledge 
 while the body is with us, one of two things lnust be true: 
 either we cannot gain knowledge at all, or we can gain . 
 it only after death. For then, and not till then, will the 
 soul exist by herself, separate from the .b.ody. And while 
 we live, we shall come nearest to knowledge, if we have 
 no communion or intercourse with the body beyond what is 
 absolutely necessary, and if we are not defiled with its 
 nature. We must live pure from it until God himself re¬ 
 leases us. And when we are thus pure and released from 
 its follies, we shall dwell, I suppose, with others who are 
 pure like ourselves, and we shall of ourselves know all that 
 is pure; and that may be the truth. For I think that the 
 impure is not allowed to attain to the pure. Such, Sim- 
 mias, I fancy must needs be the language and the reflec¬ 
 tions of the true lovers of knowledge. Do you not agree 
 w'ith me ? 
 
 Most assuredly I do, Socrates. 
 
 And, my friend, said Socrates, if this be true, I have 
 
PHiEDO. 
 
 145 
 
 good hope that, when I reach the place whither I am going, 
 I shall there, if anywhere, gain fully that which we have 
 sought so earnestly in the past. And so I shall set forth 
 cheerfully on the journey that is appointed me to-day, and 
 so may every man who thinks that his mind is prepared and 
 purified. 
 
 That is quite true, said Simmias. 
 
 And does not the purification consist, as we have said, 
 in separating the soul from the body, as far as is possible, 
 and in accustoming her to collect and rally herself together 
 from the body on every side, and to dwell alone by herself 
 as much as she can both now and hereafter, released from 
 the bondage of the body ? 
 
 Yes, certainly, he said. 
 
 Is not what we call death a release and separation of the 
 soul from the body? 
 
 Undoubtedly, he replied. 
 
 And the true philosopher, we hold, is alone in his constant 
 desire to set his soul free ? His study is simply the release 
 and separation of the soul from the body, is it not ? 
 
 Clearly. 
 
 Would it not be absurd then, as I began by saying, for 
 ajman IcTroJaplain at death_ coming to him, when in his life 
 hu has been preparing himself to live as nearly in a state of 
 death as he could ? Would not that be absurd ? 
 
 "Yes, indeed. 
 
 In truth, then, Simmias, he said, the true philosopher 
 studies to die, and to him of all men is death least terrible. 
 Now look at the matter in this way. In everything he is 
 at enmity with his body, and he longs to possess his soul 
 alone. Would it not then be most unreasonable, if he were 
 to fear and complain when he has his desire, instead of 
 rejoicing to go to the place where he hopes to gain thq 
 wisdom that he has passionately longed for all his life, 
 and to be released from the company of his enemy ? Many 
 a man has willingly gone to the other world, when a human 
 love, or wife or son has died, in the hope of seeing there 
 those whom he longed for, and of being with them: and 
 will a man who has a real passion for wisdom, and a firm, 
 
UQ 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 hope of really finding wisdom in the other world and no¬ 
 where else, grieve at death, and not depart rejoicing? Nay, 
 my friend, you ought not. to think that, if he be truly a 
 philosopher. He will be firmly convinced that there and 
 nowhere else will he meet with wisdom in its purity. And 
 if this be so, would it not, I repeat, be very unreasonable 
 for such a man to fear death? 
 
 Yes, indeed, he replied, it would. 
 
 Does not this show clearly, he said, that any man whom 
 you see grieving at the approach of death, is after all no 
 lover of wisdom, but a lover of his body ? He is also, most 
 likely, a lover either of wealth, or of honor, or, it may be, 
 of both. 
 
 Yes, he said, it is as you say. 
 
 Well then, Si mm i as, he went on, does not what is called 
 courage belong especially to the philosopher? 
 
 Certainly I think so, he replied. 
 
 And does not temperance, the quality which even the 
 world calls temperance, and which means to despise and 
 control and govern the passions—does not temperance be¬ 
 long only to such men as most despise the body, and pass 
 their lives in philosophy? 
 
 Of necessity, he replied. 
 
 For if you will consider the courage and the temperance 
 of other men, said he, you will find that they are strange 
 things. 
 
 How so, Socrates ? 
 
 You know, he replied, that all other men regard death 
 as one of the great evils to which mankind are subject ? 
 
 Indeed they do, he said. 
 
 And when the brave men of them submit to death, do not 
 they do so from a fear of still greater evils ? 
 
 Yes. 
 
 Then all men but the philosopher are brave from fear 
 and because they are afraid. Yet it is rather a strange 
 thing for a man to be brave out of fear and cowardice. 
 
 Indeed it is. 
 
 And arc not the oAlerly men of them in exactly the same 
 case? Are not they temperate from a kind of intemper* 
 
PHJ3D0. 
 
 147 
 
 ance? We should say that this cannot he: but in them 
 this state of foolish temperance comes to that. They de ¬ 
 sire cert ain pleasures, and fear to los e them; and so they 
 oi A 'I pleasure s because they are mastered by 
 these. Intemperance is defined to mean being under the 
 dominion of pleasureyet they only master certain, pleas¬ 
 ures because they are mastered by others. -But that is ex¬ 
 actly what I said just now, that, in a way, they are made 
 temperate from intemperance. 
 
 It seems to be so. 
 
 • My dear Siramias, I fear that virtue is not really to be 
 bought in this way, by bartering pleasure for pleasure, and 
 pain for pain, and fear for fear, and the greater for the 
 less, like coins. There is only .one. sterling coin for which 
 a i 1 these things ought tolae exchanged, and that is wisdom. 
 All that is bought and sold' for this and with this, whether 
 courage, or temperance, or justice, is real: in one word 
 true virtue cannot be without wisdom, and it matters noth¬ 
 ing whether pleasure, and fear, and all other such things, 
 are present or absent. But I think that the virtue, which is 
 composed of p 1 ensures and fears bartered with one an- 
 otTier, and severed from wisdom, is only a shadow' of true 
 virtue, and that it has no freedom, nor health, nor inith. 
 True virtue in reality is a kind of purifyingJionnaUJhese 
 things: and temperance, and justice, and courage, and w is¬ 
 dom itself, are the purification. And I fancy that the men 
 who established our mysteries had a very real meaning: 
 in truth they have been telling us in parables all the time 
 ihat whosoever comes to Hades uninitiated and profane, 
 Avill lie in the mire; while he that has been purified and. 
 initiated shall dwell with the gods. For ‘‘the thyrsus- 
 bearers are many,” as they say in the mysteries, “ but the 
 inspired few.” And by these last, I believe, are meant only 
 JJje true philosopher^ And I in my life have striven as 
 hard as I was able, and have left nothing undone that I 
 might become one of them. "Whether I have striven in the 
 right way, and whether I have succeeded or not, I suppose 
 that I shall learn in a little while, when I reach the other 
 world, if it be the will of God. 
 
TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 148 
 
 That is my defense, Simmias and Cebes, to show that ! 
 have reason for not being angry or grieved at leaving you 
 and my masters here. I believe that in the next world, 
 no less than in this, I shall meet with good masters and 
 friends, though the multitude are incredulous of it. And 
 if I have been more successful with you in my defense than 
 I was with my Athenian judges, it is well. 
 
 When Socrates had finished, Cebes replied to him, and 
 said, I think that for the most part you are right, Socrates. 
 But men are very incredulous of what you have said of the 
 soul. They fear that she will no longer exist anywhere 
 when she has left the body, but that she will be destroyed 
 and perish on the very day of death. They think that the 
 moment that she is released and leaves the body, she will be 
 dissolved and vanish away like breath or smoke, and thence¬ 
 forward cease to exist at all. If she were to exist some¬ 
 where as a whole, released from the evils which you enu¬ 
 merated just now, we should have good reason to hope, Soc¬ 
 rates, that what you say is true. But it will need no little 
 persuasion and assurance to show that the soul exists after 
 death, and continues to possess any power or wisdom. 
 
 True, Cebes, said Socrates; but what are we to do? Do 
 you wish to converse about these matters and see if what 
 I say is probable ? 
 
 I for one, said Cebes, should gladly hear your opinion 
 about them. 
 
 I think, said Socrates, that no one who heard me now, 
 even if he were a comic poet, would say that I am an idle 
 talker about things which do not concern me. So, if you 
 wish it, let us examine this question. 
 
 Let us consider whether or no the souls of men exist in 
 the next world after death, thus. There is an ancient be¬ 
 lief, which we remember, that on leaving this world they 
 exist there, and that they return hither and are born again 
 from the dead. But if it be true that the living are bora 
 from the dead, our souls must exist in the other world: 
 otherwise they could not be born again. It will be a suffi¬ 
 cient proof that this is so if we can really prove that the 
 living are born only from the dead. But if this is not so, 
 we shall have to find some other argument. 
 
PH^EDO. 
 
 149 
 
 Exactly, said Cebes. 
 
 Well, said he, the easiest way of answering the question 
 will be to consider it not in relation to men only, but 
 also in relation to all animals and plants, and in short to 
 all things that are generated. Is it the case that every¬ 
 thing, which has an opposite, is generated only from 
 its opposite . By opposites' T"mean, me "honorable and the 
 base, tKe just*’and the unjust, and so on in a thousand 
 other instances. Let us consider then whether it is neces¬ 
 sary for everything that has an opposite to be generated 
 only from its own opposite. I’or instance, when anything 
 becomes greater, I suppose it must Srstnave "Been less and 
 then become greater? - -«■ - 
 'Tes.” 
 
 And if a thing becomes less, it must have, been greater, 
 and' afterwards becomes legs ? 
 
 That is so, said he. 
 
 And further, the weaker is generated from the stronger, 
 and tire swifter from the slower ? 
 
 "UertamTy. 
 
 And the worse is generated from the better, and the 
 .more Just from the -more un j ust ? 
 
 Of course. 
 
 Then it is sufficiently, clear to us that all tilings are gen¬ 
 erated in this way, opposites from opposites? 
 
 Quite so. 
 
 And in every pair of opposites, are there not two genera¬ 
 tions between the two members of the pair, from the one 
 to the other, and then back again from the other to the 
 first? Between the greater and the less are growth and 
 diminution, and we say that the one grows and the other 
 diminishes, do we not ? 
 
 Yes, he said. 
 
 And there is division and composition, and cold and hot, 
 and so on. In fact is it not a universal law, even though 
 we do not always express it in so many words, that oppo¬ 
 sites are generated always from one another, and that there 
 is a process of generation from one to the other? 
 
 It is, he replied. 
 
150 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 Well, said he, is there an opposite to life, in the same 
 way that sleep is the opposite .of being awake ? 
 
 Certainly, he answered. 
 
 iVhat is it ? 
 
 Death, he replied. 
 
 Then if life and death are opposites, they are generated 
 the one from the other: they are two, and between them 
 there are two generations. Is it not so ? 
 
 Of course. 
 
 Now, said Socrates, I will explain to yon one of the two 
 pairs of opposites of which I spoke just now, and its gen¬ 
 erations, and you shall explain to me the other. Sleep is 
 the opposite of waking. From sleep is produced the state 
 of waking: and from the state of waking is produced sleep. 
 Their generations are, first, to fall asleep; secondly, to 
 awake. Is that clear? he asked. 
 
 Yes, quite. 
 
 Now then, said he, do you tell me about life and death. 
 Death is the opposite of life, is it not? 
 
 It is. 
 
 And they are generated the one from the other? 
 
 Yes. 
 
 Then what is that which is generated from the living ? 
 
 The dead, he replied. 
 
 And what is generated from the dead ? 
 
 I must admit that it is the living. 
 
 Then living things and living men are generated from 
 the dead, Cebes? 
 
 Clearly, said he. 
 
 Then our souls exist in the other world ? he said. 
 
 Apparently. 
 
 Now of these two generations the one is certain? Death 
 I suppose is certain enough, is it not ? 
 
 Yes, quite, he replied. 
 
 What then shall we do? said he. Shall we not assign 
 an opposite generation to correspond ? Or is nature im¬ 
 perfect here ? Must we not assign some opposite generation 
 to dying? 
 
 I think so, certainly, he said. 
 
PHJEDO. 
 
 151 
 
 -And what must it be? 
 
 To come to life again. 
 
 And if there be such a thing as a return to life, he said, 
 it vTill be a generation from the dead to the living, willit 
 not? 
 
 It will, certainly. 
 
 Then we are agreed on this point: namely, that the living 
 are generated from the dead no less than the dead from the 
 living. But we agreed that, if this be so, it is a sufficient 
 proof that the souls of the dead must exist somewhere, 
 whence they come into being again. 
 
 I think, Socrates, that that is the necessary result of 
 our premises. 
 
 And I think, Cebes, said he, that our conclusion has not 
 been an xmfair one. For if opposites did not always corre¬ 
 spond with opposites as they are generated, moving as it 
 were round- in a circle, and there were generation in a 
 straight line forward from one opposite only, with no turn¬ 
 ing or return to the other, then, you know, all things would 
 come at length to have the same form and be in the same 
 state, and would cease to be generated at all. 
 
 What do you mean ? he asked. 
 
 It is not at all hard to understand my meaning, he re¬ 
 plied. If, for example, the one opposite, to go to sleep, ex¬ 
 isted, without the corresponding opposite, to wake up, 
 which is generated from the first, then all nature would at 
 last make the tale of Endymion meaningless, and lie would 
 no longer be conspicuous; for everything else would be in 
 the same state of sleep that he was in. And if all things 
 were compounded together and never separated, the Chaos 
 of Anaxagoras would soon be realized. Just in the same 
 way, my dear Cebes, if all things, in which there is any life, 
 were to die, and when they were dead were to remain in 
 that form and not come to life again, would not the neces¬ 
 sary result be that evearything at last would be dead, and 
 nothing alive? For if living things were generated from 
 other sources than death, and were to die, the result is 
 inevitable that all things would be consumed by death. Is 
 it not so? 
 
152 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 It is indeed, I think, Socrates, said Cebes; I think that 
 ■what you say is perfectly true. 
 
 Yes, Cebes, he said, 1 think it is certainly so. We are 
 not itiisled into this conclusion. The dead do come to life 
 again, and the living are generated from them, and the 
 souls of the dead exist; and with the souls of the good it is 
 well, and with the s'duls of the evil it is evil. 
 
 And besides, Socrates, rejoined Cebes, if the doctrine 
 which y ou are fond of statin g, tha t our learningTs~on ly 
 a process of recollection, he ini >. then 1 suppose we must 
 have learnt at some 'former time what w» recolh et now 
 And that would be impossible unless our souls had exi d 
 somewhere "before they came into this human form. So 
 that is another reason for believing the soul immortal. 
 
 But, Cebes, interrupted Simmias, what are the proofs 
 of that? Bocall them to me: I am not very clear about 
 them at present. 
 
 One argument, answered Cebes, and the strongest of all, 
 is that if you question men about anything in the right 
 way, they will answer you correctly of themselves. But 
 they would not have been able to do that, unless they had 
 had within themselves knowledge and right reason. Again, 
 show them such things as geometrical diagrams, and the 
 proof of the doctrine is complete. 
 
 And if that does not convince you, Simmias, said Soc¬ 
 rates, look at the matter in another way and see if you agree 
 then. You have doubts, I know, how what is called knowl¬ 
 edge can be recollection. 
 
 Nay, replied Simmias, I do not doubt. But I want to 
 recollect the argument about recollection. What Cebes 
 undertook to explain has nearly brought your theory back 
 to me and convinced me. But I am none the less ready 
 to hear how you undertake to explain it. 
 
 In this way, he returned. We are agreed, I suppose, 
 that if a man"remembers anything, he must have known it 
 at some previous time. 
 
 Certainly, he said. 
 
 And are we agreed that when knowledge comes m the 
 following way, it is recollection ? When a man has seen or 
 
PH^DO. 
 
 153 
 
 "heard anything, or has perceived it by some other sense, 
 and then knows not that thing only, but has also in his 
 mind an impression of some other thing, of which the 
 knowledge is quite different, are we not right in saying.that 
 he remembers the thing of which he has an impression in 
 his mind ? 
 
 What do you mean ? 
 
 I mean this. The knowledge of a man is different from 
 the knowledge of a lyre, is it not ? 
 
 Certainly. 
 
 And you know that when lovers see a lyre, or a garment, 
 or anything that their favorites are wont to use, they have 
 this feeling. They know the lyre, and in their mind they 
 receive the image of the youth whose the lyre was. That 
 is recollection. For instance, some one seeing Simmias 
 often is reminded of Cebes; and there are endless examples 
 of the same thing. 
 
 Indeed there are, said Simmias. 
 
 Is not that a kind of recollection, he said; and more es¬ 
 pecially when a man has this feeling with reference to 
 things which the lapse of time and inattention have made 
 him forget? 
 
 Yes, certainly, he replied. 
 
 Well, he went on, is it possible to recollect a man on see¬ 
 ing'the picture of a horse, or the picture of a lyre? or to 
 recall Simmias on seeing a picture of Cebes ? 
 
 Certainly. 
 
 And is it possible to recollect Simmias himself on seeing 
 a picture of Simmias? 
 
 Fo doubt, he said. 
 
 Then in all these cases t here is recollection, caused by 
 similar objects, and also by dksmiffar -objects ? 
 
 There is. 
 
 But when a man has a recollection caused by similar ob¬ 
 jects, will he not have a further feeling, and consider 
 whether the likeness to that which he recollects is defective 
 in any way or not? 
 
 He will, he said. 
 
 How see if this is true, he went on. Ho we not believe 
 
154 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 in th e existence of equal ity.—not the equality of pieces of 
 wood, or of stones; but something beyond that,—e quality 
 in the abstra ct ? Shall we say that there is such a thing, 
 or not? 
 
 Yes indeed, said Simmias, most emphatically we will. 
 
 And do we know what this abstract equality is ? 
 
 Certainly, he replied. 
 
 Where did we get the knowledge of it? Was it not from 
 seeing the equal pieces of wood, and stones, and the like, 
 which we were speaking of just now? Did we not form 
 from them the idea of abstract equality, which is different 
 from them? Or do you think that it is not different? 
 Consider the question in this way. Do not equal pieces of 
 wood and stones appear to us sometimes equal, and some- s 
 times unequal, though in fact they remain the same all the 
 time? 
 
 Certainly they do. 
 
 But did absolute equals ever seem to you to be unequal, 
 or abstract equality to be inequality? 
 
 No, never, Socrates. 
 
 T1 ion equal.things,.he .said, are. not the same as abstract 
 
 equality?' 
 
 No, certainly not, Socrates. 
 
 Yet it was from these equal things, he said, which are 
 diff nt from abstract equality, that you have conceived 
 and got your knowledge.of abstract equality? 
 
 That is quite true, he replied. 
 
 And that whether it is like them or unlike them? 
 
 Certainly. 
 
 But that makes no difference, he said. As long as the 
 sight of one thing brings another thing to your mind, there 
 must be recollection, whether or no the two things are like. 
 
 That is so. 
 
 Well then, said he, do the equal pieces of wood, and 
 other similar equal things, of which we have been speaking, 
 affect us at all in this way? Do they seem to us to be 
 equal, in the way that abstract equality is equal ? Do they 
 come short of being like abstract equality, or not? 
 
 Indeed, they come very short of it, he replied. 
 
PHJEDO. 
 
 155 
 
 Are we agreed about this? A ma n sees something and 
 thinks to himself, “This thing that I see aims at being 
 like some other thing; but it conies short, and cannot be 
 like that other thing; it is inferior: ” must not'the man who 
 thinks that, have known at some previous time that other 
 thing, which he.says that it resembles, and to'which it is 
 inferior,? 
 
 He must. 
 
 Well, have we ourselves had the same sort of feeling with 
 reference to equal things, and to abstract equality ? 
 
 Yes, certainly. 
 
 Then we must have had knowledge of equality before we 
 first saw equal things, and perceived that they all strive to 
 be like equality, and all come short of it. 
 
 -That is so. J\-, 
 
 And we are. agreed also that we have noi. nor could we 
 Lave, obtained.,the idea of equality except from sight or 
 touch or some other sense: the sam e is true of all the senses. ' 
 
 Yes, Socrates, for the purposes of the argument that is 
 so. 
 
 At any rate it is by the senses that we must perceive that 
 all sensible objects strive to resemble absolute equality, 
 and are inferior to it. Is not that so ? 
 
 Yes. 
 
 Then before we began to see, and to hear, and to use the 
 other senses, we must have received the knowledge of the 
 nature of abstract and real equality; otherwise we could not 
 have compared equal sensible objects with abstract equality, 
 and seen that the former in all cases strive to be like the 
 latter, though they are always inferior to it ? 
 
 That is the necessary consequence of what we have been 
 saying, Socrates. 
 
 Did we not see, and hear, and possess the other senses 
 as soon as we were born ? 
 
 Yes, certainly. 
 
 And we must have received the knowledge of abstract 
 equality before we had these senses ? 
 
 'Yes. 
 
156 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 Then, it seems, we must have received that knowledge 
 before we were born? 
 
 It does. 
 
 Now if we received this knowledge before our birth, and 
 were born with it. we knew, both before, and at the moment 
 of our birth, not only the equal, and the greater, and the 
 less, but also everything of the same kind, did we not? 
 Our present reasoning does not refer only to equality. It 
 refers just as much to absolute good, and absolute beauty, 
 and absolute justice, and absolute holiness; in short, I re¬ 
 peat, to everything which we mark with the name of the 
 real, in the questions and answers pf our dialectic. So we 
 must have received our knowledge of all realities before we 
 were boxn. 
 
 That is so. 
 
 And we must always be horn with this knowledge, and 
 must always retain it throughout life, if we have not each 
 time forgotten it, after having received it. For to know 
 meangjo receive and retain knowledge, and not to have lost 
 it. Bo not we mean by forgetting the loss of knowledge, 
 Simmias ? 
 
 Yes, certainly, Socrates, he said. 
 
 But, I suppose, if it be t he case that we lost at birth the 
 knowledge which we received before we werchorn, arnTThen 
 afterwards, by using our'senses on the objects of sense, re¬ 
 covered the, knowledge which we liad previously possessed, 
 then what we call learning i§. the recovering of knowledge 
 which is already ours. And are wc not right in calling that 
 recollection ? 
 
 Certainly. 
 
 For we have found it possible to perceive a thing by 
 sight, or hearing, or any other sense, and thence to form 
 a notion of some other thing, like or unlike, which had 
 been forgotten, but with which this thing was associated. 
 And therefore, I say, one of two things must be true. 
 Either we are all horn with this knowledge, and retain it 
 all our life; or. after birth, those whom we say are learning 
 are only recollecting, and our knowledge is recollection. 
 
 Yes indeed, that is undoubtedly true, Socrates. 
 
UHvEDO. 
 
 157 
 
 Then which do you choose, Simmias ? Are we born with 
 knowledge, or do we recollect the things of which we have 
 received knowledge before our birth? 
 
 I cannot say at present, Socrates. 
 
 Well, have you an opinion about this question ? Can a 
 man who knows give an account of what he knows, or not ? 
 Whaf do You think about that ? 
 
 Yes, of . CQurse he can, Socrates. 
 
 And do you think that every one can give an account 
 of the ideas of which rve have been speaking? 
 
 I wish I did, indeed, said Simmias : but I am very Such 
 afraid that by this time to-morrow there will no longer 
 be any man living able to do so as it should be done. 
 
 Then, Simmias, he said, you do not think that all men 
 know these things? 
 
 Certainly not. 
 
 Then they recollect what they once learned? 
 
 Necessarily. 
 
 And when did our souls gain,this knowledge? It cannot 
 have been after we were born men. 
 
 No, certainly not. 
 
 Then it was before ? 
 
 Yes. 
 
 Then, Simmias, our souls existed formerly , apart from 
 our bodies, and possessed intelligence before they came into 
 man’s shape. 1 
 
 Unless we receive this knowledge at the moment of birth, 
 Socrates. That time still remains. 
 
 Well,' my friend: and at what other time do we lose it ? 
 We agreed just now that we are not born with it: do'we 
 lose it at the same moment that we gain it ? or can you 
 suggest any other time ? 
 
 I cannot, Socrates. I did not see that I was talking 
 nonsense. 
 
 Then, Simmias, he said, is not this the truth? If, as 
 we are forever repeating, beauty, and good, and the other 
 ideas really exist, and if we refer all the objects of sensible 
 
 1 Cf. Wordsworth’s famous Ode on Intimations of Immortality . 
 It must be noticed that in one respect Wordsworth exactly re- 
 
158 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 perception .to these ideas which were formerly ours, and 
 which we find to lie ours still, and compare sensible objects 
 with them, then, just as they exist, our souls must have ex¬ 
 isted before ever we were born. But if they do not exist, 
 then our reasoning will have been thrown away. Is it so? 
 If these ideas exist, does it not at once follow that our 
 souls must have existed before we were born, and if they do 
 not exist, then neither did our souls ? 
 
 Admirably put, Socrates, said Simmias. I think that 
 the necessity is the same for the one as for the other. The 
 reasoning has reached a place of safety in the common 
 proof of the existence of our souls before we were born, 
 and of the existence of the ideas of which you spoke. 
 Nothing is so evident to me as that beauty, and good, and 
 the other ideas, which you spoke of just now, have a very 
 real existence indeed. Your proof is quite sufficient for 
 me. 
 
 j But what of Cebes? said Socrates. I must convince 
 Cebes too. 
 
 I think that he is satisfied, said Simmias, though he is 
 the most skeptical of men in argument But I think that 
 he is perfectly convinced that our souls existed before we 
 were born. 
 
 But I do not think myself, Socrates, he continued, that 
 you have proved that the soul will continue to exist when 
 we are dead. The common fear which Cebes spoke of, that 
 she may be scattered to the winds at death, and that death 
 may be the end of her existence, still stands in the way. 
 Assuming that the soul is generated and comes together 
 from some other elements, and exists before she ever en¬ 
 ters the human body, why should she not come to an end 
 and be destroyed, after she has entered into the body, 
 when she is released from it ? 
 
 You are right, Simmias, said Cebes. I think that only 
 half the required pioof has been given. It has been shown 
 
 verses Plato’s theory. With Wordsworth “ Heaven lies about us 
 in our infancy ” : and as we grow to manhood we gradually for¬ 
 get it. With Plato, we lose the knowledge which we possessed 
 in a prior state of existen/e, at birth, and recover it, as we grow 
 up. 
 
PHiEDO. 
 
 159 
 
 that our souls existed before we 'were born; but it must 
 also be shown that our souls will continue to exist after 
 we are dead, no less than that they existed before we were 
 born, if the proof is to be complete. 
 
 That has been shown already, Simmias and Cebes, said 
 Socrates, if you will combine this reasoning with our pre¬ 
 vious conclusion, that all life is generated from death. For 
 if the soul exists in a previous state, and if when she comes 
 into life and is born, she can only be born from death, and 
 from a state of death, must she not exist after death too, 
 since she has to be born again ? So the point which you 
 speak of has been already proved. 
 
 Still I think that you and Simmias would be glad to 
 discuss this question further. Like children, you are afraid 
 that the wind will really blow the soul away and disperse 
 her when she leaves the body; especially if a man happens 
 to die in a storm and not in a calm. 
 
 Cebes laughed and said, Try and convince us as if we 
 were afraid, Socrates: or rather, do not think that we are 
 afraid ourselves. Perhaps there is a child within us who 
 has thgse fears. Let us try arid persuade him not to be 
 afraid of death, as if it were a bugbear. 
 
 You mu st charm him every day, until you have charmed 
 him away, said Socrates. 
 
 And where shall we find a good charmer, Socrates, lie 
 asked, now that you are leaving us? 
 
 Hellas is a large country, Cebes, he replied, and good 
 men may doubtless be found in it ; and the nations of the 
 Barbarians are many. You must search them all through 
 for such a charmer, sparing neither money nor labor: for 
 there is nothing, on which you could spend .money more 
 profitably. And you must search for him among your¬ 
 selves too, for you will hardly find a better charmer than 
 yourselves. 
 
 That shall be done, said Cebes. But let us return to the 
 point where we left off, if you will. 
 
 Yes, I will: why not? 
 
 Very good, he replied. 
 
 Well, said Socrates, must we not ask ourselves this ques- 
 
100 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 tion? What kind of thing is liable to suffer dispersion, 
 and for what kind of thing have we to fear dispersion? 
 And then we must see whether the soul belongs to that 
 kind or not, and be confident or afraid about our own souls' 
 accordingly. 
 
 That is true, he answered. . ; 
 
 Now is it not the compound,and composite which is 
 naturally liable to be dissolved in the same way in which 
 it was compounded ? And is not what is uncompounded 
 alone not liable to dissolution, if anything is not? 
 
 I think that that is so, said Cebes. 
 
 And what always remains in the same state and unchang¬ 
 ing is most likely to be uncompounded, and what is always 
 changing and never the same is most likely to be com¬ 
 pounded, I suppose? 
 
 Yes, I think so. 
 
 Now let us return to what we were speaking of before 
 in the discussion, he said. Does the being, which in our 
 dialectic we define as meaning absolute existence, remain 
 always in exactly the same state, or does it change? Do 
 absolute equality, absolute beauty, and every other absolute 
 existence, admit of any change at all? or does absolute 
 existence, in each ease, being essent ially uniform, remain 
 the same and unchanging, and never in any case, admit of 
 any sort or kind of change whatsoever? 
 
 It must remain the same and unchanging, Socrates, said 
 Cebes. 
 
 And what of the many beautiful thi ngs, such as me n, 
 and horses,, and garments, nmI..iJmJikp—n mi of a|l w hich 
 bears the names of the ideas, whcthcr.equul, o r beaut iful, 
 or anything else? Do they remain the same, or is it ex¬ 
 actly the opposite with them? In short, do they ne ver re¬ 
 main the same at alUeitlmr in themselves or in their rela¬ 
 tions ? 
 
 These things, said Cebes, never remain the same. 
 
 Yo u can touch them, and see, them,, and percei ve them 
 with the other senses., while you can grasp the unchanging 
 only by the reasoning of the mJeTTecTT These flatter are 
 invisible and not seen. Is it nor so? 
 
PHiEDO. 
 
 161 
 
 That is perfectly true, he said. 
 
 Let us assume then, he said, if you will, that there are 
 two kinds of existence, the one visible, the other invisible. 
 
 Yes, he said. . 
 
 And the invisible, is unchanging-, while the visible is 
 
 always changing. 
 
 Yes, he said again. 
 
 Are not we men made up of body and soul? 
 
 There is nothing else, he replied. 
 
 And which of these kinds of existence should we say that 
 the body is most like, and most akin to ? 
 
 The visible, he replied ; that is quite obvious. 
 
 And the soul? Is that visible or invisible? 
 
 It is invisible to man, Socrates, he said. 
 
 But we mean by visible and invisible, visible and in¬ 
 visible to man; do we not ? 
 
 Yes; that is what we mean. 
 
 Then what do we say of the soul? Is it visible, or not 
 visible ? 
 
 It is not visible. 
 
 Then it is invisible ? 
 
 Yes. 
 
 Then the soul is more like the invisible than the body; 
 and”the body is like the visible. 
 
 That is necessarily so, Socrates. 
 
 Have we not also said that, when the soul employs the 
 body in any inquiry, and makes use of sight, or hearing, 
 of any other sense, —for inquiry with the body means 
 inquiry with the senses,—she is dragged .-away by it to 
 the things which never remain the same, and wanders about 
 blindly* and becomes confused and dizzy, like a drunken 
 man, from dealing with things that are ever changing ? 
 
 Certainly. 
 
 But whep she investigates any question by herself, she 
 goes away”to the pure, and eternal, and immortal, and 
 unchangeable, to which she is akin, and so she comes to be 
 ever with it, as soon as she is by herself, and can be so: 
 and then she rests from her wanderings, and dwells with 
 it unchangingly, for she is dealing with what is upchang- 
 
162 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 ing? And is not this state of the soul called wisdom? 
 
 Indeed, Socrates, you speak well and truly, he replied. 
 
 Which kind of existence do you think from our former 
 and our present arguments that the soul is more like and 
 more akin to? 
 
 I think, Socrates, he replied, that after this inquiry 
 the very dullest man would agree that the soul is infinitely 
 more like the unchangeable than the changeable. 
 
 And the body? 
 
 That is like the changeable. 
 
 Consider the matter in yet another way. When the soul 
 and the body are united, nature ordains the one to be a 
 slave and to be ruled, and the other to be master and to 
 rule. Tell me once again, which do you think Is like the 
 divine, and which is like the mortal? Do you not think 
 that the divine naturally rules and has authorit} r , and that 
 the mortal naturally is ruled and is a slave ? 
 
 I do. 
 
 Then which is the soul like? 
 
 That is quite plain, Socrates. The s oul .isj i& the di¬ 
 vine, and the body is like the mortal. 
 
 Now tell me, Cebes; is the result of all that we have 
 said that the soul is most like the divine, and the immortal, 
 and the intelligible, and the uniform, and the indissoluble, 
 and the unchangeable; while the body is most like the 
 human, and the mortal, and the unintelligible, and the 
 multiform, and the dissoluble, and the changeable? Have 
 we any other argument to show that this is not so, my dear 
 Cebes? 
 
 We have not. 
 
 Then if this is so, is it not the nature of the body to be 
 dissolved quickly, and of the soul to be wholly or very 
 nearly indissoluble? 
 
 Certainly. 
 
 You observe, he said, that after a man is dead, the 
 visible part of him, his body, which lies in the visible 
 world, and which we call the corpse, which is subject to 
 dissolution and decomposition, is not dissolved and de¬ 
 composed at once? It remains as it was for a consider- 
 
PHJEDO. 
 
 163 
 
 able time, and even for a long time, if a man dies with 
 his body in good condition, and in the vigor of life. And 
 when the body falls in and is embalmed, like the mummies 
 of Egypt, it remains nearly entire for an immense time. 
 And should it decay, yet some parts of it, such as the bones 
 and muscles, may almost be said to be immortal. Is it 
 not so? 
 
 Yes. 
 
 And shall we believe that the soul, which is invisible, 
 and which goes hence to a place.that is like herself, glori¬ 
 ous, and pure, and invisible, to Hades, which is rightly 
 called the unseen world, to dwell with the good and wise 
 God, Avhither, if it be the will of God, my soul too must 
 shortly go;—shall we believe that the soul,, whose nature 
 is so glorious, and pure, and invisible, is blown away by 
 the winds and perishes as soon as she leaves the body, as 
 the world says? YYy, dear Cebes, and Simmias, it is not 
 so. I will tell you what happens to a soul which is pure 
 at her departure, and which in her life has had no inter¬ 
 course that she could avoid with the body, and so draws 
 after her, when she dies, no taint of the body, but has 
 shunned it, and gathered herself into herself, for such, 
 has been her constant duty; — and that only means that 
 she has loved wisdom rightly, and has truly practiced how 
 to die. Is not this the practice of death ? 
 
 Yes, certainly. 
 
 Does not the soul, then, which is in that state, go away 
 to the invisible that is like herself, and to the divine, and 
 the immortal, and the wise, where she is released from 
 error, and folly, and fear, and fierce passions, and all the 
 other evils that fall to the lot of men, and is happy, and 
 for the rest of time lives in very truth with the gods, as 
 they say that' the initiated do? Shall we affirm this, 
 Cebes? 
 
 Yes, certainly, said Cebes. 
 
 But if she be defiled and impure when she leaves the 
 body, from being ever with it, and serving it and loving 
 it, and from being besotted by it, and by its desires and 
 pleasures, so that she thinks nothing true, but what is 
 
164 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 bodily, and can bo touched, and seen, and eaten, and drunk, 
 and used for men’s lusts; if she lias learned to hate, and 
 tremble at, and fly from what is dark and invisible to the 
 eye, and intelligible and aprehended by philosophy—do 
 you think that a soul which is in that state will be pure 
 and without alloy at her departure? 
 
 Yo, indeed, he replied. 
 
 She is pe netrated, I s uppose, by the corp oreal, which the 
 unceasing intercourse and company and care of the body 
 has made a part of her nature. 
 
 Yes. 
 
 And, my dear friend, the corporeal must be burdensome, 
 and heavy, and earthy, and visible; and it is by this that 
 such a soul is weighed down and dragged back to the 
 visible world, because she is afraid of the invisible world 
 of Hades, and haunts, it is said, the graves and tombs, 
 where shadowy forms of souls have been seen, which are 
 the phantoms of souls which were impure at their release, 
 and still cling to the visible; which is the reason why they 
 are seen. 
 
 That is likely enough, Socrates. 
 
 That is likely, certainly, Cebes: and these are not the 
 souls of the good, but of the evil, which are compelled to 
 wander in such places as a punishment for the wicked 
 lives that they have lived; and their wanderings continue 
 until, from the desire for the corporeal that clings to them, 
 they are again imprisoned in a body. 
 
 And, he continued, they are imprisoned, probably, in 
 the bodies of animals with habits similar to the habits 
 which were theirs in their lifetime. 
 
 What do you mean by that, Socrates? 
 
 I mean that men who have practiced unbridled gluttony, 
 and wantonness, and drunkenness, probably enter the 
 bodies of asses, and suchlike animals. Do you not think 
 so? 
 
 Certainly that is very likely. 
 
 And those who have chosen injustice, and tyranny, and 
 robbery, enter the bodies of wolves, and hawks, and kites, 
 Where else should we say that such souls go ? 
 
PHiEDO. 
 
 165 
 
 ISTo doubt, said Cebes, they go into such animals. 
 
 In short, it is quite plain, he said, whither each soul 
 goes; each enters an animal with habits like its own. 
 
 Certainly, he replied, that is so. 
 
 And of these, he said, the h appiest, wh o go to the best, 
 pl ace, are those who hqye practiced-the-popular and social 
 virtues which are called .temperance and justice, and 
 win 1 come from habit and practice, without philosophy 
 or reason.? 
 
 And why are they the happiest ? 
 
 Because it is probable that they return info a mild and 
 social nature like their own, such as that of bees, or wasps, 
 or ants, or, it may be, into the bodies of men, and that from 
 them are made worthy citizens. 
 
 Very likely. 
 
 Bu t none but the philosopher or the lover of knowledge, 
 who is wholly pure when he„gq.e§„..hence, is permitted^ go 
 to the race of the gods; and therefore, npy, friends Bimmias 
 and Cebes, the true philosopher is temp e rate, an d refrains 
 from all the pleasures of the body, and does not give 
 himself tip to them— It is not squandering his substance 
 and poverty that he fears, as the'multitude and thertovers 
 of wealth do; nor again'does he dread the dishonor and 
 disgrace of wickedness, like the lovers of power and honor. 
 It Ts"h6t Tor these reasons, that Tie is temperate. 
 
 No,' 'if would be unseemly in him if he were, Socrates, 
 said Cebes. 
 
 Indeed it would, he replied: and therefore a ll those who 
 have any care for their souls, and who do not spendTheir 
 lives in forming and moulding. tlifiir bodies, bicl farewell 
 to such persons, and do not walk in their ways, thinking 
 that they know not whither they are going. They them¬ 
 selves turn and follow whithersoever philosophy leads 
 them, for they believe that they ought not to resist phil¬ 
 osophy, or its deliverance and purification. 
 
 How, Socrates? 
 
 I will tell you, he replied. The lovers of knowledge 
 know that when philosophy receives the soul, she is fast 
 bound in the body, and fastened to it: she is unable to 
 
166 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 contemplate what is, by herself, or except through the bars 
 of her prison-house, the body; and she is wallowing in utter 
 ignorance. And philosophy sees that the dreadful thing 
 about the imprisonment is that it is caused by lust, and that 
 the captive herself is an accomplice in her own captivity. 
 The lovers of knowledge, I repeat, know that philosophy 
 takes the soul when she is in this condition, and gently en¬ 
 courages her, and strives to release her from her captivity, 
 showing her that the pen epi ions of the eye, and the ear, 
 and the other"senses, are full.of deceit, and persuading 
 her to stand aloof from the senses, and to use them only 
 when she must, and exhorting her to rally and gather 
 herself together, and to trust only to herself, and to the 
 real existence which she of her own self apprehends: and to 
 be lie ve that nothing, which is subject to change, and which 
 fihe perceives by other faculties. has~ahy*Truth77or*'such 
 things are visible and sensible, while what she herself .gees 
 is apprehended by reason and invisible. The soul of the 
 true philosopher thinks that it would be wrong to resist 
 this deliverance from captivity, and therefore she holds 
 aloof, so far as she can, from pleasure, and desire, and pain, 
 and fear; for she reckons that when a man has vehement 
 pleasure, or fear, or pain, or desire, he suffers from them, 
 not merely the evils which might be expected, such as sick¬ 
 ness, or some loss arising from the indulgence of his de¬ 
 sires ; he suffers what is the greatest and last of evils, and 
 does not take it into account. 
 
 What do you mean, Socrates? asked Cebes. 
 
 I mean that whe n the soul of any man feels vehement 
 pleasure or pain, she is forced at the same time to think 
 that the object, whatever it be, of those sensations' is the 
 most distinct and truest, when it is not. Such objects are 
 chiefly visible ones, are they not? 
 
 They are. 
 
 And is it not in. this state that the soul is most com¬ 
 pletely in bondage to the body ? 
 
 How so? 
 
 Because every pleasure and pain has a kind of nail, 
 and nails and pins her to the body, and gives her a bodily 
 
PHJEDO. 
 
 16? 
 
 nature, making her think t hat whatever t he body says is 
 true. And so, from having the same fancies and the 
 same pleasures as tire body, she is obliged, I suppose, to 
 come to have the same ways, and way of life':' she must 
 always be defiled with the body when she leaves it, and 
 cannot be pure when she reaches the other world; and 
 so she soon falls back into another body, and takes root 
 in it, like seed that is sown. Therefore she loses all 
 part in intercourse with the divine, and pure, and uni¬ 
 form. 
 
 That is very true, Socrates, said Cebes. 
 
 It is for these reasons then, Cebes, that the real lowers 
 of knowledge are temperate and brave; and not for the 
 world’s reasons. Or do you think so? 
 
 No, certainly I do not. 
 
 Assuredly not. The soul of a philosopher will consider 
 that it is the office oF philosoph y to get lifil* fre^r~ She 
 will know that she must not give herself up once more 
 to the bondage of pleasure and pain, from which philosophy 
 is releasing her, and, like Penelope, do a work, only to undo 
 it continually, weaving instead of unweaving her web. She 
 gain s for herself peace from these things, and follows 
 reason and ever abides in it, contemplating wliat is true 
 and divine and real, and fostered up by them. So she 
 thinks that she should live in this life, and when she dies 
 she believes that she will go to what is akin to and like 
 herself, and be released from human ills. A soul, Sim- 
 mias and Cebes, that has been so nurtured, and so trained, 
 will never fear lest she should be tom in pieces at her 
 departure from the body, and blown away by the winds, 
 and vanish, and utterly cease to exist. • 
 
 At these words there was a long silence. Socrates him¬ 
 self seemed to be absorbed in his argument, and so were 
 most of us. Cebes and Simmias conversed for a little by 
 themselves. When Socrates observed them, he said: What ? 
 Do you think that our reasoning is incomplete? It still 
 offers many points of doubt and attack, if it is to be 
 examined thoroughly. If you are discussing another ques¬ 
 tion, I have nothing to say. But if you have any difficulty 
 
168 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 about this one, do not hesitate to tell me what it is, and, 
 if vou are of opinion that the argument should be stated 
 in a better way, explain your views yourselves: and take 
 me along with you, if you think that you will be more 
 successful in my company. 
 
 Simmias replied: Well, Socrates, I will tell you the 
 truth. Each of us has a difficulty, and each has been push¬ 
 ing on the other, and urging him to ask you about it. We 
 were anxious to hear what you have to say; but we were 
 reluctant to trouble you, for we were afraid that it might 
 be unpleasant to you to be asked questions now. 
 
 Socrates smiled at this answer, and said. Dear me! Sim¬ 
 mias; 1 shall find it hard to convince other people that I do 
 not consider mj r fate a misfortune, when I cannot convince 
 even you of it, and you are afraid that I am more peevish 
 now than I used to be. You seem to think me inferior 
 in prophetic power to the swans, which, when they find 
 that they have to die, sing more loudly than they ever sang 
 before, for joy that they are about to depart into the pres¬ 
 ence of God, whose servants they are. The fear which men 
 have of death themselves makes them speak falsely of the 
 swans, and they say that the swan is wailing at its death, 
 and that it sings loud for grief. They forget that no 
 bird sings when it is hungry, or cold, or in any pain; not 
 even the nightingale, nor the swallow, nor the hoopoe, 
 which, they assert, wail and sing for grief. But I think 
 that neither these birds nor the swan sing for grief. I 
 believe that they have a prophetic power and foreknowledge 
 of the good things in the next world, for they are Apollo’s 
 birds: and so they sing and rejoice on the day of their 
 death, more than in all their life. And I believe that I 
 myself am a fellow slave with the swans, and consecrated 
 to the service of the same God, and that I have prophetic 
 power from my master no less than they; and that I am 
 not more despondent than they are at leaving this life. 
 So, as far as vexing me goes, you may talk to me and ask 
 questions as you please, as long as the Eleven of the 
 Athenians will let you. 
 
 Good, said Simmias; I will tell you my difficulty, and 
 
BHiEDO. 
 
 169 
 
 Cebes will tell you why he is dissatisfied with your state¬ 
 ment. I think, Socrates, and I dare say you think so too, 
 that it is very difficult, and perhaps impossible, to obtain 
 clear knowledge about these matters in this life. Yet I 
 should hold him to be a very poor creature who did not test 
 what is said about them in every way, and persevere until 
 he had examined the question from every side, and could 
 do no more. It is our duty to do one of two things. 
 We must learn, or we must discover for ourselves, the truth 
 of these,matters; or, if that be impossible, we must take 
 the best and most irrefragable of human doctrines, and 
 embarking on that, as on a raft, risk the voyage of life, 
 unless a stronger vessel, some divine word, could be found, 
 on which we might take our journey more safely and more 
 securely. And now, after what you have said, I shall 
 not be ashamed to put a question to you: and then I 
 shall not have to blame myself hereafter for not having 
 said now what I think. Cebes and I have been considering 
 your argument; and we think that it is hardly sufficient. 
 
 I dare say you are right, my friend, said Socrates. But 
 tell me, where is it insufficient? 
 
 To me it is insufficient, he replied, because the very 
 same argument might be used of a harmony, and a lyre, 
 and its strings. It might be said that the harmony in a 
 tuned lyre is something unseen, and incorporeal, and per¬ 
 fectly beautiful, and divine, while the lyre and its strings 
 are corporeal, and with the nature of bodies, and com¬ 
 pounded, and earthly, and akin to the mortal. How 
 suppose that, when the lyre is broken and the strings are 
 cut or snapped, a man were to press the same argument 
 that you have used, and were to say that the harmony 
 cannot have perished, and that it must still exist: for it 
 cannot possibly be that the lyre and the strings, with their 
 mortal nature, continue to exist, though those strings have 
 been broken, while the harmony, which is of the same na¬ 
 ture as the divine and the immortal, and akin to them, 
 has perished, and perished before the mortal lyre. He 
 would say that the harmony itself must still exist some¬ 
 where, and that the wood and the strings will rot away 
 
170 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 before anything happens to it. And I think, Socrates, 
 that you too must be aware that many of us believe the 
 soul to be most probably a mixture and harmony of the 
 elements by which our body is, as it were, strung and held 
 together, such as heat and cold, and dry and wet, and the 
 like, when they are mixed together well and in due pro¬ 
 portion. Now if the soul is a harmony, it is clear that, 
 when the body is relaxed out of proportion, or over-strung 
 bv disease or other evils, the soul, though most divine, 
 must perish at once, like other harmonies of sound and 
 of all works of art, while what remains of each body must 
 remain for a long time, until it be burnt or rotted away. 
 What then shall we say to a man who asserts that the 
 soul, being a mixture of the elements of the body, perishes 
 first, at what is called death ? 
 
 Socrates looked keenly at us, as he often used to do, 
 and smiled. Simmias’ objection is a fair one, he said. If 
 any of you is readier than I am, why does he not answer? 
 For Simmias looks like a formidable assailant. But be¬ 
 fore we answer him, I think that we had better hear what 
 fault Cebes has to find with my reasoning, and so gain 
 time to consider our reply. And then, when we have 
 heard them both; we must either give in to them, if they 
 seem to harmonize, or, if they do not, we must proceed to 
 argue in defense of our reasoning. Come, Cebes, what 
 is it that troubles you, and makes you doubt? 
 
 I will tell you, replied Cebes. I think that the argu¬ 
 ment is just where it was, and still open to our former 
 objection. You have shown very cleverly, and, if it is 
 not arrogant to say so, quite conclusively, that our souls 
 existed before they entered the human form. I don’t 
 retract my admission on that point. But I am not con¬ 
 vinced that they will continue to exist after we are dead. 
 I do not agree with Simmias’ objection, that the soul is 
 not stronger and more lasting than the body: I think that 
 it is very much superior in those respects. “Well, then, 
 the argument might reply, “ do you still doubt, when you' 
 see that the weaker part of a man continues to exist after 
 his death? Do you not think that the more lasting part 
 
PHiEDO. 
 
 171 
 
 'of him must necessarily be preserved for as long?” See, 
 therefore, if there is anything in what I say; for I think 
 that 1, like Simmias, shall best express my meaning in a 
 figure. It seems to me that a man might use an argu¬ 
 ment similar to yours, to prove that a weaver, who had 
 died in old age, had not in fact, perished, but was still 
 alive somewhere; on the ground that the garment, which 
 the weaver had woven for himself and used to wear, had 
 not perished or been destroyed. And if any one were 
 incredulous, he might ask whether a human being, or a 
 garment constantly in use and wear, lasts the longer; and 
 on being told that a human being lasts much the longer, he 
 might think that he had shown beyond all doubt that the 
 man was safe, because what lasts a shorter time than the 
 man had not perished. But that, I suppose, is not so, 
 Simmias; for you too must examine what I say. Every 
 one would understand that such an argument was simple 
 nonsense. This weaver wove himself many such garments 
 and wore them out; he outlived them all but the last, but 
 he perished before that one. Yet a man is in no wise in¬ 
 ferior to his cloak, or weaker than it, on that account. 
 And I think that the soul’s relation to the body may be 
 expressed in a similar figure. Why should not a man very 
 reasonably say in just the same way that the soul lasts a 
 long time, while the body is weaker and lasts a shorter 
 time? But, he might go on, each soul wears out many 
 bodies, especially if she lives for many years. For if the 
 body is in a‘ state of flux and decay in the man’s lifetime, 
 and the soul is ever repairing the worn out part, it will 
 surely follow that the soul, on perishing, will be clothed in 
 her last robe, and perish before that alone. But when the 
 soul has perished, then the body will show its weakness and 
 quickly rot away. So as yet we have no right to be con¬ 
 fident, on the strength of this argument, that our souls con¬ 
 tinue to exist after we are dead. And a man might concede 
 even more than this to an opponent who used your argu¬ 
 ment; he might admit not only that our souls existed in 
 the period before we were born, but also that there is no 
 
172 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 reason why some of them should not continue to exist in 
 the future, and often come into being, and die again, after 
 we are dead; for the soul is strong enough by nature to en¬ 
 dure coming into being many times. He might grant 
 that, without conceding that she suffers no harm in all 
 these births, or that she is not at last wholly destroyed at 
 one of the deaths; and he might say that no man knows 
 when this death and dissolution of the body, which brings 
 destruction to the soul, will be, for it is impossible for 
 any man to find out that. But if this is true, a man s con¬ 
 fidence about death must be an irrational confidence, unless 
 he can prove that the soul is wholly indestructible and im¬ 
 mortal. Otherwise every one Mho is dying must fear that 
 his soul will perish utterly this time in her separation 
 from the body. 
 
 It made us all very uncomfortable to listen to them, as 
 we afterwards said to each other. We had been fully con¬ 
 vinced by the previous argument; and now they seemed 
 to overturn our conviction, and to make us distrust all the 
 arguments that were to come, as well as the preceding ones, 
 and to doubt if our judgment was worth anything, or 
 even if certainty could be attained at all. 
 
 Ech. By the gods, Phsedo, I can understand your feelings 
 very well I myself felt inclined while you were speaking 
 to ask myself, “ Then vdiat reasoning are M'e to believe 
 in future? That of Socrates was quite convincing^ and 
 now it has fallen into discredit.” For the doctrine that 
 our soul is a harmony has always taken a wonderful hold 
 of me, and your mentioning it reminded me that I myself 
 had held it. And now I must begin again and find some 
 other reasoning which shall convince me that a man’s soul 
 does not die with him at his death. So tell me, I pray you, 
 how did Socrates pursue the argument ? Did he show any 
 . signs of uneasiness, as you say that you did, or did he 
 come to the defense of his argument calmly ? And did he 
 defend it satisfactorily or no? Tell me the whole story 
 as exactly as you can. 
 
 Phcedo. I have often, Echecrates, wondered at Socrates; 
 ]but I never admired him more than I admired him then. 
 
PHiEDO. 
 
 173 
 
 There was nothing very strange in his having an answer: 
 what I chiefly wondered at was, first, the kindness and 
 good-nature and respect with which he listened to the young 
 men’s objections; and, secondly, the quickness with which, 
 he perceived their effect upon us; and, lastly, how well he 
 healed our wounds, and rallied us as if we were beaten 
 and flying troops, and encouraged us to follow him, and 
 to examine the reasoning with him. 
 
 Ech. How? 
 
 Phcedo. I will tell you. I was sitting by the bed on a 
 stool at his right hand, and his seat was a good deal 
 higher than mine. He stroked my head and gathered up 
 the hair on my neck in his hand—you know he used often 
 to play with my hair—-and said, To-morrow, Phsedo, I 
 dare say will cut off these beautiful locks. 
 
 I suppose so, Socrates, I replied. 
 
 You will not, if you take my advice. 
 
 Why not ? I asked. 
 
 You and I will cut off our hair to-day, he said, if our 
 argument be dead indeed, and we cannot bring it to life 
 again. And I, if I were you, and the argument were to 
 escape me, would swear an oath, as the Argives did, not 
 to wear my hair long again, until I had renewed the fight 
 and conquered the argument of Simmias and Cebes. 
 
 But Heracles himself, they say, is not a match for two, 
 I replied. 
 
 Then summon me to aid you, as your Iolaus, while there 
 is still light. 
 
 Then I summon you, not as Heracles summoned Iolaus, 
 but as Iolaus might summon Heracles. 
 
 It will be the same, he replied. But first let us take 
 care not to make a mistake. 
 
 What mistake? I asked. 
 
 The mistake of becoming misologists, or haters of reason¬ 
 ing, as men become misanthropists, he replied: for t o hate 
 reasoning is the greatest evil that can happen to us. Miso- 
 iogy and misanthrdpy"h6fK'™5dmF^froSY'iimilar causes. 
 The latter arises out of the implicit and irrational confi¬ 
 dence which is placed in a man, who is believed by his 
 
174 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 friend to be thoroughly true and sincere and trustworthy, 
 and who is soon afterwards discovered to be a bad man and 
 untrustworthy. This happens again and again; and when 
 a man has had this experience many times, particularly at 
 the hands of those whom he has believed to be his nearest 
 and dearest friends, and he has quarreled with many of 
 of them, he ends by hating all men, and thinking that there 
 is no good at all in any one. Have you not seen this hap¬ 
 pen? 
 
 Yes, certainly, said T. 
 
 Is it not discreditable? he said. Is it not clear that such 
 a man tries to deal with men without understanding human 
 nature? Had he understood it he would have known that, 
 in fact, good men and bad men are very few indeed, and 
 that the majority of men are neither one nor the other. 
 
 What do you mean ? I asked. 
 
 Just what is true of extremely large and extremely 
 small things, he replied. What is rarer than to find a man, 
 or a dog, or anything else which is either extremely large 
 or extremely small? Or again, what is rarer than to find 
 a man who is extremely swift or slow, or extremely base or 
 honorable, or extremely black or white? Have you not 
 noticed that in all these cases the extremes are rare and 
 few, and that the average specimens are abundant and 
 many ? 
 
 Yes, certainly, I replied. 
 
 And in the same way, if there were a competition in 
 wickedness, he said, don't you think that the leading sin¬ 
 ners would be found to be very few? 
 
 That is likely enough, said I. 
 
 Yes, it is, he replied. But this is not the point in which 
 arguments are like men: it was you who led me on to dis¬ 
 cuss this point. The analogy is this. When a man believes 
 some reasoning to be true, though he does not understand 
 the art. of reasoning, and then soon afterwards, rightly or 
 wrongly, comes to think that it is false, and this happens 
 to him time after time, he ends by disbelieving in reason¬ 
 ing altogether. You know that persons who spend their 
 time in disputation, come at last to th’nk themselves the 
 
PH^EDO. 
 
 175 
 
 ■wisest of men, and to imagine that they alone have dis¬ 
 covered that there is no soundness or certainty anywhere, 
 either in reasoning or in things ; and that all existence is 
 in a state of perpetual flux, like the currents of the Euri- 
 pus, and never remains still for a moment. 
 
 Yes, I replied, that is certainly true. 
 
 And, Phaedo, he said, if there be a system of reasoning 
 which is true, and certain, and which our minds can grasp, 
 it would be very lamentable that a man, who has met with 
 some of these arguments which at one time seem true and 
 at another false, should at last, in the bitterness of his 
 heart gladly put all the blame on the reasoning, instead of 
 on himself and his own unskilfulness, and spend the rest 
 of his life in hating and reviling reasoning, and lose the 
 truth and knowledge of reality. 
 
 Indeed, I replied, that would be very lamentable. 
 
 First then, he said, le t us be carefuLnot to admit into 
 our souls the notion that all reasoning is very likely un- 
 let us arher think WatT we our selv es' are not yec 
 And wo must strive earnestly like men to beco me 
 sound, you, my friends, for the sake of all your future life; 
 and I, because of my death. For I am afraid that at 
 present I can hardly look at death like a philosopher; I a m 
 in a contentious mood, like, the uneducated persons who 
 never give a thought to the truth of the question about 
 which they are disputing, but are only anxious to persuade 
 their audience that they themselves are right. And.I think 
 that'to-dayT'shal! differ from them only in one thing. 
 I shall, not.. he„ anxious to persuade my audience that I am 
 right, except by the. way; but I shall he very anxious in¬ 
 deed to persuade myself. For see, my dear friend, how 
 selfish my reasoning is. I f what I say i s true, it is well to 
 believe it. . 3ut. if the re is nothi ng after "death, Tit'TmT“fate 
 X shall-pain my friends. less by my lamentations in the in¬ 
 terval before I die. And this ignorance will not last for¬ 
 ever — that would have been an evil — it will soon come to 
 amend . So prepared, Simmias and Cebes, he said, I come 
 to the argument. And you, if_jou take my ad vice , will 
 think not of Socrates, but of -the trutB -and you will agree 
 
176 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 me, if you think that what I say is true: otherw ise 
 you will oppose me with ‘everyargument that jyou have: 
 and be careful that, in my anxiety to com i you, I do 
 not deceive both you and myself, and go ^i wayy kavrng my 
 sting behind me, like a. bee.. 
 
 Now let ns proceed, he said. And first, if jmu find I 
 have forgotten your arguments, repeat them. Simmias, I 
 think, has fears and misgivings that the soul, being of the 
 nature of a harmony, may perish before the body, though 
 she is more divine and nobler than the body. Cebes, if I am 
 not mistaken, conceded that the soul is more enduring than 
 the body; but he said that no one could tell whether the 
 soul, after wearing out many bodies many times, did not 
 herself perish on leaving her last body, and whether death 
 be not precisely this, the destruction of the soul; for the de¬ 
 struction of the body is unceasing. Is there anything 
 else. Simmias and Cubes, which we have to examine? 
 
 They both agreed that these were the questions. 
 
 Do you reject all our previous conclusions, he asked, or 
 only some of them ? 
 
 Only some of them, they replied. 
 
 Well, said he, what do you say of our doctrine that 
 knowledge is recollection, and that therefore our souls 
 must necessarily have existed somewhere else, before they 
 were imprisoned in our bodies? 
 
 I, replied Cebes, was convinced by it at the time in a 
 wonderful way: and now there is no doctrine to which I 
 adhere more firmly. 
 
 And I am of that mind too, said Simmias; and I shall 
 be very much surprised if I ever change it. 
 
 But, my Theban friend, you will have to change' it, 
 said Socrates, if this opinion of yours, that a harmony is a 
 composite thing, and that the soul is a harmony composed 
 of the elements of the body at the right tension, is to stand. 
 You will hardly allow yourself to assert that the harmony 
 was in existence before the things from which it was to be 
 composed? Will you do that? 
 
 Certainly not, Socrates. 
 
 But you see that that is what your assertion comes to 
 
PHiEDO. 
 
 177 
 
 when you say that the soul existed before she came into 
 the form and body of man, and yet that she is composed of 
 elements which did not yet exist? Your harmony is not 
 like what you compare it to: the lyre and the strings and 
 the sounds, as yet untuned, come into existence first : and 
 the harmony is composed last of all, and perishes first. 
 How will this belief of yours accord with the other ? 
 
 It will not, replied Simmias. 
 
 And yet, said he, an argument about harmony is hardly 
 the place for a discord. 
 
 No, indeed, said Simmias. 
 
 Well, there is a discord in your argument, he said. You 
 must choose which doctrine you will retain, that knowl¬ 
 edge is recollection, or that the soul is a harmony. 
 
 The former, Socrates, certainly, he replied. The latter 
 has never been demonstrated to me ; it rests only on prob¬ 
 able and plausible grounds, which make it a popular opin¬ 
 ion. I know that doctrines which ground their proofs on 
 probabilities are impostors, and that they are very apt to 
 mislead, both in geometry and everything else, if one is 
 not on one’s guard against them. But the doctrine about 
 recollection and knowledge rests upon a foundation which 
 claims belief. We agreed that the soul exists before she 
 ever enters the body, as surely as the essence itself which 
 has the name of real being, exists. And I am persuaded 
 that I believe in this essence rightly and on sufficient evi¬ 
 dence. It follows therefore, I suppose, that I cannot allow 
 myself or any one else to say that the soul is a harmony. 
 
 And, consider the question in another way, Simmias, said 
 Socrates. Do you think that a harmony or any other com¬ 
 position can exist in a state other than the state of the ele¬ 
 ments of which it is composed ? 
 
 Certainly not. 
 
 Nor, I suppose, can it do or suffer anything beyond what 
 they do and suffer? 
 
 He assented. 
 
 A harmony therefore cannot lead the elements of which, 
 it is composed ; it must follow them ? 
 
 He agreed. 
 
178 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 And much less can it be moved, or make a sound, or do 
 anything else, in opposition to its parts. 
 
 Much less, indeed, he replied. 
 
 Well; is not every harmony by nature a harmony ac¬ 
 cording as it is adjusted ? 
 
 I don’t understand you, he replied. 
 
 If it is tuned more, and to a greater extent, he said, sup¬ 
 posing that to be possible, will it not be more a harmony, 
 and to a greater extent, while if it is tuned less, and to a 
 smaller extent, will it not be less a harmony, and to a 
 smaller extent? 
 
 Certainly. 
 
 Well, is this true of the soul? Can one soul be more a 
 soul, and to a greater extent, or less a soul, and to a smaller 
 extent, than another, even in the smallest degree? 
 
 Certainly not, he replied. 
 
 Well then, he replied, please tell me this; is not one soul 
 said to have intelligence and virtue anu to be good, while 
 another is said to have folly and vice and to be bad ? And 
 is it not true? 
 
 Yes, certainly. 
 
 What then will those, who assert that the soul is a har¬ 
 mony, say that the virtue and the vice which are in our 
 souls are? Another harmony and another discord? Will 
 they say that the good soul is in tune, and that, herself a 
 harmony, she has within herself another harmony, and that 
 the bad soul is out of tune herself, and has no other har¬ 
 mony within her. 
 
 I, said Simmias, cannot tell. But it is clear that they 
 would have to say something of the kind. 
 
 But it has been conceded, he said, that one soul is never 
 more or less a soul than another. In other words, we have 
 agreed that one harmony is never more, or to a greater ex¬ 
 tent, or less, or to a smaller extent a harmony than another. 
 Is it not so ? 
 
 Yes, certainly. 
 
 And the harmony which is neither more nor less a har¬ 
 mony, is not more or less tuned. Is that so? 
 
 Yes. 
 
PH^EDO. 179 
 
 And has that which is neither more nor less tuned, a. 
 greater, or a less, or an equal share of harmony ? 
 
 An equal share. 
 
 Then, since one soul is never more nor less a soul than 
 another, it has not been more or less tuned either? 
 
 True. 
 
 Therefore it can have no greater share of harmony or of 
 discord ? 
 
 Certainly not. 
 
 And, therefore, can one soul contain more vice or virtue 
 than another, if vice be discord, and virtue harmony? 
 
 By no means. 
 
 Or rather, Simmias, to speak quite accurately, I suppose 
 that there will be no vice in any soul, if the soul is a har¬ 
 mony. I take it, there can never be any discord in a 
 harmony, which is a perfect harmony. 
 
 Certainly not. 
 
 Neither can a soul, if it be a perfect soul, have any vice 
 in it ? 
 
 No; that follows necessarily from what has been said. 
 
 Then the result of this reasoning is that all the souls of 
 all living creatures will be equally good, if the nature of 
 all souls is to be equally souls. 
 
 Yes, I think so, Socrates, he said. 
 
 And do you think that this is true, he asked, and that 
 this would have been the fate of our argument, if the hy¬ 
 pothesis that the soul is a harmony had been correct ? 
 
 No, certainly not, he replied. 
 
 Well, said he, of all the parts of a man, should you not 
 say that it was the soul, and particularly the wise soul, 
 which rules? 
 
 I should. 
 
 Does she yield to the passions of the body, or does she 
 oppose them? I mean this. When the body is hot: and 
 thirsty, does not the soul drag it away and prevent it 
 from drinking, and when it is hungry does she not prevent 
 it from eating? And do we_not see .her opposing the pas¬ 
 sions of the body in. a tEH^anjclnther-^a-ys ? 
 
 Yes, certainly. 
 
180 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 But we have also agreed that, if she is a harmony, she can 
 never give a sound contrary to the tensions, and relaxations, 
 and vibrations, and other changes of the elements of which 
 she is composed; that she must follow them, and can never 
 lead them ? 
 
 Yes, he replied, we certainly have. 
 
 Well, now do w e not find the.-S.onl acting in just th e 
 opnosTuTwav, and leadin g all the elements of which sh e is 
 said to consist, and opposing.them in almost everything 
 all through life: and lording it over them in excvj way, 
 and chalwsinjf them, sometimes severely, and with a pain¬ 
 ful discipline, such as gymnastic and medicine, and some¬ 
 times lightiv; sometimes threatening and sometimes, ad¬ 
 monishing the desires and passions and fears, as though she 
 were speaking to something other than herself, as Homer 
 makes Odysseus do in the Odyssey, where he says that 
 
 “ He smote upon his breast, and chid his heart : 
 
 « Endure, my heart, e’en worse hast thou endured.’ ” 
 
 Do you think that when Homer wrote that, he supposed the 
 soul to be a harmony, and capable of being led by the pas¬ 
 sions of the body, and not of a nature to lead them, and be 
 their lord, being herself far too divine a thing to be like a 
 harmony ? 
 
 Certainly, Socrates, I think not. 
 
 Then, my excellent friend, it is quite wrong to say that 
 the soul is a harmony. For then, you see, we should not be 
 in agreement either with the divine poet Homer, or vith 
 ourselves. 
 
 That is true, he replied. 
 
 Very good, said Socrates; I think that we have contrived 
 to appease our Theban Harmonia with tolerable success. 
 But how about Cadmus, Cebes? he said. How shall we ap¬ 
 pease him, and with what reasoning? _ . 
 
 I dare say that you will find out how to do it, said Cebes. 
 At all events you'have argued that the soul is not a har¬ 
 mony in a way which surprised me very much. When 
 Simmias was stating bis objection, I wondered how any one 
 
PELEDO. 
 
 181 
 
 corild possibly dispose of his argument: and so I was very 
 much surprised to see it fall before the very first onset of 
 yours. I should not wonder if the same fate awaited the 
 argument of Cadmus. 
 
 My good friend, said Socrates, do not be over confident, 
 or some evil eye will overturn the argument that is to 
 come. However, that we will leave to God; let us, like 
 Homer’s heroes, “advancing boldly,” see if there is any¬ 
 thing in what you say. The sum of what you seek is this. 
 You require me to prove to you that the soul is indestructi¬ 
 ble and immortal; for if it be not so, you think that the 
 confidence of a philosopher, who is confident in death, and 
 who believes that when he is dead he will fare infinitely 
 better in the other world than if he had lived a different 
 sort of life in this world, is a foolish and idle confidence. 
 You say that to show that the soul is strong and godlike, 
 and that she existed before we were born men, is not 
 enough ; for that does not necessarily prove her immor- 
 tality, but only that she lasts a long time, and has existed 
 an enormous while, and has known and clone many things 
 in a previous state. A et she is not any the more immortal 
 for that: her very entrance into man’s body was, like a 
 disease, the beginning of her destruction. And, you say, 
 she passes this life in misery, and at last perishes in what 
 we call death. You think that it makes no difference at 
 all to the fears of each one of us, whether she enters the 
 body once or many times: for every one but a fool must 
 fear death, if he does not know and cannot prove that she 
 is immortal. That, I think, Cebes, is the substance of your 
 objection. I state it again and again on purpose, that 
 nothing may escape us, and that you may add to it or take 
 away from it anything that you wish. 
 
 Cebes replied: Ho, that is my meaning. I don’t want to 
 add or to take away anything at present. 
 
 Socrates paused for some time and thought. Then he 
 said. It is not an easy question that you are raising, Cebes. 
 We must examine fully the whole subject of the causes of 
 generation and decay. If jmu like, 1 will give you my own 
 experiences, and if you think that you can make use of 
 
TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 182 
 
 anything that I say, you may employ it to satisfy your mis¬ 
 givings. 
 
 Indeed, said Cebes, I should like to hear your experi¬ 
 ences. 
 
 Listen, then, and I will tell you, Cebes, he replied. 
 
 ""’When I was a young man, I had a passionate desire for the 
 wisdom which is called Physical Science. 1 thought it a 
 splendid thing to know the causes of everything; why a 
 thing comes into being, and why it perishes, and why it 
 exists. I was always worrying myself with such questions 
 as, Do living creatures take a definite form, as some per¬ 
 sons say, from the fermentation of heat and cold? Is it 
 the blood, or the air, or fire bv which we think? Or is it 
 none of these, but the brain which gives the senses of hear¬ 
 ing and sight and smell, and do memory and opinion come 
 from these, and knowledge from memory and opinion when 
 in a state of quiescence? Again, I used to examine the 
 destruction of these things, and the changes of the heaven 
 and the earth, until at last I concluded that I was wholly 
 and absolutely unfitted for these studies. I will prove that 
 to you conclusively. I was so completely blinded by these 
 studies, that I forgot what I had formerly seemed to my¬ 
 self and to others to know quite well: I unlearnt all that 
 1 had been used to think that I understood; even the cause 
 of man’s growth. Formerly I had thought it evident on 
 the face of it that the ca'use of growth was eating and 
 drinking; and that, when from food flesh is added to flesh, 
 and bone to bone, and in the same way to the other parts of 
 the body their proper elements, then by degrees the small 
 bulk grows to be large, and so the boy becomes a man. 
 Don’t you think that my belief was reasonable? 
 
 I do, said Cebes. 
 
 Then here is another experience for you. I used to feel 
 no doubt, when I saw a tall man standing by a short one, 
 that the tall man was, it might be, a head the taller, or, in 
 the same way, that one horse was bigger than another. I 
 was even clearer that ten was more than eight by the addi¬ 
 tion of two, and that a thing two cubits long was longer 
 by half its length than a thing one cubit long. 
 
PH^EDO. 
 
 183 
 
 And what do you think now ? asked Cebes. 
 
 I think that I am very far from believing that I know 
 the cause of any of these things. Why, when you add one 
 to one, I am not sure either that the one to which one is 
 added has become two, or that the one added and the one to 
 which it is added become, by the addition, two. I cannot 
 understand how, when they are brought together, this 
 union, or placing of one by the other, should be the cause of 
 their becoming two, whereas, when they were separated, 
 each of them was one, and they were not two. Nor, again, 
 if you divide one into two, can I convince myself that this 
 division is the cause of one becoming two: for then, a thing 
 becomes two from exactly the opposite cause. In the for¬ 
 mer case it was because two units were brought together, 
 and the one was added to the other; while now it is be¬ 
 cause they are separated, and the one divided from the 
 other. Nor, again, can I persuade myself that I know how 
 one is generated; in short, this method does not show me 
 the cause of the generation or destruction or existence of 
 anything: I have in my own mind a confused idea of an¬ 
 other method, but I cannot admit this one for a moment. 
 
 But one day I listened to a man who said that he was 
 reading from a book of Anaxagoras, which affirmed that it 
 is Mind which orders and is the cause of all things. I was 
 delighted with this theory; it seemed to me to be right, that 
 Mind should be the cause of all things, and I thought to 
 myself. If this is so, then Mind will order and arrange each 
 thing in the best possible way. So if we wish to discover 
 the cause of the generation or destruction or existence of a 
 thing, we must discover how it is best for that thing to ex¬ 
 ist, or to act, or to be acted on. Man therefore has only 
 to consider what is best and littesN'far 'litrn'self;"hr Tor 
 other things, and then it follows necessarily that he will 
 know what is bad; for both are included in the same 
 science. These reflections made me very happy: I thought 
 that I had found in Anaxagoras a teacher of the cause of 
 existence after my own heart, and I expected that he 
 would tell me first whether the earth is flat or round, and 
 •that he would then go on to explain to me the cause and 
 
184 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 the necessity, and tell me what is best, and that it is best 
 for the earth to be of that shape. If he said that the earth 
 was in the center of the universe, I thought that he would 
 explain that it was best for it to be there; and I was pre¬ 
 pared not to require any other kind of cause, if he made 
 this clear to me. In the same way 1 was prepared to ask 
 questions about the sun, and the moon, and the stars, about 
 their relative speeds, and revolutions, and changes; and 
 to hear why it is best for each of them to act and be acted 
 on as they are acted on. I_ never thought that, when he said 
 that things are ordered by Mind, he would introduce any 
 reason for their being as they are, except that they are test 
 so. I thought that he would assign a cause to each thing, 
 and a cause to the universe, and then would go on to ex¬ 
 plain to me what was best for each thing, and what was the 
 common good of all. 1 would not have sold my hopes for 
 a great deal: I seized the books very eagerly, and read them 
 as fast as I could, in order that I might know what is best 
 and what is worse. 
 
 All my splendid hopes were dashed to the ground, my 
 friend, for'as"T went on reading I found that the writer 
 made no use of Mind at all, and that he assigned no causes 
 for the order of things. His causes were air, and ether, 
 and wafer, and many other strange things. I thought that 
 he was exactly like a man who should begin by saying that 
 Socrates does all that he does by Mind, and who, when he 
 tried to give a reason for each of my actions, should say, 
 first, that I am sitting here now, because my body is com¬ 
 posed of bones and muscles, and that the bones are hard 
 and separated by joints, while the jnuscles can be tight¬ 
 ened and loosened, and, together with the flesh, and the 
 skin which holds them together, cover the bones; and that 
 therefore, when the bones are raised in their sockets, the 
 relaxation and contraction of the muscles makes it possible 
 for me now to bend my limbs, and that that is the cause of 
 my sitting here with my legs bent. And in the same way 
 he would go on to explain why I am talking fo youT he 
 would assign voice, and air. and hearing, and a thousand 
 other things as causes ; but he would quite forget to. men.- 
 
PHJEDO. 
 
 1S5 
 
 tion the real cause, which is that since the Athenians 
 thought it right to condemn me, T have thought it right ; 
 anti jnsf to sit here and to submit to whatever“seiifence'lKey 
 may think tit to impose. For, by the,dog of Fgypt, j think 
 that these muscles ana hones would long ago have been in 
 Megara or Bceotia, prompted “by their opinion of what is 
 best, if I had not thought it better and more honorable to 
 submit to whatever penalty the state inflicts, rather than 
 escape by fl ight. But to call these tilings causes' is too ab¬ 
 surd ! If ltwere said that without bones and muscles and 
 the other parts of my body I 'could'not have carried my 
 resolutions into effect, 'that would "he true. But to say that 
 they are the cause of what" I do, and that in this way I am 
 acting by 'Mind, and not from choice of what is best, would 
 be a very loose and careless way of talking. It simply 
 means that a hsan cannot distinguish the real cause from 
 that without which the cause cannot be the cause, and this 
 it is, I think, which the multitude, groping about in the 
 dark, speak of as the cause, giving it a name which does not 
 belong to it. A nd so one man surrounds the earth with a 
 v ort ex, and makes ilielieavens sustain it. Another repre¬ 
 sents the earth as a fiat kneading-trough, and "supports it 
 on a basis of air. But they never think of looking for a 
 power which is involved in these things being disposed as 
 it is best for them to be, nor do they think that such a 
 power has any divine strength: they expect: to find an Atlas 
 who is stronger and more immortal and abler to hold the 
 world together, and they never for a moment imagine that 
 it is the binding force of goo'd'whtch 'really hinds"and holds 
 things together. I would most gladly learn the nature of 
 that kind of cause from any man; but I wholly failed either 
 to discover it myself, or to learn it from any one else. How¬ 
 ever, I had a second string to my bow, and perhaps, Cebes, 
 you would like me to describe to you how I proceeded in 
 my search for the cause. 
 
 I should like to hear very much indeed, he replied. 
 
 When I had given up inquiring into real existence, he 
 proceeded, I thought that I must take care that I did not 
 suffer as people do who look at the sun during an eclipse. 
 
18G 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 For they are apt to lose their eyesight, unless they look 
 at the sun’s reflection in water or some such medium. 
 That danger occurred to me. 1 was afraid that my s oul 
 might be completely blinded if I looked at thing* will 
 eyes, and tried to grasp them with my"sehses.' So‘1 thought 
 that I must h ive'recourseto conception's, and examine the 
 truth of existence by means of them. Perhaps my lllus^ 
 tfation is not quite accurate. I am scarcely prepared to 
 admit that he who examines existence through conceptions 
 is dealing with mere reflections, any more than he who 
 examines it as manifested in sensible objects. However I 
 began in this way. I assumed in each case whatever prin¬ 
 ciple. I judged to be strongest; and then I h(?Td~tt?' trite 
 whatever seemed to agree with it, whether in the" case r ’of 
 the (Tause or of anything else, and as untrue, whatever 
 seemed not to agree with it. I should like "to explain my 
 meaning more clearly: I don’t think you understand me yet. 
 
 Indeed I do not very well, said Cebes. 
 
 I mean nothing new, he said; only what I have repeated 
 over and over again, both in our conversation to-day and 
 at other times. I am going to try to explain to you th e 
 kind of cause at which 1 havejvork'eflr ancl 1 will go back to 
 what, we have so oft< i "spokei of 1 begin with tin* as¬ 
 sumption that there exists an absolute beauty, and an abso¬ 
 lute good, and an absolute greatness, ahp so on.” If you 
 grant me this, and agree that they exist, I hope to be able 
 to show you what my cause is, and to discover that the soul 
 is immortal. 
 
 You may assume that I grant it you, said Cebes; go on 
 with your proof. 
 
 Then do you agree with me in what follows? he asked. 
 It appears to me that if anything besides absolute beauty 
 is beautiful, it is so simply because it partakes of absolute 
 beauty, and I say the same of all phenomena. Do you allow 
 that kind of cause? 
 
 I do, he answered. 
 
 Well then, he said, I no longer recognize, nor can I un¬ 
 derstand, these other wise causes': if I am told that any¬ 
 thing is beautiful because it has a rich color, or a goodly 
 
PELEDO. 
 
 1S7 
 
 form, or t he like. I pay no atten tion , -dor such language 
 only.confuses me; and in a simple .and plain, and perhaps 
 a foolish way, I hold to the doctrine that thanking..is only 
 mad e beagt iful by the presence o r com munication. or what¬ 
 ever you please to call it, of absolute beauty — I do not wish 
 to insist on the nature of the communication, but what I 
 am sure, of is, that it is absolute beauty which makes bilT 
 beautiful things beautiful. This seems to me to be the 
 safest answer that I can give myself or others; J. believe 
 that I shall never fall if I hold to this • it is a safe answer 
 to make to myself or any one else, that it is absolute beauty 
 which makes beautiful things beautifuL Don't you think 
 so? 
 
 I do. 
 
 And it is size that makes large things large, and larger 
 things larger, and smallness that makes smaller things 
 smaller? 
 
 Yes. 
 
 Andji yo told that one man was taller than an¬ 
 
 other by a head, and that the shorter man was shorter by 
 a head, you would hot acc ent the statement. You would 
 protest that you say only, that the greater is greater by size,’ 
 and that size is the cause of its being greater; and that tlie 
 less is only less by smallness, and that smallness is the 
 cause of its being less. You would be afraid to assert that 
 a man is greater or smaller by a head, lest you should he 
 met by the retort, first, that the greater is greater, and the 
 smaller smaller, by the same thing, and secondly, that 
 the greater is greater by a head, which is a small thing, 
 and that it is truly marvelous that a small thing should 
 ruake a man great. Should you not be afraid of that? 
 
 Yes, indeed, said Cebes, laughing. 
 
 And you would be afraid to say that ten is more than 
 eight by two, and that two is the cause of the excess; you 
 would say that ten. was. more than eig ht by number, and 
 that number is the c ause of the excess ? And in just the 
 same way you would be afraid to say that a thing two 
 cubits long was longer than a thing one cubit long by half 
 its length, instead of by size, would you not ? 
 
1S8 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 Yes, certainly. 
 
 Ao-ain, you would be careful not to affirm that, if one is 
 added to one. the addition is the cause of two, or, if one 
 is divided, that the division is the cause of two? You 
 
 would DTQtest 1—" y tM yfffl Vrinic nf 11(1 wav in 
 thirer can be Generated, except by participat. »i in. Us own 
 proper essence: and that you can give no cause for the^gen- 
 eration of two except participation in duality; and that a-U 
 things which are to be two must participate in duality, 
 while whatever ,k to ..be onp npi.st.j?articipate in unity, Xou 
 would leave the expl anation of these d1v1s19ns.-and.AU.ld1- 
 tions and all ^subtleties to wiser men than .yourself. 
 You would he frightened, as the saying is, at your own 
 shadow and ignorance, and would hold fast to the safety ot 
 our principle, and so give your answer. But if any one 
 should attack the principle itself, you would not mind him 
 or answer him until you had considered whether the conse- 
 ouences of it are consistent or inconsistent, and when you 
 had to give an account of the principle itself, you would 
 give it in the same way, by assuming some other principle 
 which you think the strongest of the higher ones, and so 
 go on until you had reached a satisfactory resting-place. 
 You would not mix up the first principle and its conse¬ 
 quences in your argument, as mere disputants do, n you 
 really wish to discover anything of existence Such per¬ 
 sons will very likely not spend a single word or thought 
 upon that: for they are clever enough to be able to please 
 themselves entirely, though their argument is a chaos. But 
 you I think, if you are a philosopher, will do as I say. 
 
 Very true, said Simmias and Cebes together. 
 
 Ech. And they were right, Phaedo. I think the clear¬ 
 ness of his reasoning, even to the dullest, is quite wonder- 
 
 j I 
 
 X1 Phaedo. Indeed, Ecliecrates, all who were there thought 
 
 "" Eci, So do we who were not there, but who are listening 
 to your story. But how did the argument proceed after 
 
 L ^pjicedo. They had admitted that each of the Ideas exists, 
 
PHJEDO. 
 
 1S9 
 
 and that Phenomena take the names of the Ideas as they 
 participate in them. Socrates, I think, then went on to 
 ask,— 
 
 If you say this, do you not, in saying that Simmias is 
 taller than Socrates and shorter than Phaedo, say that 
 Simmias possesses both the attribute of tallness and the 
 attribute of shortness ? 
 
 I do. 
 
 Bu t you admit, he. ..said, that the prop o it ion that 
 Simmias is taller than Socrates is not exactly true, as it is 
 stated: Simmias is not really taller because he is Simm ias, 
 but because of his height. .Nor again is he. ta ller t han 
 Socrates because Socrates is Socrates, but. beea.use of Soc¬ 
 rates' shortness, compared with Simmias’ tallness. 
 
 True. 
 
 Nor is Simmias shorter than Phsedo because Phaedo 
 is Phasdo, but because of Phsedo’s tallness compared with 
 Simmias’ shortness. 
 
 That is so. 
 
 Then in this way Simmias is called both short and tall, 
 when he is between the two: he exceeds the shortness of one 
 by the excess of his height, and gives the other a tallness 
 exceeding his own shortness. I dare say you think, he 
 said, smiling, that my language is like a legal document for 
 precision and formality. But I think that it is as I say. 
 
 ^ He agreed. 
 
 I say it because I w T ant you to think as I do. It seems 
 to me not only that absolute greatness will never he great 
 'and" small "at once, but also that greatness in us never 
 admits smallness, and will not be exceeded. One of two 
 things must happen: either the greater will give way and 
 fly at the approach of its opposite,’the less, or it will peris h. 
 It will not stand its ground, and receive smallness, and*be 
 other than it was, ju.’t as I stand my ground, and receive 
 smallness and remain the very same small man that I 
 was. But greatness cannot endure to be small, being great. 
 Just in the ..same way" again smallness in”u£'will'n??6'r‘be- 
 come nor b.e great: nor will any. opposite, while iFreihains 
 wbal it ryag, become or be at the same time the opposite "bf 
 
190 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 what it was. Ei ther it goes a way, or jt perishes in t h e 
 change ._ 
 
 That is exactly what I think, said Cebes. 
 
 Thereupon some one—I am not sure who—said. 
 
 But surely is not this just the reverse of what we agreed 
 to be true earlier in the argument, that the greater is 
 generated from the less, and the less from the greater, and, 
 in short, that opposites are generated from opposites? 
 But-now it seems to be denied that this can ever happen. 
 
 Socrates inclined his head to the speaker and listened. 
 Well and bravely remarked, he said: but you have not 
 noticed the difference between the two propositions. What 
 we said then was that a concrete thing is generated from” 
 its opposite: what we say hbwTs .that"the" absolute opposite 
 _ean never become opposite to itself, e]t)mr~when ft is in us, 
 or when it is in nature. We were speaking then of thing's 
 in which the opposites are, and we named them after those 
 opposites; but now we are speaking of the opposites them¬ 
 selves, whose inherence gives the things their names : and 
 they," we say, will never Be' generated from each other. 
 At the same time he “turnedTo Cebes and asked. Bid his 
 objection trouble you at all, Cebes? 
 
 JSfo, replied Cebes; I don’t feel that difficulty. But I 
 will not deny that many other things trouble me. 
 
 Then we are quite agreed on this point, he said. An 
 opposite will never be opposite to itself. 
 
 To. n'Ever, Tie replied. 
 
 Now tell me again, he said ; do you agree with me in this? 
 Are there not things which you call heat and cold ? 
 
 Yes. 
 
 Are they the same as snow and fire ? 
 
 No, certainly not. 
 
 Heat is different from fire, and cold from snow? 
 
 Yes. 
 
 But I suppose, as we have said, that you do not think 
 that snow can ever receive heat, and vet remain what it 
 was, snow and hot: it will either retire or perish at the 
 approach of heat. 
 
 Certainly. 
 
PHiEDO. 
 
 X 
 
 191 
 
 And fire, again, will tether retire or perish at the ap¬ 
 proach of cold. It will nevtuv endure to receive the cold and 
 still remain what it was, fire an>d co id. 
 
 True, he said. 
 
 Then, it is true of some of these things, that not only 
 the idea itself has a right to its name i;-, T all time, but that 
 something else too, which is not the idea, ^ u t which has the 
 form of the idea wherever it exists, shares ti. a name. Per¬ 
 haps my meaning will be clearer by an e ^Tnple. The 
 odd ought always to have the name of odd, ougmt it not ? 
 
 Yes, certainly. 
 
 Well, my question is this. Is the odd the only tiding 
 with this name, or is there something else, which is no^ 
 the same as the odd, but which must always have this 
 name, together with its own, because its nature is such 
 that it is never separated from the odd ? There are many 
 examples of what I mean: let us take one of them, the 
 number three, and consider it. Do you not think that we 
 mu st alway s call TT by I he- name of odd, as well as by its 
 own name, although the odd is hot the same as the; number 
 t hree ? Yet the natu re of the number three,, and of the 
 numbe r five, and of~halt the whole series of numbers, is 
 such that each of illem is ocTdjThough none "of them is the 
 same as .the odd. In the same" way the number two, and 
 the number four, and the whole of the other series of 
 numbers, are each of them always even, though they are 
 not the same as the even. Do you agree or not? 
 
 Yes, of course, he replied. 
 
 Then see what I want to show you. It is not only 
 opposite ideas which appear not to admit their opposites ; 
 things also which are not opposites, but which always con¬ 
 tain oppositesj seem as if they would not admit the idea 
 which is opposite to the idea that they contain: they either 
 perish, or retire at its approach. Shall we. not say that the 
 number three would perish or endure anything sooner than 
 become even while it remains three? 
 
 Yes. indeed,' said Cebes. 
 
 And ye t, said he, the number two is not the opposite of 
 the number three! ’ 
 
192 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SO oRATES. 
 
 No, certainly not. 
 
 Then it is not only the ideas which will not endure the 
 approach o? th m' opposites; there are some othei^tlllhgs 
 Besides which will not endure such an approach. 
 
 That is qnite true. '^ e said. 
 
 Shall we deternr ae, if we can, what is their nature? 
 he asked. 
 
 Certainly. 
 
 Will thev °t f> e those things, Cebes, which force what¬ 
 ever they are in to have always not its own idea only, But 
 the ide^i °f some opposite as well ? 
 
 W'nat do you mean? 
 
 Only what we were saying just now. You know, I 
 think, that whatever the idea of three is in, is bound to be 
 not three only, but odd as well. 
 
 Certainly. 
 
 Well, we say that the opposite idea to the form which 
 produces this result will never come to that thing. 
 
 Indeed, no. 
 
 But the idea of the odd produces it ? 
 
 Yes. 
 
 And the idea of the even is the opposite of the idea of 
 the odd? 
 
 Yes. 
 
 Then the idea of the even will never come to three? 
 Certainly not. 
 
 So three has no part in the even? 
 
 None. 
 
 Then the number three is uneven? 
 
 Yes. 
 
 So much for the definition which I undertook to give 
 of things which are not opposites; and yet"do not admit 
 opposites; thus we have seen that the number three does 
 not admit the even, though it is not the opposite of the 
 even, for it always brings with it the opposite of the even; 
 and the number two does not admit the odd, nor fire cold, 
 and so on. Do you agree with me in saying that not only 
 does the opposite not admit the opposite but also That 
 whatever brings with it an opposite of anything to 'which 
 
PHiEDO. 
 
 193 
 
 it goes, .lever, admits the opposite of*that which it brings? 
 I ."f me recall this to you again , to ere is n *ej 
 
 etition. Five will noy admit the idea of the even, nor 
 will the double of five—ten — admit the idea of the odd. 
 It is not itself an opposite, yet it will not admit the idea 
 of the odd. Again, one and a half, a half, and the other 
 numbers of that kind will not admit the idea of the whole, 
 nor again will such numbers as a third. Do you follow 
 and agree ? 
 
 I follow 3 r ou and entirely agree with you, he said. 
 
 Now begin again, and answer me, he said. And imitate 
 me; do not answer me in the terms of my question : I 
 mean, do not give the old safe answer which I have already 
 spoken of, for I see another way of safety, which is the 
 result of what we have been saying. If you ask me, what 
 which must, be., in .the ..body to make it hot., I shall 
 not give our old safe and stupid answer, and say that i t,i s 
 heat; I shall make a more refined. answer, drawn from 
 wliat \ye have b een saying, and reply, fire. If you ask 
 me, what is that which must.be in the body to. make, it 
 sick, I shall not say sickness, but fever: and again to the 
 question what is that, which, must be in number to mak e it 
 odd, I shall not,reply oddness, but unity, and so on. Do 
 you. ..understand my ..meaning clearly yet ? 
 
 Yes, quite, he said. 
 
 Then, he went on, tell me, what is that which must be 
 in..a,bodv ho make- it-nliv-e? 
 
 A^jSOuh he replied. 
 
 And. J&. ..this-.always so? 
 
 Qf course, he said. 
 
 Then the soul always brings life to whatever contains 
 her ? 
 
 No'doubt, he answered. 
 
 And is there an opposite to life, or not? 
 
 Yes. 
 
 What is it ? 
 
 Death. 
 
 And we have already . agreed that., th.0, soul cannot ever 
 receive the opposite of what she .brings? 
 
 13 
 

 194 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 Yes, certainly we have, said Cebes. 
 
 Well; what name did we give to that which does not 
 admit the idea of the even ? 
 
 The uneven, he replied. 
 
 And what do we call that which does not admit justice 
 
 or music? 
 
 The unjust, and the unmusical. 
 
 Good; and what do we call that which does not admit 
 death? " "" 
 
 The immortal, he said. 
 
 And the soul does not admit death? 
 
 No. 
 
 Then the soul is immortal? 
 
 It is. 
 
 Good, he said. Shall we say that this is proved? What 
 do you think? 
 
 Yes, Socrates, and very sufficiently. 
 
 Well, Cebes, he said, if the odd had been necessarily 
 imperishable, must not three have been imperishable? 
 
 Of course. 
 
 And if cold had been necessarily imperishable,j3now 
 would have retired safe and unmelted, whenever warmth 
 was applied to it. It would not have perished, and it would 
 not have stayed and admitted the heat. 
 
 True, he said. 
 
 In the same way, I suppose, if warmth were imperish¬ 
 able, whenever cold attacked fire, the fire would never have 
 been extinguished or have perished. It would have gone 
 away in safety. 
 
 Necessarily, lie replied. 
 
 And must we not say the same of the immortal ? he 
 asked. If the immortal i s im perishable, the soul cannot 
 perish when death comes upon her. It follows from wha t 
 we have said that she will not ever admit death, or be in 
 a state of death, any more titan three, or thdodd' itself, 
 will ever be even, or fire, or the heat itself which Is in 
 fire, cold. But, it may be said, Granted that the odd does 
 not*become even at the approach of the even; why, when 
 the odd has perished, may not the even come into its 
 
PHASDO. 
 
 195 
 
 place? We could not contend in reply that it does not 
 perish, for the. uneven is not imperishable : if we had agreed 
 that the uneven was imperishable, we could have 'easily 
 contended that the odd and three go away at the approach 
 of the even; and we could have urged the same contention 
 about fire and heat and the rest, could we not? 
 
 Yes, certainly. 
 
 And now, if we are agreed that the immortal is im¬ 
 perishable, that the soul will be not immortal only, but 
 also imperishable ; otherwise we shall require another argu¬ 
 ment. 
 
 Nay, he said, there is no need of that, as far as this 
 point goes; for if the immortal, which is eternal, will 
 admit of destruction, what will not? 
 
 And all men would admit, said Socrates, that God, and 
 the essential form of life, and all else that is immortal, 
 never perishes. 
 
 All men, indeed, he said, and, what is more, I think, 
 all gods would admit that. 
 
 Then if the immortal is indestructible, must not the 
 soul, if itjbe"immortal, he imperishable? 
 
 Certainly, it must. 
 
 Then, it seems, when death attacks a man, his mortal 
 part dies, but his immortal part retreats before death, and 
 goes away safe and indestructible. 
 
 Is seems so. 
 
 Then, Cebes, said he, beyond all question the soul is 
 immortal and imperishable; and our souls will indeed 
 exist in the other world. 
 
 I, Socrates, he replied, have no more objections to urge; 
 your reasoning has quite satisfied me. If Simmias, or 
 any one else, has anything to say, it would be well for him 
 to say it now: for I know not to what other reason he can 
 defer the discussion, if he wants to say or to hear anything 
 touching this matter. 
 
 No, indeed, said Simmias; neither have I any further 
 ground for doubt after what you have said. Yet I cannot 
 help feeling some doubts still in my mind ; for the subject 
 
196 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 of our conversation is a vast one, and I distrust the feeble¬ 
 ness of man. 
 
 You are right, Simmias, said Socrates, and more than 
 that, you must re-examine our original assumptions, how¬ 
 ever certain they seem to you ; and when you have analyzed 
 them sufficiently, you will, I think, follow the argument, 
 as far as man can follow it; and when that becomes clear 
 to you, you will seek for nothing more. 
 
 That is true, he said. 
 
 But then, my friends, said he, we must think of this. 
 If it be true that the soul is immortal, we have .to. take 
 care of her, not ■ • ly gount of the time which we 
 call life, but also .am.account of all tirng, Xow we ran 
 fee Tiow terrible is the danger of neglect. For if deat h 
 had boon a release from all things, i t would have been, a 
 
 f odsend to the wicked ; for when they diedThey" worj^Q^je 
 eeh released with their souls from the. body. and . from 
 tfieir own wickedness. But now we have i onmd ffiflt th e 
 soil is immortal; and so her only refuge .aa&^Sgli'u. 
 from evil is to become as perfect and wise as possible. 
 For she takes nothing with her to the other world but 
 her education and culture; and these, it is said, are of the 
 greatest service or of the greatest injury to the dead man, 
 at the very beginning of his journey thither. For it 
 is said that the genius, who has had charge of each man in 
 his life, proceeds to lead him. when he is dead, to a certain 
 place, where the departed have to assemble and receive 
 judgment, and then go to the world below with the guide 
 who is appointed to conduct them thither. And when they 
 have received their deserts there, and remained the ap¬ 
 pointed time, another guide brings them back again after 
 many long revolutions of ages. So this journey is not as 
 iEschylus describes it in the Telephus, where he says that 
 “ a simple way leads to Hades.” But I think that the 
 way is neither simple nor single; there would have been 
 no need of guides had it been so; for no one could miss 
 the way, if there were but one path. But this road must 
 have many branches and many windings, as I judge from 
 
PHJEDO. 
 
 197 
 
 the rites of burial on earth. 1 The orderly and wise soul 
 follows her leader, and is not ignorant of the things of 
 that world; but the soul which lusts after the body, flut¬ 
 ters about the body and the visible world for a long time, 
 as I have said, and struggles hard and painfully, and ’at 
 last is forcibly and reluctantly dragged away by her ap¬ 
 pointed genius. And when she comes to the place where 
 the other souls are, if she is impure and stained with 
 evil,"and has been concerned in foul murders, or if she 
 has committed any other crimes that are akin to these, 
 and the deeds of kindred souls, then every one shuns her 
 and turns aside from meeting her, and will neither be 
 her companion nor her guide, and she wanders about by 
 herself in extreme distress until a certain time is com¬ 
 pleted, and then she is borne away by force to the habita¬ 
 tion which befits her. But the soul that has spent her 
 life in purity and temperance has the gods for her compan¬ 
 ions and guides, and dwells in the place which befits her. 
 There are many wonderful places in the earth; and neither 
 its nature nor its size is what those who are wont to de¬ 
 scribe it imagine, as a friend has convinced me. 
 
 What do you mean, Socrates? said Simmias. I have 
 heard a great deal about the earth myself, but I have 
 never heard the view of which you are convinced. I should 
 like to hear it very much. 
 
 Well, Simmias, I don’t think that it needs the skill 
 of Glaucus to describe it to you, but I think that it is 
 beyond the skill of Glaucus to prove it true: I am sure 
 that I could not do so; and besides, Simmias, even if I 
 knew how, I think that my life would come to an end 
 before the argument was finished. But there is nothing 
 to prevent my describing to you what I believe to be the 
 form of the earth, and its regions. 
 
 Well, said Simmias, that will do. 
 
 In the first place then, said he, I believe that the earth 
 is a spherical body placed in the center of the heavens, and 
 
 5 Sacrifices were offered to the gods of the lower world in 
 places where three roads met, 
 
1D8 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 that therefore it has no need of air or of any other force 
 to support it: the equiformity of the heavens in all their 
 parts, and the equipoise of the earth itself, are sufficient 
 to hold it up. A thing in equipoise placed in the center 
 of what is equiforra cannot incline in any direction, 
 either more or less: it will remain unmoved and in per¬ 
 fect balance. That, said he, is the first thing that I 
 believe. 
 
 And rightly, said Simmias. 
 
 Also, he proceeded, I think that the earth is of vast 
 extent, and that we who dwell between the Phasis and the 
 pillars of Heracles inhabit only a small portion of it, 
 and dwell round the sea, like ants or frogs round a marsh; 
 and T believe that many other men dwell elsewhere in 
 similar places. For everywhere on the earth there are 
 many hollows of every kind of shape and size, into which 
 the water and the mist and the air collect; but the earth 
 itself lies pure in the purity of the heavens, wherein are 
 the stars, and which men who speak of these things com¬ 
 monly call ether. The water and the mist and the air, 
 which collect into the hollows of the earth, are the sedi¬ 
 ment of it. Xow we dwell in these hollows though we 
 think that we are dwelling on tli'e surface of the earth. 
 We are just like a man dwelling in the depths ol the 
 ocean, who thought that he was dwelling on its surface, 
 and believed that the sea was. the heaven, because he 
 saw the sun and the stars through the water; but who 
 was too weak and slow ever to have reached the water’s 
 surface, and to have lifted his head from thg sea , an d 
 come out from his depths to our world, and seen, or heard 
 from one who had seen, how much purer and fairer our 
 world was than the place wherein he dwelt. We are’just 
 in that state; we dwell in a hollow of the earth, and think 
 that we are dwelling on its surface; and we call the air 
 heaven, and think it to be the heaven wherein the stars 
 run their courses. But the tru th is that we are too weak 
 and slow to pass through fo the . 1 of ihe air. For 
 if any man could reach the surface, or.take wings and fly 
 upward, he-would look up and see a world beyond, just 
 
PH^EDO. 
 
 199 
 
 as the fi shes look forth from the sea, and behold our world. 
 And he would know that find was the real heavon, and 
 the real light, and the real e arth, if his nature were able 
 to...endure, .the -sight. For this earth, and its stones, and 
 all its regions have been spoiled and corroded, as things 
 in the sea are corroded by the brine: nothing of any worth 
 grows in the sea, nor, in short, is there anything therein 
 without blemish, but, wherever land does exist, there are 
 only caves, and sand, and vast tracts of mud and slime, 
 which are not worthy even to be compared with the fair 
 things of our world. But you would think that the things 
 of that other world still further surpass the things of our 
 world. I can tell you a tale, Simmias, about what is on 
 the earth that lies beneath the heavens, which is worth your 
 hearing. 
 
 Indeed, Socrates, said Simmias, we should like to hear 
 your tale very much. 
 
 Well, my friend, he said, this is my tale. In the first 
 place, the earth itself, if a man could look at it from above, 
 is like one of those balls which are covered with twelve 
 pieces of leather, and is marked with various colors, of 
 which the colors that our painters use here are, as it were, 
 samples. But there the whole earth is covered with them, 
 and with others which are far brighter and purer ones 
 than they. For part of it is purple of marvelous beauty, 
 and part of it is golden, and the white of it is whiter than 
 chalk or snow. It is made up of the other colors in the 
 same way, and also of colors which are more beautiful 
 than any that we have ever seen. The very hollows in it, 
 that are filled with water and air, have themselves a kind 
 of color, and glisten amid the diversity of the others, so 
 that its form appears as one unbroken and varied surface. 
 And what grows in this fair earth—its trees and flowers 
 and fruit—is more beautiful than what grows with us 
 in the same proportion: and so likewise are the hills and 
 the stones in their smoothness and transparency and color: 
 the pebbles which we prize in this world, our cornelians, 
 and jaspers, and emeralds, and the like, are but fragments 
 of them; but there all the stones are as our precious 
 
200 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 stones, and even more beautiful still. The reason of 
 this is that they are pure, and not corroded or spoiled, as 
 ours are, with, the decay and brine from the sediment that 
 collects in the hollows, and brings to the stones and the 
 earth and all animals and plants deformity and disease. 
 All these things, and with them gold and silver and the 
 like, adorn the real earth: and they are conspicuous from 
 their multitude and size, and the many places where they 
 are found; so that he who could behold it would be a 
 happy man. Many creatures live upon it; and there are 
 men, some dwelling inland, and others round the air, as 
 we dwell round the sea. and others in islands encircled by 
 the air, which lie near the continent. In a word, they use 
 the air a? we use water and the sea, and the ether as we 
 the' air . — The temperature of their seasons is such that 
 thy are free from disease, and live much longer than we 
 do; and in sight, and hearing, and smell, and the other 
 senses, they are as much more perfect than we, as air is 
 purer than water, and ether than air. Moreover they 
 have sanctuaries and temples of the gods, in which the gods 
 dwell in very truth; they hear the voices and oracles of the 
 gods, and see them in visions, and have intercourse with 
 them face to face: and they see the sun and moon and stars 
 as they really are; and in other matters their happiness 
 is of a piece with this. 
 
 That is the nature of the earth as a whole, and of what 
 is upon it ; and everywhere on its globe there are many 
 regions in the hollows, some of them deeper and more 
 open than that in which we dwell; and others also deeper, 
 but with narrower mouths; and others again shallower 
 and broader than ours. All these are connected by many 
 channels beneath the earth, some of them narrow and 
 others wide; and there are passages, by which much water 
 flows from one of them to another, as into basins, and vast 
 and never-failing rivers of both hot and cold water beneath 
 the earth, and much fire, and great rivers of fire, and many 
 rivers of liquid mud, some clearer and others more turbid, 
 like the rivers of mud which precede the lava stream in 
 Sicilv, and the lava stream itself, These fill each hollow 
 
PHJEDO. 
 
 201 
 
 in turn, as each stream flows round to it. All of them are 
 moved up and down by a certain oscillation which is in 
 the earth, and which is produced by a natural cause of 
 the following kind. One of the chasms in the earth is 
 larger than all the others, and pierces right through, it, 
 from side to side. Homer describes it in the words— 
 
 “ Far away, where is the deepest depth beneath the earth.” 
 
 And elsewhere he and many other of the poets have called 
 it Tartarus. All the rivers flow into this chasm, and out 
 of it again; and each of them comes to be like the soil 
 through which it flows. The reason why they all flow into 
 and out of the chasm is that the liquid has no bottom or 
 base to rest on: it oscillates and surges up and down, and 
 the air and wind around it do the same: for they accom¬ 
 pany it in its passages to the other side of the earth, and 
 in its return; and just as in breathing the breath is always 
 in process of being exhaled and inhaled, so there the wind, 
 oscillating with the water, produces terrible and irresistible 
 blasts as it comes in and goes out. When £he water 
 retires with a rush to what we call the lower parts of the 
 earth, it flows through to the regions of those streams, and 
 fills them, as if it were pumped intovthem. And again, 
 when it rushes back hither from those regions, it fills the 
 streams here again, and then they flow through the channels 
 of the earth, and make their way to their several places, 
 and create seas, and lakes, and rivers, and springs. Then 
 they sink once more into the earth, and after making, some 
 a long circuit through' many regions, and some a shorter 
 one through fewer, they fall again into Tartarus, some at 
 a point much lower than that at which they rose, and others 
 only a little lower; but they all flow in below their point 
 of issue. And some of them burst forth again on the side 
 on which they entered; others again on the opposite side; 
 and there are some which completely encircle the earth, 
 twining round it, like snakes, once or perhaps oftener, and 
 then fall again into Tartarus, as low down as they can. 
 They can descend as far as the center of the earth from 
 
202 
 
 ' TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 either side but no farther. Beyond that point on either 
 side they would have to flow uphill. 
 
 These streams are many, and great, and various; but 
 among them all are four, of which the greatest and outer¬ 
 most, which flows round the whole of the earth, is called 
 Oceanus. Opposite Oceanus, and flowing in the reverse 
 direction, is Acheron, which runs through desert places, 
 and then under the earth until it reaches the Acherusian 
 lake, whither the souls of the dead generally go, and after 
 abiding there the appointed time, whic h for somels To'nger , 
 and for others shorter, are sent forth again to he ho rn 
 as animals^ The third river rises between these two, and 
 n ear'll s "source falls into a vast and fiery region, and forms 
 a lake larger than our sea. seething with water and mud. 
 Thence it goes forth turbid and muddy round the earth, 
 and after many windings comes to the end of the Acheru¬ 
 sian lake, but it does not mingle with the waters of the 
 lake; and after many windings more beneath the earth, 
 it falls into the lower part of Tartarus. This is the river 
 that men name Pyriphlegethon; and portions of it are 
 discharged in the lava streams, wherever they are found 
 on the earth. The fourth river is on the opposite side: 
 it is said to fall first into a terrible and savage region, of 
 which the color is one dark blue. It is called the Stygian 
 stream, and the lake which its waters create is called 
 Styx. After falling into the lake and receiving strange 
 powers in its waters, it sinks into the earth, and runs wind¬ 
 ing about in the opposite direction to Pyriphlegethon, 
 which it meets in the Acherusian lake from the opposite 
 side. Its waters too mingle with no other waters: it flows 
 round in a circle and falls into Tartarus opposite to Pyri¬ 
 phlegethon. • Its name, the poets say, is Cocytus. 
 
 Such is the nature of these regions; and when the dead 
 come to the place whither each is brought by his genius, 
 sentence is first passed on them according as their lives 
 have been good and holy, or not. Those whose lives seem 
 to have been neither very good nor very bad, go to the 
 river Acheron, and embarking on the vessels which thev 
 find there, proceed to the lake. There they dwell, and are. 
 
PHiEDO. 
 
 203 
 
 punished for the crimes which they have committed, and 
 are purified and absolved';' and for their good deeds they 
 are rewarded, eacli according to his deserts.' But all who 
 appear to be incurable from the enormity of their sins — 
 those who have committed many and great sacrileges, and 
 foul and lawless murders, or other crimes like these—are 
 hurled down to Tartarus by the fate which is their due, 
 whence, they never, come forth again. Those who have 
 committed sins which are great, but not too great for atone¬ 
 ment, such, for instance, as those who have used violence 
 towards a father or a mother in wrath, and then repented 
 of it for the rest of their lives, or who have committed 
 homicide in some similar way, have also to descend into 
 Tartarus : but then when they have been there a year, a 
 wave casts them forth, the homicides by Cocytus, and the 
 parricides and matricides hy Pyriplilegethon; and when 
 they have been carried as far as the Acherusian lake they 
 cry out and call on those whom they slew or outraged, and 
 beseech and pray that they may be allowed to come out 
 into the lake, and be received as comrades. And if they 
 prevail, they come out, and their sufferings cease; but if 
 they do not, they are' carried back to Tartarus, and thence 
 into the rivers again, and their punishment does not end 
 until they have prevailed on those whom they wronged: 
 such is the sentence pronounced on them by their judges. 
 But such as have been pre-eminent for holiness in their lives 
 are set free and released from this world, as from a prison: 
 they ascend to their pure habitation, and dwell on the 
 earth’s surface. And those of them who have sufficiently 
 purified themselves with philosophy, live thenceforth with¬ 
 out bodies, and proceed to dwellings still fairer than these, 
 which are not easily described, and of which I have not 
 iiime to speak now. But for all these reasons, Simmias, 
 we must leave nothing undone that we may obtain virtue 
 and wisdom in this life. Noble is the prize, and great tint 
 hope. 
 
 A man of sense will not insist that these things are 
 exactly as I have described them. But I think that he 
 will believe that something of the kind is true of the soul 
 
204 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 and her habitations, seeing that she is shown to be immor¬ 
 tal, and that it is worth his while to stake everything on 
 this belief. The venture is a fair one, and he must charm 
 his doubts with spells like these. That is why I have 
 been prolonging the fable all this time. For these reasons 
 a man should be of good cheer about bis soul, if in his life 
 he has renounced the pleasures and adornments of the 
 body, because they were nothing fo him, and e Tie 
 
 thought that they would do him not good md 
 
 if he has instead earnestly pursued the pleasures of learn¬ 
 ing, and adorned his soul with the adornment^ of tem¬ 
 perance, and justice, and courage, and freedom, and truth, 
 which belongs to her,' arid is her own, and so awaits his 
 journey to the other world, in readiness to set forth when¬ 
 ever fate calls him. You, Simmias and Cebes, and the 
 rest will set forth at some future day, each at his own time. 
 But me now, as a tragic poet would say, fate calls at once; 
 and it is time for me to betake myself to the bath. I 
 think that I had better bathe before I drink the poison, 
 and not give the women the trouble of washing my dead 
 body. 
 
 When he had finished speaking Crito said, Be it so, 
 Socrates. But have you any commands for your friends 
 or for me about }'our children, or about other things? 
 How shall we serve you best? 
 
 Simply by doing what I always tell you, Crito. Take 
 care of vonr own s elves, and .yo u will serve me and mine 
 and yourselves in all that you do, even though youjnake 
 no promi ses now. But if you are careless of your .ow n 
 selves, and will jbof follow the path of life which we have 
 pointed out in our discussions both to-day' and ~a £‘ dfhcT 
 times, all your promises now, however profuse ancTmrne& 
 ‘they are, will be of no avail. 
 
 We will do our best, said Crito. But how shall we bury 
 you? 
 
 As yon please, he answered; only 3 t ou must catch. me 
 first, and not let me escape you. And then he looked at 
 us with a smile and said, My friends, I cannot convince 
 Crito that I am the Socrates who has been conversing with 
 
PHAEDO. 
 
 205 
 
 you, and arranging his arguments in order. He thi nks 
 that I am the body which ho will...presently„see,a.co rpse^ 
 an<The~aslc's" how he is to bury me. AH th e.,..argum.Qnts _ 
 which' I have used to prate, that.I shall.not. remain with 
 you after I have drunk tbe poison. but that I shall go away 
 to the'happiness of the blessed, with which I tried to com¬ 
 fort you and'myself, have been thrown away on him. Do 
 you therefore he my sureties to him, as he was my surety 
 at the trial, but in a different way. He was surety for 
 me then that I would remain; but you must be my sureties 
 to him that I shall go away when I am dead, and not re¬ 
 main with you: then he will feel my death less; and when 
 he sees my body being burnt or buried, he will not be 
 grieved because he thinks that I am suffering dreadful 
 things: and at my funeral he will not say that it is Soc- 
 crates whom he is laying out, or bearing to the grave, or 
 burying. For, de rito he., continued, von , )fnnw 
 that to use*w ords wrongly is not only a fault in itself; it 
 also' creates evil in the soul. Ton must he of good cheer, 
 and say that you are Burying my body: and you must 
 bury it as you please, and as you think right. 
 
 With these words he rose and went into another room 
 to bathe himself: Crito went with him and told us to wait. 
 So we waited, talking of the argument, and discussing it, 
 and then again dwelling on the greatness of the calamity 
 which had fallen upon us: it seemed as if we were going 
 to lose a father, and to be orphans for the rest of our life. 
 When he had bathed, and his children had been brought 
 to him,—he had two sons quite little, and one grown up,— 
 and the women of his family were come, he spoke with 
 them in Crito’s presence, and gave them his last commands; 
 then he sent the women and children awaj*, and re¬ 
 turned to us. By that time it was near the hour of sun¬ 
 set, for he had been a long while within. When he came 
 back to us from the bath he sat down, but not much was 
 said after that. Presently the servant of the Eleven came 
 and stood before him and said, “ I know that I shall not 
 find you unreasonable like other men, Socrates. They are 
 angry with me and curse me wfcen I bid them drink the 
 
206 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 poison because the authorities make me do it. But I have 
 found you all along the noblest and gentlest and best man 
 that has ever come here; and now I am sure that you will 
 not be angry with me, but with those who you know are 
 to blame. And so farewell, and try to bear what must be 
 as lightly as you can; you know why I have come.” With 
 that he turned away weeping, and went out. 
 
 Socrates looked up at him, and replied. Farewell: I will 
 do as you say. Then he turned to us and said, How cour¬ 
 teous the man is! And the whole time that I have been 
 here, be has constantly come in to see me, and sometimes 
 he has talked to me, and has been the best of men; and 
 now, bow generously he weeps for me! Come, Crito, let 
 us obey him: let the poison be brought if it is ready; and 
 if it is not ready, let it be prepared. 
 
 Crito replied: Nay, Socrates, I think that the sun is 
 still upon the hills; it has not set. B esides, I know that 
 other men lake the poison quit e late, and eat and dr ink 
 heai ilv, id ven enjoy the company of their chosen 
 friends, alter the announcement has been made. So do 
 not hurry; there is still time. 
 
 Socrates replied: And those whom you speak of, Crito, 
 naturally do so; for they think that they wi ll be gainers 
 by so doing. And I naturally shall not clo so; for I think 
 that I should gain nothing by drinking the poison a little 
 later, but my own contempt for so greedily savin" 1 up a life 
 which is already spent. So do not refuse to do asTsay. 
 
 Then Crito made a sign to bis slave who was standing 
 by; and the slave went out, and after some delay returned 
 with the man who was to give the poison, carrying it pre¬ 
 pared in a cup. When Socrates saw him, he asked, You 
 understand these things, my good sir, what have I to 
 do? 
 
 You have only to drink this, he replied, and to walk 
 about until your legs feel heavy, and then lie down; and 
 it will act of itself. With that he handed the cup to 
 Socrates, who took it quite cheerfully, Echecrates, without 
 trembling, and without any change of color or of feature, 
 and looked up at the man with that fixed glance of his, and 
 
PHA3D0. 
 
 207 
 
 asked. What say you to making a libation from this 
 draught? May I, or not? We only prepare so much as we 
 think sufficient, Socrates, he answered. I understand, said 
 Socrates. But I suppose that I may, and must, pray to the 
 gods that my journey hence may be prosperous: that is 
 my prayer; be it so. With these words he put the cup to 
 his lips and drank the poison quite calmly and cheerfully. 
 Till then most of us had been able to control our grief 
 fairly well; but when we saw him drinking, and then the 
 poison finished, we could do so no longer: my tears came 
 fast in spite of myself, and I covered my face and wept for 
 myself: it was not for him, but at my own misfortune in 
 losing such a friend. Even before that Crito had been un¬ 
 able to restrain his tears, and had gone away; and Apollo- 
 dorus, who had never once ceased weeping the whole time, 
 burst into a loud cry, and made us one and all break down 
 by his sobbing and grief, except only Socrates himself. 
 What are you doing, my friends? he exclaimed. I sent 
 away the women chiefly in order that they might not offend 
 in this way; for I have heard that a man should die in 
 silence. So calm yourselves and bear up. When we heard 
 that we were asnamed, and we ceased from weeping. But 
 he walked about, until he said that his legs were getting 
 heavy, and then he lay down on his back, as he was told. 
 And the man who gave the poison began to examine his 
 feet and legs, from time to time: then he pressed his foot 
 hard, and asked if there was any feeling in it ; and Socrates 
 said, No : and then his legs, and so higher and higher, and 
 showed us that he was cold and stiff. And Socrates felt 
 himself, and said that when it came to his heart, he should 
 be gone. He was already growing cold about the groin, 
 when he uncovered his face, which had been covered, and 
 spoke for the last time. Crito, he said, I owe a cock to 
 Asclepius; do not forget to pay it. 1 It shall be done, re¬ 
 plied Crito. Is there anything else that you wish? He 
 
 1 These words probably refer to the offering usually made to 
 Asclepius on recovery from illness. Death is a release from the 
 ‘ fitful fever of life.’ Another explanation is to make the word, 
 refer to the omission of a trifling religious duty. 
 
208 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 made no answer to this question; but after a short interval 
 there was a movement, and the man uncovered him, and his 
 eyes were fixed. Then Crito closed his mouth and his 
 eyes. 
 
 Such was the end, Echecrates, of our friend, a man, I 
 think, who was the wisest and justest, and the best man 
 that I have ever known. 
 
PHXLEBUS. 
 

INTRODUCTION TO THE PHILEBUS, 
 
 ON THE GREATEST GOOD. 
 
 Of this rather long, and therefore difficult dialogue, the 
 leading object may be expressed in a very few words. It 
 is to show, that the greatest happiness is to be found, not, 
 as Aristippus, in a lost work, seems to have asserted, in 
 an unlimited indulgence in the pleasures of the body, nor 
 even in those of the mind, as laid down by the school of 
 Pythagoras, but in the temperate enjoyment of both, as 
 being the best suited to the mixed nature of man, made up 
 of matter and of mind. 
 
 In allusion to a similar union in a moral point of view 
 of the Epicurean and Religious systems of living, Dr. 
 Dodd, when in prison, wrote the following Epigram: 
 
 “ Live whilst you live,” the Epicure would say, 
 
 “ And taste the pleasures of the passing day.” 
 
 “ Live whilst you live,” the sacred preacher cries, 
 
 *' And give to God each moment as it flies.” 
 
 Lord, in my life let both united he; 
 
 I live to pleasure, if I live to thee. 
 
 The unfortunate English divine had, like the more for¬ 
 tunate lyric poet and satirist of Rome, probably learnt, 
 that however pleasant for a time is the Epicurean doctrine, 
 “ Carpe diem,” yet it was not the one which could be fol¬ 
 lowed through life, even were the remark of Rochefoucault 
 not founded on truth, that “ we do not leave our vices, but 
 they leave us.” 
 
 211 
 
PHILEBUS. 
 
 PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE, 
 
 SOCRATES, PROTARCHUS, PHILEBUS, 
 
 Soc. See then, Protarchus, what is the doctrine which you 
 are about to receive from Philebus, and against what rea¬ 
 soning of mine to contend, unless it has been stated accord¬ 
 ing to your mind. Do you wish me to present each question 
 in a summary way? 
 
 Prot. By all means. 
 
 Soc. Philebus then asserts, that the (chief) good to all 
 animals is joy, and pleasure, and delight, and whatever 
 else harmonizes with such kind of things. But what I con¬ 
 tend for is, that it is not those things, but to be wise, and 
 to understand, and to remember, and whatever is of a 
 kindred nature, both correct opinion, and true reasonings, 
 are better and more acceptable than pleasure to all who 
 are able to partake in them ; and that to those who are able 
 to partake, it is of all things the most advantageous (so 
 to partake), and not only to those (already existing), 
 but to those who are to come. Say we not, Philebus, 
 each of us thus? 
 
 Phil. Most assuredly, Socrates. 
 
 Soc Do you then, Protarchus, receive the view thus given 
 of the questions? 
 
 213 
 
214 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 Prof. I must receive it. For Philebus, the handsome, 
 shrinks from speaking. 
 
 Soc. By every means then the trhth respecting those 
 questions must he arrived at. 
 
 Prof. It must indeed. 
 
 Soc. Come then, let us in addition to these points agree 
 in this. ^ 
 
 Prof. In what? 
 
 Soc. That each of ns should endeavor to set forth some 
 habit and disposition of the soul, which is able to procure 
 for every man a happy life. Is it not so? 
 
 Prof. It is so. 
 
 Soc. You then assert it is that of rejoicing; we, of think¬ 
 ing rightly. 
 
 Prof. Such is the fact. 
 
 Soc. But what if there should appear some other (habit) 
 superior to both of these? Should we not, if it appeared 
 more related to pleasure, be both of us vanquished by a 
 life, which possesses those very things firmly; and a life 
 of pleasure would be superior to one of intellect? 
 
 P'-ot. Yes. 
 
 Soc. But if (that superior state be more nearly allied) 
 to intellect, a life of intellect would be superior to one of 
 pleasure, and the last would be forced to yield. Say ye 
 that it is so agreed, or how ? 
 
 Prof. To me, at least, it seems. 
 
 Soc. But how seems it to Philebus? What say you? 
 
 Phil. To me it seems, and will (always) seem, that 
 pleasure is altogether the superior. And you, Protarchus, 
 will be convinced of it yourself. 
 
 Prof. Having resigned, Philebus, to myself the debate, 
 you can no longer be the master of what should be yielded 
 to Socrates, and the contrary. 
 
 Phil. You say what is true. But, however, I have dis¬ 
 charged my duty; and 1 here call the goddess herself to 
 witness it. 
 
 Prof. We too would be witnesses on these very points, 
 that you have said what you arc saying. But now let us en¬ 
 deavor, Socrates, to go through in order what is to follow 
 
PHILEBUS. 215 
 
 after this, whether with Philebus being willing, or how¬ 
 ever he may be willing. 
 
 Soc. Let us endeavor, (beginning) from the very god¬ 
 dess herself, whoni this person says is called Aphrodite, 
 but whose truest name is Pleasure. 
 
 Prot. Perfectly right. . 
 
 Soc. The dread, which I always feel as regards the names 
 of the gods, is not after the manner of men: but is be¬ 
 yond even the greatest fear. And now I speak of Aphrodite 
 by whatever name may be agreeable to her. But how 
 various a thing is pleasure I know well; and, as I just now 
 said, we ought to begin from it, by considering upon and 
 seeing into its nature. For one may hear it called s im ply 
 by one single name. It has assumed however all sorts of 
 forms, and even such as are in a certain manner unlike 
 to one another. For, observe, we say that the intemperate 
 man has pleasure; and the temperate man has pleasure 
 likewise [in being temperate]. Again, we say that the 
 thoughtless man is pleased in being full of silly opinions 
 and hopes; and that on the other hand, the thoughtful man 
 is pleased with his thinking wisely. How, how could any 
 one, who asserts that each of these pleasures are like to 
 each other, not justly appear to be silly? 
 
 Prot. These pleasures, Socrates, are indeed from con¬ 
 trary acts; but not in themselves contrary to each other. 
 I or how could pleasure not be of all things the most similar 
 to pleasure, this thing itself to itself? 
 
 Soc. Color, too, thou happy fellow, differs not from 
 color, at least in this respect, that it is universally color. 
 And yet we all know that black, besides being different 
 from white, happens to be also the most opposite to it. So, 
 too, figure is taken singly the same with figure, in the 
 general; but as to its parts, some are the most opposite 
 to others, and some happen to possess an infinite diversity. 
 And many other things we shall find to be thus circum¬ 
 stanced; so that do not you trust to the reasoning, that 
 makes things the most opposite to be one? And I fear 
 toat we shall find some pleasures to be quite opposite to 
 others. 1 
 
216 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 Prot. Perhaps so. But how will that injure my argu¬ 
 ment ? 
 
 Soc. Because, we will say, you call things, dissimilar in 
 themselves, by another name. For you call all pleasant 
 things good. Now that pleasant things are not pleasant, 
 no one disputes. But though the most of them are evil, 
 and (some) good, as we assert, yet all of them you call 
 good, although confessing them to be dissimilar, when one 
 compels you by reasoning (to do so). By what name 
 then do you call that, which, existing in evil pleasures 
 equally with good, (causes) all to be a good? 
 
 Prot. How say you, Socrates? Think you that any 
 person, after having laid down that pleasure is the good, 
 will agree with you? or will hear with you, while asserting 
 that some pleasures are good, but'others evil? 
 
 Soc. But you will at least acknowledge that pleasures 
 are unlike to one another, and some even opposite to 
 others ? 
 
 Prot. By no means, as far as they are pleasures. 
 
 Soc. "We are now brought back again to the same position, 
 Protarchus. We will say then that a pleasure does not 
 differ from a pleasure, but that all are alike; and the in¬ 
 stances, just now produced, inflict no wound upon us. But 
 we will make an endeavor, and say, what the meanest of 
 speakers and mere novices in argument do. 
 
 Prot. What do you mean? 
 
 Soc. (I mean,) that if by imitating you, and defending 
 myself. I should dare to assert that the thing the most un¬ 
 like is of all things the most like to the most unlike, I 
 should say the same as you do; and both of us would appear 
 to be more of novices than is fitting; and the subject of 
 dispute would thus slip away and fall to the ground. Let 
 us therefore back water; and perhaps by returning to 
 similitudes, we may come to an agreement with each other. 
 
 Prot. Say how. 
 
 Soc. Suppose me to be questioned by yourself, Protar¬ 
 chus. 
 
 Prot. Concerning what? 
 
 Soc. Will not intelligence, and science, and mind, and 
 
PHILEBUS. 
 
 217 
 
 all that I laid down at the commencement, and spoke' of as 
 being good, when X was asked what sort of thing was a good, 
 be under the very same circumstances as is your argument ? 
 
 Prot. How so? 
 
 Soc. The sciences, taken together, will seem to be both 
 many," and some of them dissimilar to each other. Now 
 if some are opposite also, should I be worthy of bolding a 
 conversation with you, if, fearful of admitting this very 
 point, I should assert that no science was unlike (another) 
 science ? For then the very question would be, as if it 
 were a mere tale, destroyed, and vanished, and we be saved 
 upon some absurdity. 
 
 Prot. But this ought not to happen, except so tar as 
 the being saved. And now with the equality in your 
 assertion ancl mine I am well pleased. Let then pleasures 
 be many and dissimilar; and let the sciences likewise be 
 many and different. 
 
 Soc. The difference then between your good, Protarchus, 
 and mine, let us not conceal; but, placing them between 
 us, let us venture (to discuss), if '(reasons) on being ex¬ 
 amined will indicate (any thing), whether we ought to 
 pronounce pleasure or intellect the chief good, or whether 
 there is any other third thing. For we surely do,not now 
 desire to enter into a contest, in order that what I lay 
 down, or what you do, may gain the victory; but we ought 
 both of us to unite in fighting for what is the most true. 
 
 Prot. We ought to do so. 
 
 Soc. Let us then fix still more firmly this point by means 
 of a mutual agreement. 
 
 Prot. WhU; point? 
 
 Soc. That, which gives trouble to all persons who are 
 willing, and sometimes to some who are unwilling. 
 
 Prot. Speak more clearly. 
 
 Soc. X am speaking of that, which has just now fallen by 
 our side, of a nature somehow full of wonders. For that 
 many are one, and one many, is a thing wonderful to be 
 asserted; and it is easy to controvert a person laying down 
 either of these points. 
 
 Prot. Do you mean, that when any one says that X, 
 
218 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 Protarchus, being by nature one, am again many, lay¬ 
 ing down that the one, and persons opposite to each other, 
 great and little, and heavy and light, are the same, and a 
 thousand other things? 
 
 Soc. The wonders, Protarchus, which, you have now 
 spoken of, relating to the one and many, have become 
 vulgarized; but by the common agreement, so to say, of all 
 men, it is laid down that it is needless to touch upon such 
 things; since they consider them to be childish and easy 
 (to be seen through), and great impediments to rational 
 discourses; since not even such things (any one ought to 
 say), when, after having in a discourse divided the mem¬ 
 bers and parts of each thing, he shall confute the party, 
 who has confessed that all these are that one, and ridicule 
 him, because he has been compelled to make such mon¬ 
 strous assertions, as that a single one is many and infinite, 
 and many only one. 
 
 Prot. Of what other things are yon speaking, Socra¬ 
 tes, which have not, as being universally agreed upon, be¬ 
 come vulgarized, relating to the very same subject ? 
 
 Soc. When, young man, a person lays down that the one 
 does not belong to things generated and destroyed, as we 
 have lately said. For in that case, as we just now stated, 
 it has been agreed that we need not confute a oneness of 
 such a kind. But when a person attempts to lay down a 
 oneness, as in the case of one man, and one ox, one 
 beauty, one goodness, respecting these and such-like one¬ 
 nesses, much of attention, together with a division, becomes 
 a controversy. 
 
 Prot. How? 
 
 Soc. In the first place, whether a person ought to con¬ 
 sider such onenesses as truly existing. In the next place, 
 how it is that these, every one of them being always the 
 same, and never receiving generation or destruction, are, 
 notwithstanding, with the greatest stability this one. And 
 after this, we must lay down whether (oneness) is dis¬ 
 persed amongst things generated again and infinite, as 
 having become many, or is a whole itself, from itself apart, 
 which would appear the most impossible of all, for the 
 
PHILEBUS. 
 
 219 
 
 same and one to exist in one and in many at the same time. 
 These are the questions relating to such things as the one 
 and many, and not those, Protarehus, (mentioned D) 
 vou ) are, through their being not well agreed upon, the 
 cause of all difficulty in our path; but, by being properly 
 (agreed upon), they would on the other hand be (the 
 
 cause) of our easy progress. 
 
 Prot. It is necessary, then, for us to labor at this point 
 
 the first. 
 
 Soc. So at least I should say. 
 
 Prot . Understand then that all of us agree with you on 
 these points; and it is best, perhaps, not to stir up just now 
 by interrogations Philebus, who is well put to rest. . 
 
 Soc. Be it so; but from whence shall one begin, the 
 battle-field for controversy being so wide and various? 
 Shall it be from hence? 
 
 Prot. From whence? 
 
 Soc We surely assert, that one and many, being made by 
 reasonings the same, run round everywhere according to 
 each of the things made the subject of reasoning always 
 and formerly and now; and this shall never have an end 
 nor has it ever had a beginning at the present time. But 
 there is, as it appears to me, some such feeling m us 
 relating to reasonings themselves, of an immortal and 
 ageless' kind. For when a youth has first tasted it, he is 
 delighted, as having found a treasure of wisdom, and 
 being transported with delight, he tosses about every 
 reasoning; and at one time he rolls it (from tins side to 
 that, and mixes (all of it) into one; at another unrolling 
 it back again, and separating it into parts, lie throws 
 himself first and foremost into a difficulty, and next the 
 person ever nearest at hand, whether he happens to be 
 younger, or older, or equal in age, sparing neither father 
 nor mother, nor any one else, who will listen, and scarcely 
 the rest of animals, not men alone; since he womd spare 
 not even one of the barbarians, could he but find some 
 
 where an interpreter. , , , 
 
 Prot. Do you not, Socrates, see the great number cd ns, 
 
 and that we are all young ? And are you not afraid that, 
 
220 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 if you rail at us, we shall, with Pliilebus, fall upon you all 
 together ? However, for we understand what you mean, if 
 there is any method or contrivance for this confusion to 
 depart from us, somehow with a good will, out of the way 
 of our reasoning, and for discovering a road to reasoning 
 better than this, do direct your thoughts to it, and we will 
 to the best of our power follow. For the present debate, 
 Socrates, is not a little matter. 
 
 Soc. Indeed it is not, boys, as Pliilebus calls you. There 
 is and can be no better way (than that) of which I am 
 ever a lover; but often before now has it fled away, and 
 left me deserted and at a loss. 
 
 Prot. What is it ? Let it only be mentioned. 
 
 Soc. That, which to point out is not very difficult, but 
 to make use of is very difficult. For all the things that, 
 connected with art, have been ever discovered, have become 
 manifest through it. Consider then the way which I am 
 speaking of. 
 
 Prot. Only tell it. 
 
 Soc. A gift, as it appears to me, from gods to men, was, 
 through a certain Prometheus, cast down from some quarter 
 by the gods along with a certain fire the most luminous; 
 and the men of old, being better than us, and dwelling 
 nearer to the gods, have handed down this story, that, since 
 the beings, said to be forever, are produced from one and 
 many, and have in themselves bound and the boundless 
 born with them, we must therefore, since things have been 
 so arranged, ever lay down the existence of some one idea 
 respecting everything, and on every occasion seek for it; 
 for being there, we shall find it; and if we lay hold of it, 
 we must after one look for two, if two there are; hut if 
 not, three, or some other number; and again, in like 
 manner each of those that are one; until at length a person 
 perceives that the one at the beginning is not only one, 
 and many, and infinite, but also how many it is: but that 
 a man should never bring the idea of infinity to multitude, 
 before he shall have fully seen all its number, which lies 
 between the infinite and the one; and then having dis¬ 
 missed each one of the all into infinity, we must bid them 
 
PH1LEBUS. 
 
 m 
 
 farewell. The gods then, as I said, have granted us to 
 consider things in this way, and to learn them, and teach 
 them to each other. But the wise men of the present time 
 introduce, as it may happen, one, and many, more quickly 
 and slowly than is fitting, and immediately after the one, 
 infinity, but (all) the intermediate escape them; by which 
 are kept, apart the methods of our carrying on with each 
 other disputations in a logical and contentious manner. 
 
 Prot. A part, Socrates, I seem somehow to understand; 
 but of the other part I beg I may hear more clearly what 
 you mean. 
 
 Soc. What I mean, Protarehus, will be evident in the 
 case of letters; and in these, through which you have been 
 taught, accept my meaning. 
 
 Prot- How? 
 
 Soc. The voice, that issues through the mouth, is surely 
 one, and on the other hand infinite, not only in that o all, 
 but of each, 
 
 Prot. How not ? 
 
 Soc. Now we are skilled (in voice) by neither of these 
 considerations, whether we know' that it is infinite or one, 
 but (to know) how many and of what kind are (its parts), 
 this it is which produces in each of us the grammar-art. 
 
 Prot. Most true. 
 
 Soc. And further, that which produces the music-art, 
 is the very same thing. 
 
 Prot. How so? 
 
 Soc. (Musical) sound, and the thing according to that 
 art is one in it. 
 
 Prot. How not ? 
 
 Soc. And let us suppose two kinds', the grave and the 
 acute, and a third, the homotonous; or how ? 
 
 Prot. In this way. 
 
 Soc. But by knowing these facts alone you would not be 
 skilled in music; although by not knowing you would be, 
 on these points, worth, so to say, nothing. 
 
 Prot. Yes, nothing. 
 
 Soc. But, my friend, when you shall have (correctly) 
 comprehended the intervals of sounds, with respect to their 
 
222 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 being acute and grave, hovr many they are in number, and 
 of what kinds, and the limits of the intervals, and how 
 many combinations are produced from thefn, which our 
 predecessors have remarked and handed down to us, who 
 come after them, by the name of harmonies, and such other 
 circumstances as are in, (and) produced by, the motions of 
 the body, (and in words,) which being measured by 
 numbers, they say again we ought to call them rhythms 
 and metres, and at the same time to consider that we ought 
 to thus look into everything that is one and many— 
 when (I say) you shall have comprehended all these things, 
 in this manner, then will you have become skilled; and 
 when by considering in this way any other kind whatsoever 
 of being, you shall have comprehended it, you will have 
 thus become intelligent respecting it. But the infinite 
 multitude of, and in, individuals causes you to be infinitely 
 far off from thinking correctly, and to be of no account or 
 number, as you never look to any number in anything what¬ 
 ever. 
 
 Trot. Most beautifully, Philebus, does Socrates appear 
 to me to have spoken in what he has now said. 
 
 Phil. And to me likewise the very same thing (appears). 
 But how has this speech been spoken as regards us, and 
 what does it mean ? 
 
 Soc. Correctly indeed, Protarchus, has Philebus pro¬ 
 posed this question. 
 
 Trot. Very much so; and do you give an answer. 
 
 Soc. This I will do, after I have gone through yet a 
 little (more) respecting these very points. For, as we said, 
 that should a person lay hold of any one thing whatever, he 
 ought not to look at once upon the nature of the infinite, 
 but upon some number; so, on the other hand, when a man 
 is compelled to lay hold of the infinite, he ought not (to 
 look) at once upon the one, but to a certain number, pos¬ 
 sessing some multihide of individual things, (and) to think 
 upon it; and to end from all in one. Let us then again 
 lay hold of what I have now said, in the case of letters. 
 
 Trot. How? 
 
 Soc. From the time when some god, or godlike man, as 
 
PHILEBUS. 
 
 223 
 
 the story in Egypt goes, by saying it was some Theuth, 
 first thought upon sound as being without limit, the per¬ 
 son has been mentioned in history, who perceived that in 
 the limitless there were vocal (letters), not one but more; 
 and again, other (letters) not having a part of the voice, 
 but of some kind of sound; and that of these also there 
 was a certain number. A third kind of letters he set 
 apart; those which are now called mutes by us. After this 
 he separated both the letters which are without any vocal 
 sound, clear or not clear, as far as each one, and the vowels 
 also and those in the middle in the same manner, until 
 having comprehended their number, he gave to each one, 
 and to all together, the name of an element. But per¬ 
 ceiving that none of us could understand any of them by 
 itself alone, without (learning) them all, he considered this 
 bond between them as being one, and as making all these in 
 a manner but one thing; and to them he applied the name 
 of the grammar-art, calling it so as being one. 
 
 Phil. These, taken by themselves and in relation to each 
 other, Protarehus, I understand more clearly than what 
 was said before. But there is still at present wanting, as 
 before, the very same trifling part of the discourse. 
 
 Soc. Is*'it not this, Philebus ? what have these matters to 
 do with the subject ? 
 
 Phil. Yes. This is the very thing which I and Pro- 
 tarchus are for a long while in search of. 
 
 Soc. You are then for a long while, as you sajq in search, 
 when you have just now arrived at it. 
 
 Phil. How so ? 
 
 Soc. Was not the question originally between us relating 
 to intellect or pleasure, which was the more eligible ? 
 
 Phil. How not ? 
 
 Soc. We admit, however, that each of them is one 
 thing? 
 
 Phil. By all means. 
 
 Soc. This then does the previous subject demand of us; 
 how is each of them one and many ? and how is it that they 
 are. not at once infinite; but that each possesses somehow a 
 certain number before it becomes infinite? 
 
224 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 Prot. Into no trivial a question, Philebus, has Socrates 
 thrown us, after having led us, 1 know not bow, a round¬ 
 about road. And now consider, which of us two shall reply 
 to the question proposed. Perhaps, however, it would be 
 ridiculous in me, who have stood as a reinforcement to 
 your argument, to order you again to this business, through 
 my being unable to reply to the present question; but I 
 think it would be much more ridiculous for neither of us 
 to be able. Consider, then, what we are to do. For Soc¬ 
 rates seems to interrogate us respecting the (different) 
 kinds of pleasure, whether they do or do not exist; and how 
 many and of what kind they are; and in like manner and 
 touching the same points as regards intellect. 
 
 Soa. You speak, son of Callias, most truly. For since 
 we are unable to do this, as regards everything, as being 
 one, similar, and same, and the contrary, as the past reason¬ 
 ing has pointed out, not one of us would in any matter 
 ever be worth anything at all. 
 
 Prot. Such, Socrates, very nearly seems to be the case. 
 But though it is a fine thing for a prudent person to know 
 all things, yet it seems to be a second step for a person not 
 to be ignorant of himself. Why then have I now said 
 this? I will tell you. This conversation, Socrates, you 
 have granted to us all, and have given yourself up to us, for 
 the purpose of deciding what is the greatest good to man. 
 For. after Philebus bad said, that it is pleasure, and de¬ 
 light, and joy, and all things of the like nature, you said 
 in opposition to this, that it was not these things, but those 
 which we often willingly call to our recollection; and we 
 are right in so doing, in order that each question, being 
 laid up in our memory, may be put to the test. You 
 assert then, it seems, that, what is to be spoken of correctly, 
 there is a good, superior to pleasure, in mind, science, 
 intelligence, art, and all things allied to them, which one 
 ought to possess, and not the others. Now these positions 
 being laid down severally on each side, as the subjects of 
 dispute, we in a jocose way threatened, that we would not 
 suffer you to go home, before, of the questions so defined, 
 a sufficient limit had been reached. To this you assented. 
 
PHILEBUS. 
 
 225 
 
 and to these points you gave yourself up to us. We assert 
 then, as children say, that of what has been given fairly, 
 there is no taking away. Forbear then to meet us on what 
 has been now said in this manner. 
 
 Soc. In what manner? 
 
 Trot. By throwing us into a difficulty, and propound¬ 
 ing questions, to which we should not be able on the instant 
 to give a sufficient answer. For let us not fancy that the 
 present difficulty of us all is a finish (to the inquiry) ; but 
 if we are unable to do this, you must do it, for so you prom¬ 
 ised. Wherefore advise yourself, whether you must dis¬ 
 tinguish the kinds of pleasure, as of knowledge; or leave 
 them alone, if perchance you are able and willing by some 
 other method to render plain somehow else the question 
 now in dispute between us. 
 
 Soc. Nothing dreadful then need I fear any longer for 
 myself, since you have said this. For the expression, “ if 
 you are willing,” relieves me from all fear respecting each 
 thing. But, in addition to this, there seems some god, I 
 think, to have given me a recollection of some things. 
 
 Prot. How, and of what things ? 
 
 Soc. Having formerly heard, either in a dream or broad 
 awake, certain sayings respecting pleasure and intellect, I 
 have them now again present to my mind, that neither 
 of them is of itself the good, but some other third thing, 
 different from them, and better than both. Now if this 
 should appear to us clearly, pleasure is then removed from 
 victory. For the good would no longer be the same with 
 it; or how (say you) ? 
 
 Prot. Just so. 
 
 Soc. We shall have no need then, in my opinion, to 
 distinguish the kinds of pleasure. And the thing itself, 
 as it progresses, will show itself more clearly. 
 
 Prot. Having begun so happily, proceed (with the same 
 success). 
 
 Soc. Let us previously agree still upon a few little 
 points. 
 
 Prot. What are those? 
 
 15 
 
226 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 Soc. Is it necessary for the condition of the good to be 
 perfect or not perfect ? 
 
 Prot. The most perfect, Socrates, of all things. 
 
 Soc. What then? Is the good self-sufficient? 
 
 Prot. IIow not? and in this respect it excels all other 
 things existing. 
 
 Soc. And this too, I think, it is of all things the most 
 necessary to state about it, that every being that knows of 
 it hunts after it, and desires to catch it, and to have it 
 about itself, and cares for nothing else except such as are 
 brought to perfection in conjunction with good things. 
 
 Prot. There is no gainsaying this. 
 
 Soc. Let us then consider and judge of the life of pleas¬ 
 ure, and that of intellect, viewing them separately. 
 
 Prot. How say you ? 
 
 Soc.. In the life of pleasure, let there be no intellect; 
 nor in that of intellect, pleasure. For, if either of them 
 be the good, it need not want anything additional from 
 any other quarter. But, if either of them appears to be 
 indigent of aught, this can no longer be the good. 
 
 Prot. For how could it? 
 
 Soc. Let us then endeavor with you to try them by a 
 touchstone. 
 
 Prot. By all means. 
 
 Soc. Answer, then. 
 
 Prot. Say on. 
 
 Soc. Would you, Protarehus, accept the offer to live 
 through the whole of life enjoying pleasures the most ex¬ 
 quisite ? 
 
 Prot. Why not? 
 
 Soc. If you possessed this completely, would you not 
 think that you still wanted something else? 
 
 Prot. Not at all. 
 
 Soc. See now, is it not for the things that are wanting 
 in thought, and mind, and reasoning powers, and whatever 
 are the sisters of these, to see not even something? 
 
 Prot. And why ? for I should in a manner possess all 
 things, in possessing joy. 
 
PHILEBUS. 227 
 
 Soc. Living thus continually through life, would you not 
 feel a joy in the most exquisite pleasures ? 
 
 Prot. Why not ? 
 
 Soc. Possessing neither mind, nor memory, nor science, 
 nor a true opinion, it is surely necessary for you, in the 
 first place, to be ignorant, whether you had any joy, or not, 
 being void of all intellect. 
 
 Prot. It is necessary. 
 
 Soc. Being moreover in a similar manner not in pos¬ 
 session of memory, there is surely a necessity for you not 
 even to remember that you ever had any joy, or for not even 
 the least memorial to remain of a joy coming upon you 
 on the instant; and not possessing a true opinion, (a 
 necessity) for you to think that, when you are feeling a 
 joy, you do not feel it; and deprived of the reasoning 
 power, to be not even able to calculate that you shall feel a 
 joy in a time to come; and thus you would live the life, 
 not of a man, but of an animal called lungs, or of such 
 marine substances as are endued with life, together with an 
 oyster-like body. Are these things so? or can we think 
 otherwise concerning them ? 
 
 Prot. And how ? 
 
 Soc. Would, then, such a life be eligible ? 
 
 Prot. This reasoning, Socrates, has imposed upon me 
 silence altogether for the present. 
 
 Soc. Let us not become cowards, but changing (the 
 view), look upon the life of intellect. 
 
 Prot. What kind of life do you mean? 
 
 Soc. Whether any of us would choose to live, possessing 
 intellect, and mind, and science, and a perfect memory of 
 all things, but partaking of pleasure, neither much nor 
 little; nor, on the other hand, of pain; but being wholly 
 exempt from all things of such kind. 
 
 Prot. To me, Socrates, neither life is eligible; nor would 
 it, I think, ever appear so to any other person. 
 
 Soc. What (seems) to you, Protarchus, a life mixed up 
 with, and common to, both together ? 
 
 Prot. Do you mean of pleasure, and of mind and in¬ 
 tellect £ 
 
228 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 Soc. In this wuj ; and of such a life am I speaking. 
 
 Prot. Every person would certainly prefer such a kind 
 of life to either of those, and, moreover, not one this, and 
 another that. 
 
 Soc. Perceive we now what is the result of our previous 
 reasoning? 
 
 Prot. Perfectly well; that three lives have been placed 
 before us, and that of the two, neither one is self-sufficient 
 or eligible for any one man, or animal. 
 
 Soc. It is not evident then with regard to these, that 
 neither of them possess the good ? for (otherwise) it 
 would have been all-sufficient, and perfect, and eligible for 
 all plants and animals, that are capable of living ever thus 
 through life. But if any one should prefer other things, 
 than what we do, he would take it contrary to the nature of 
 the truly eligible, not willingly, but through ignorance, or 
 from some unhappy necessity. 
 
 Prot. Such seems to be the case. 
 
 Soc. That we ought not therefore to consider that god¬ 
 dess of Philebus and the good to be the same, seems to have 
 been stated sufficiently. 
 
 Phil. Heither, Socrates, is that intellect of yours the 
 good; but it will somehow have the same charge made 
 against it. 
 
 Soc. Mine perhaps, Philebus, may; but not, I think, 
 that intellect which is at the same time both divine and 
 true; but it will be somehow in a different state. However, 
 I do not contend for the prize of victory, in behalf (of the 
 life) of intellect, against the common one. But what we 
 are to do with the second prize, it is meet to see and to con¬ 
 sider. For the cause (of the happiness of) the common 
 life, we each assign to be, one of us, intellect, the other, 
 pleasure. And thus neither of these two would be the 
 good. And yet a person might suppose one or other of 
 them to be the cause. Now on this point I would still 
 more earnestly contend against Philebus, that in this 
 mixed life, whatever is the thing, by possessing which that 
 life becomes eligible and good, it is not pleasure, but in¬ 
 tellect, which is more allied and similar to it. And ac- 
 
PHILEBUS. 
 
 229 
 
 cording to this reasoning it could not be truly said that 
 pleasure has any share in the first, nor even the second 
 prize; and it is still further from the third prize, if any 
 credit may be given for the present to that intellect of 
 mine. 
 
 Prof. It seems to me in good truth, Socrates, that pleas¬ 
 ure has fallen (to the ground), struck down, as it were, 
 by your present reasoning; fqr after fighting for the prize, 
 it lies there (vanquished). But of mind, it seems, it must 
 be said, that it has prudently laid no claim for the prize; 
 for it would otherwise have suffered the same fate. But 
 pleasure, should it lose also the second prize, would meet 
 altogether with some dishonor from her lovers: for 
 not even to them would she appear any longer to be beau¬ 
 tiful. 
 
 Soc. Why then is it not better to dismiss her directly, 
 and not to pain her, by bringing to her the most accurate 
 touchstone, and convicting her? 
 
 Prof. You are saying nothing, Socrates, to the purpose. 
 
 Soc. Is it because I spoke, what is impossible, of giving 
 pain to pleasure ? 
 
 Prof. Not on that account only, but because you are 
 ignorant that none of us will dismiss you, before you have 
 come to the end of these disputes by reasoning. 
 
 Soc. Ho! ho ! Protarchus ; for though the remaining 
 discourse is plentiful, yet scarcely is any part of it very 
 easy now. For it seems that he, who marches out in 
 defense of mind, has need of another stratagem, and must 
 have, as it were, arrows different from those of former 
 reasoning; perhaps,' however, some are the same. Is not 
 this requisite? 
 
 Prof. How not? 
 
 Soc. Let us then endeavor, when laying down the prin¬ 
 ciple, to act with caution. 
 
 Prof. Of what principle are you speaking? 
 
 Soc. All things existing in the universe let us divide 
 into two, or rather, if you please, into three parts. 
 
 Prof. You should state, why so. 
 
 Soc. Let us take some of the subjects already mentioned. 
 
230 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 Prot. What? 
 
 Soc. We said somehow that of things existing, the deity 
 has exhibited the limitless, and also the limit. 
 
 Prot. Very true. 
 
 Soc. Let us then take these two of the species (of 
 things), and for a third, some one composed of those two 
 mixed together. But I am, it seems, to be laughed at as a 
 person sufficiently distinguishing and enumerating things 
 according to their species. 
 
 Prot. What say you, my good man? 
 
 Soc. It seems again that there is need of a fourth kind. 
 
 Prot. Say, what ? 
 
 Soc. Of the combination of these with each other con¬ 
 sider then the cause; and to these three species set me down 
 this for a fourth. 
 
 Prot. Will there not be wanting a fifth too, able to pro¬ 
 duce the separation of something? 
 
 Soc. Perhaps there may; but not, I think, at present. 
 However, should there be a want of it, you will .pardon me, 
 if I go in pursuit of a fifth [life]. 
 
 Prot. How so? 
 
 Soc. Having, in the first place, of these four species, 
 divided the three, let us, after having seen each of two cut 
 into many parts and dispersed, endeavor by collecting again 
 each into one, to understand those two, in what manner 
 each of them is, at the same time, one and many. 
 
 Prot. If you would speak more plainly respecting them, 
 I might perhaps follow you. 
 
 Soc. I say then that the two, which I lay before you, are 
 those which I just now (spcke of) ; one the limitless, and 
 the other limit. Xow, that the limitless is in some manner 
 many, I will attempt to show; but let that, which has a 
 limit, wait for us a while. 
 
 Prot. It shall wait. 
 
 Soc. Consider now; for what I order you to consider is a 
 thing difficult and doubtful. Consider it, however. With 
 regard to things hotter and colder, first see if you can con¬ 
 ceive any limit to them. Or would not the more and the 
 less, residing in the genera themselves of things, enjoin, so 
 
PHILEBUS. . 231 
 
 long as they resided there, an end to be not in them? For 
 if there were an end, they are at an end themselves. 
 
 Prot. You speak most truly. 
 
 Soc. And we say that in the hotter and colder there is 
 the more and the less. 
 
 Prot. Yery much so. 
 
 Soc. Season then ever points out to us that the colder 
 and the hotter have no end; and being thus without any 
 end, they are altogether limitless. 
 
 Prot. Vehemently so, Socrates. 
 
 Soc. Well have you answered, friend Protarchus, and re¬ 
 minded me, that the “vehementlj',” which you now.pro¬ 
 nounced, and the “ gently,” have the same power as the 
 “ more ” and the “ less.” For, wherever they reside, they 
 suffer not any thing to be just “so much;” but infusing 
 something more vehement than the more gentle into every 
 action, and the contrary, they effect either “ the more ” or 
 “the less;” but cause the “just so much” to disappear. 
 For, as it was just now stated, if they did not cause the 
 “ just so much ” to disappear, but permitted both it and 
 “ the moderate ” to be in the seat of “ the more ” and “ the 
 less,” or of “ the vehement ” and “ the gentle,” these very 
 things (would) flow out of their own place in which they 
 were; for if they admitted the “just so much,” “the 
 hotter ” and “ the colder ” would not exist. For “ the 
 hotter,” and in like manner - “ the colder,” is always ad¬ 
 vancing forward, and never abides in the same spot; but 
 the “ just so much ” stops, and ceases to progress. Accord¬ 
 ing then to this reasoning, “ the hotter ” must be limitless; 
 and so must also be “ the colder.” 
 
 Prot. So indeed, Socrates, it appears. But, as you said, 
 these things are not easy to follow. But subjects spoken 
 of again and again would perhaps show the questioner and 
 the questioned agreeing sufficiently together. 
 
 Soc. You say well; and let us try so to do. But for the 
 present, see whether we will receive this as a sign of the 
 nature of the limitless, in order that, by going through all, 
 we may not be prolix. 
 
 Prot. What mark do you mean? 
 
232 THE TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 Soc. Whatever things appear to us to be growing more 
 or less, or to admit of the vehement, and the gentle, and 
 the too much, and all such attributes, we ought to refer 
 all these to the genus of the limitless, as to one thing, ac¬ 
 cording to the previous remark which we made, that what¬ 
 ever things were torn and cut into parts, we ought to 
 collect, to the best of our power, and put a mark on them as 
 being of some one nature, if you remember. 
 
 Prot. I remember it. 
 
 Soc. Those things then, which do not admit these at¬ 
 tributes, but admit their contraries, in the first place, the 
 equal and equality, and, after the equal, the double, and 
 whatever other relation one number bears to another, and 
 one measure to another, by reckoning up all these as re¬ 
 lating to limit, should we seem to do right? or how say 
 you ? 
 
 Prot. Perfectly right, Socrates. 
 
 Soc. Be it so. But the third thing, made up of the 
 other two, what idea shall we say it possesses ? 
 
 Prot. Yourself, as I conceive, will tell me. 
 
 Soc. A deity (might); if any of the gods will hearken to 
 mv prayers. 
 
 Prot. Pray, then, and take a survey. 
 
 Soc. I do survey: and some deity, Protarchus, seems 
 now to have become favorable to us. 
 
 Prot. How say you this? and of what proof do you make 
 
 use? 
 
 Soc. I will tell you plainly: but do you follow my reason¬ 
 ing. 
 
 Prot. Only speak. 
 
 Soc. We mentioned just now the hotter and the colder; 
 did we not ? 
 
 Prot. Yes. 
 
 Soc. To these then add the drier and the moister, the 
 more numerous and the fewer, the swifter and the slower, 
 the larger and the smaller, and whatever things beside that 
 we previously ranked under the one head of a nature, that 
 admits' of the more and the less. 
 
 Prot. You mean of the limitless. 
 
PHILEBUS. 233 
 
 Soc. Yes: and do you combine into this that which we 
 spoke of next afterward, the genus of limit. 
 
 Proi. What genus ? 
 
 Soc. That, which, when we should just now have brought 
 together (as the genus) of the limit, formed in the same 
 manner, as we brought together the genus of the limitless, 
 we did not bring together. But now perhaps you will do 
 the same. When both these are brought together, that too 
 will become manifest. 
 
 Prut. Of what (genus) are you speaking? and how? 
 
 Soc. I speak of that relating to the equal and the double, 
 and whatever else causes things to cease at variance with 
 each other, and by introducing number, moulds them into 
 what are symmetrical and harmonize with each other. 
 
 Prot. I understand. You seem to me to say that if these 
 are combined certain productions would somehow arise in 
 the case of each. 
 
 Soc. (Yes.) For I seem (to have spoken) correctly. 
 
 Prot. Say on then. 
 
 Soc. In the case of diseases, does not the right combina¬ 
 tion of those two produce the state of health ? 
 
 Prot. Entirely so. 
 
 Soc. And in the acute and the grave, the swift also and 
 the slow, all being limitless, do not the very same thing, 
 being introduced, effect at the same time a limit and render 
 most perfect all the Muse’s art ? 
 
 Prot. Yes, most beautifully. 
 
 Soc. Moreover it being introduced into cold weather and 
 hot, it takes off the very much, the too much, and the 
 infinite, but it effects the moderate and the symmetrical. 
 
 Prot. How not ? 
 
 Soc. And are not produced from them mild seasons, and 
 all whatever is lovely for us, the limitless and those which 
 have a limit being combined together ? 
 
 Prot. How not ? 
 
 Soc. A thousand other things I omit to state; as, for 
 instance, together with health, beauty and strength ; and in 
 the soul other properties very many and very beautiful. 
 For the goddess herself, 0 thou handsome Philebus, look- 
 
234 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 ing down upon lust, and all manner of vice in all persons, 
 (and) (seeing) no limit existing in them of pleasures and 
 their full enjoyment, has laid down a law and order, having 
 a limit. And you said that she would wear down; but I 
 maintain, on the contrary, that she would preserve. But 
 how, Protarchus, does it (now) appear to you? 
 
 Prot. This, Socrates, is quite to my mind. 
 
 Soc. I have mentioned then those three things, if you 
 comprehend. 
 
 Prot. I think I do. For one you seem to call the limit¬ 
 less, and one, the second, the limit in all things: but what 
 you mean by the third, I do not very well comprehend. 
 
 Soc. Because the multitude, 0 thou wondrous man, of 
 the generation of the third, has amazed you. And yet the 
 limitless has afforded you many genera; but as they were 
 all of them marked with the seal of the genus of the more 
 and its opposite they appeared one. 
 
 Prot. True. 
 
 Soc. And yet neither did limit contain many, nor did we 
 bear it ill that it was not by nature one. 
 
 Prot. How could we ? 
 
 Soc. By no means. But do thou say that by the third I 
 mean this one, laying down all their progeny, from the 
 measures which have effected together with limit a genera¬ 
 tion into being. 
 
 Prot. I understand you. 
 
 Soc. How besides these three, we then said we must 
 look for some fourth kind, and that the looking for it was 
 common to us both. See then whether it seems to you 
 necessary for all things, which are produced, to be pro¬ 
 duced through some cause. 
 
 Prot. So it seems to me; for without that (thing), how 
 should they be produced ? 
 
 Soc. The nature then of the thing making differs from 
 the cause in nothing but the name: so that the thing 
 making and the cause may be rightly deemed one. 
 
 Prot. Rightly. 
 
 Soc. So, likewise, the thing made, and the thing pro- 
 
PHILEBUS, 
 
 235 
 
 ducod, we shall find, as just now said, to differ in nothing 
 but the name; or how? 
 
 Prot. Just so. 
 
 Soc. According to nature, does not the thing making 
 ever lead the way? and the thing made follow it into 
 being ? 
 
 Prot. Certainly. 
 
 Soc. Cause then, and that which is the slave of cause 
 for production, is another thing, and not the same. 
 
 Prot. How not ? 
 
 Soc. Have not. the things which are produced, and the 
 things out of which they are all produced, exhibited to us 
 the three genera ? 
 
 Prot. Clearly. 
 
 Soc. The fourth then, which is the artificer of all these, 
 let ns call the cause; as it has been sufficiently shown to 
 be different from those. 
 
 Prot. Let us call it. 
 
 Soc. The four sorts having been now defined, it is well, 
 for the sake of remembering each one, to enumerate them 
 in order. 
 
 Prot. How not ? 
 
 Soc.. The first then I call limitless; the second, limit; 
 the.third, what is mixed and generated from these; and in 
 saying that the cause of this mixture and this production 
 is the fourth, should I do aught amiss ? 
 
 Prot. How so ? 
 
 Soc. Well now, what is the reasoning after this? and 
 with what.desipi have we come to this? Was it not this? 
 We were inquiring whether the second prize was due to 
 Pleasure or Intellect. Was it not so? 
 
 Prot. It was so. 
 
 Soc. Since then we have thus divided these things, may 
 we not now better form a finished judgment about the first 
 and the second, respecting which we disputed at first. 
 
 Prot. Perhaps so. 
 
 Soc. Come now, we laid down, as the conqueror, the 
 combined life of Pleasure and Intellect. Was it not so? 
 
 Prot. It was. 
 
236 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 Soc. Do we not perceive then somehow what this life is, 
 
 and of what genus ? 
 
 Prol. How not? 
 
 Soc. And I think we shall say, that it is a part of the 
 third. For it is not combined with some tw'o, but with all 
 the limitless linked by a chain with limit; so that this life, 
 the winner of the \ictory, may be rightly said to be a part 
 of the third. 
 
 Prot. Most rightly. 
 
 Soc. Be it so. But that life of yours, Philebus, being 
 pleasant and uncombined, to which of the three can it be 
 rightly said to belong? But before you pronounce, answer 
 me first this question. 
 
 Phil. Propose it then. 
 
 Soc. Have Pleasure and Pain a limit? or are they 
 amongst the things which admit “the more” and “the 
 
 less?” 
 
 Phil. Assuredly, Socrates, amongst those (that admit) 
 “ the more.” For Pleasure would not be wholly a good, 
 if it were not by nature limitless with respect to multitude 
 and “ the more.” 
 
 Soc. Yor would Pain, Philebus, be -wholly an evil; so 
 that we must think of something else than the nature of the 
 limitless, which is to impart any good to pleasures. Let 
 then this be the issue of the limitless. But to which of the 
 before-mentioned may we, Protarehus and Philebus, refer 
 Intellect, and Science, and Mind, and not be impious? 
 For there seem to me to be no little danger to us, whether 
 we are right or not respecting the present question. 
 
 Phil. You magnify, Socrates, that god of yours. 
 
 Soc. So do you, my friend, that goddess of yours. The 
 question, however, ought to be answered by us. 
 
 Prot. Socrates speaks correctly, Philebus, and we must 
 obey him. 
 
 Phil. Have not you. Protarehus, taken upon yourself to 
 speak on my part ? 
 
 Prot. Certainly. But in the present case I am nearly at 
 a loss; and I request of you, Socrates, to become yourself 
 a speaker for us, in order that we may not, by a mistake 
 
PHILEBUS. 
 
 237 
 
 respecting the combatant, say something contrary to the 
 measure. 
 
 Soc. We must obey, Protarchus. For you enjoin noth¬ 
 ing difficult. But when I was magnifying, as Philebus 
 says, (a deity) by way of a joke, I did in reality confuse 
 you, by asking of what genus were Mind and Science. 
 
 Prot. Altogether so, Socrates. 
 
 Soc. And yet it was an easy (question). For all the 
 wise, in reality extolling themselves, agree that Mind is to 
 us a king of heaven and earth. And perhaps they say well. 
 But let us, if you are willing, make our examination of this 
 genus rather more at length. 
 
 Prot. Speak as you wish, taking no account of the 
 length, as you will not be disagreeable (to us). 
 
 Soc. You have spoken fairly. Let us begin, then, by 
 asking a question in such way as this. 
 
 Prot. How? 
 
 Soc. Whether shall we say that the power of an irra¬ 
 tional (principle) governs all things, and that, which is 
 called the universe, at random, and as may happen? or, on 
 the contrary, as our predecessors asserted, that Mind and a 
 certain wonderful Intellect, arranges things together, and 
 governs throughout ? 
 
 Prot. Alike in nothing, Socrates, (are the two tenets). 
 For what you have just now mentioned seems to me to be 
 impious. But, to say that Intellect disposes all icings in 
 order, is worthy of our view of the world, and of sun, and 
 the moon, and the stars, and the whole revolution (of 
 heaven) ; nor would I ever say, or even think, otherwise 
 respecting them. 
 
 Soc. Do you wish then for us to say something in ac¬ 
 cordance with our predecessors, that such is the case, and 
 for us not merely to think that we ought to speak the senti¬ 
 ments of others without danger to ourselves, but that we 
 should run the risk together, and share in the censure, 
 should a man of mighty power assert that these things are 
 not in this state, but in that of disorder ? 
 
 Prot. How should I not wish it? 
 
' 238 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 Soc. Come now, look to the reasoning, which is ad¬ 
 vancing towards ns respecting these matters. 
 
 Prot. Only say it. 
 
 Soc. The things that surround the nature of all the 
 bodies of animals, (namely,) fire, and water, and air, and 
 earth, we somehow descry, as persons tossed in a storm 
 say (of land), existing in the constitution (of the uni¬ 
 verse). 
 
 Frot. And truly so ; for we are really tossed about in our 
 present reasonings. 
 
 Soc. Come then, respecting each of those things in us, 
 conceive some such thing as this. 
 
 Prot. What? 
 
 Soc. That each of those in us is little and inconsider¬ 
 able, and is nowhere and in no manner pure, and possess¬ 
 ing a power worthy of its nature. Take them in the case 
 of one (element), and understand the same respecting all. 
 Fire in some manner exists in us, and it exists also in the 
 universe. 
 
 Prot. How not ? 
 
 Soc. How the fire, which is in us, is weak and incon¬ 
 siderable ; but that which is in the universe is wonderful for 
 its multitude and beauty, and for every power which be¬ 
 longs to fire. 
 
 Prot. What you say is very true. 
 
 Soc. What then ? Is the fire of the universe generated, 
 and fed, and ruled by that which we have in us? or, on 
 the contrary, does mine and yours, and that in the rest of 
 animals, receive all these things from it ? 
 
 Prot. You ask this question, which does not deserve an 
 answer. 
 
 Soc. True. For you will say the same, I think, of the 
 earth, which exists here in animals, and of that in the 
 universe; and so will you answer touching all the other 
 things, about which T inquired a little before. 
 
 Prot. For who in his senses would ever be seen answer¬ 
 ing in another way ? 
 
 Soc. Scarcely not any one whatever. But follow us to 
 what comes next in order. Have we not, looking to all 
 
PHILEBUS. 239 
 
 those things just now mentioned, and brought to one point, 
 called them body? 
 
 Prot. How not ? 
 
 Soc. Conceive the same thing then with regard to this, 
 which we call the world. For in the same manner, being 
 composed of the same elements, it would be body. 
 
 Prot. You speak most correctly. 
 
 Soc. Whether from that body wholly is nourished the 
 body with us, or that body from the one with us ? and has 
 it received and does it keep whatever properties we have 
 just now mentioned respecting them? 
 
 Prot. And this too is another point, Socrates, not de¬ 
 serving a question. 
 
 Soc. What then? Is this deserving? Or how will you 
 say ? 
 
 Prot Say what it is. 
 
 Soc. Shall we not affirm that the body with us possesses a 
 
 soul? 
 
 Prot. It is evident, we shall affirm it. 
 
 Soc. From whence, friend Protarchus, did it obtain it, 
 unless the body of the universe happens to be with a soul, 
 and possessing the same things as this, but in every way 
 more beautiful ? 
 
 Prot. It is evident, Socrates, from no other source. 
 
 Soc. For we cannot surely, Protarchus, expect that, 
 while there are these four things, limit, the limitless, the 
 combination (of both), and the genus of the cause, amongst 
 all the four, it is permissible for that, which furnishes the 
 soul in us, and makes the body a tabernacle (for it), and, 
 when the body has met with a stumbling-block, cures it by 
 the medical art, and on other occasions frames other con¬ 
 stitutions, these should be addressed by the name of wis¬ 
 dom, whole and of every kind; but that, while these very 
 same things exist in the whole of heaven, and according to 
 its great parts, and, moreover, while they are lovely and 
 without blemish, in these there should not have been 
 planned the nature of things the most beautiful and held 
 in the highest honor. 
 
 Prot. This would indeed have no reason on its side. 
 
240 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 Soc. If this then be irrational, we may the better assert, 
 by following that reasoning of ours, that there is, what we 
 have often said, in the universe many a limitless, and a 
 limit sufficient, and besides these, a cause, not inconsider¬ 
 able which puts into order and arranges the years, and 
 seasons, and months,—a cause, which may most justly be 
 called Wisdom and Mind. 
 
 Prot. Most justly, indeed. 
 
 Soc. Wisdom however and Mind could not exist without 
 Soul. 
 
 Prot. By no means. 
 
 Soc. You will say then that in the nature of Zeus there 
 is a kingly soul in a kingly mind, through the power of the 
 cause ; and that in the other (gods) there are other beauti¬ 
 ful attributes, according as it is agreeable for each to be 
 called. 
 
 Prot. Certainly I shall. 
 
 Soc. Do not think, Protarchus, that we have spoken this 
 discourse at all in vain. For it fights on the side of those 
 persons of the olden time, who showed that Mind is ever 
 the ruler of the universe. 
 
 Prot. It does so very much. 
 
 Soc. Besides it has furnished an answer to my inquiry,— 
 that Mind is a relation of that, which was said to be the 
 cause of all things; for of the four this was one. For now 
 at length you surely have the answer. 
 
 Prot. I have, and very sufficiently. But it lay hid from 
 me that you were giving the answer. 
 
 Soc. For play is sometimes, Protarchus, a remission 
 from serious study. 
 
 Prot. Well have you said this. 
 
 Soc. And thus, my friend, of what genus Mind is, and 
 of what power it is possessed, has been now shown tolerably 
 well for the present. 
 
 Prot. It has, completely. 
 
 Soc. Moreover in like manner the genus of Pleasure has 
 appeared before. 
 
 Prot. Very much so. 
 
 Soc. Concerning these two then let us remember this 
 
PHILEBUS. 
 
 241 
 
 alsothat Mind is a relation to cause, and is nearly of that 
 genus; but that Pleasure is both limitless itself, and is of 
 that genus which, of itself, neither has nor ever will have in 
 itself, either a beginning, or a middle, or an end. 
 
 Prot. We will remember. How not ? 
 
 Soc. Now we ought to consider next, in which genus 
 either of these two exists, and through what circumstance 
 they are produced, when they come into being, first in the 
 case of Pleasure; (for,) as we previously tried by a touch¬ 
 stone its genus, so, with regard to these points, (we must 
 try) them previously. For, apart from Pain, we should 
 never be able fully to try Pleasure. 
 
 Prot. Nay, if we must proceed in this way, let us pro¬ 
 ceed. 
 
 Soc. Hoes it seem to you, as to me, as regards pro¬ 
 duction ? 
 
 Prot. What ? 
 
 Soc. Pain and Pleasure appear to me to be produced 
 naturally at the same time as a common genus. 
 
 Prot . Eemind us, friend Socrates, which of the genera 
 mentioned before, you wish to indicate by the word com¬ 
 mon. 
 
 Soc. This shall be done, 0 thou wondrous man, to the 
 best of my power. 
 
 Prot. You have spoken fairly. 
 
 Soc. By common, then, let us understand that, which we 
 reckoned as the third of the four. 
 
 Prot. That which you mentioned after both the limitless 
 and limit; in which you ranked health, and also, as I think, 
 harmony. 
 
 Soc. You have said perfectly right. Now give me all 
 possible attention. 
 
 Prot. Only speak. 
 
 Soc. I say, then, that whenever the harmony (in the 
 frame) of any animal is loosened, a loosening is made in 
 its nature, and at that very time the production of pains 
 takes place. 
 
 Prot. You say what is very probable. 
 
 Soc. But when the harmony is properly fitted, and it 
 
 16 
 
212 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 returns to its own nature, we must say that pleasure is 
 produced, if it is requisite for arguments on matters of the 
 greatest moment to be despatched as quickly as possible in a 
 few words. 
 
 Prot. I think, Socrates, you speak correctly; but let us 
 endeavor to speak of these same things still more 
 clearly. 
 
 Soc. Is it not most easy to understand things of common 
 occurrence and seen all around ? 
 
 Prot. What kind of things? 
 
 Soc. Hunger, surely, is a loosening and a pain. 
 
 Prot. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And by eating, a filling-up is, on the other hand, a 
 pleasure. 
 
 Prot. Yes. 
 
 Soc. Thirst also, again, is a corruption and pain, and a 
 loosening; but the power of a liquid, by replenishing the 
 part dried up, is a pleasure. Again, the suffering a preter¬ 
 natural heat, being a separation and dissolving, is a pain: 
 but, on the other hand, according to nature, a giving way 
 and cooling is a pleasure. 
 
 Prot. Most certainly. 
 
 Soc. And the coagulation of animal moisture through 
 cold, contrary to its nature, is a pain: but, on the other 
 hand, a return to the same (state), according to nature, of 
 what had departed and been separated (from it), is a 
 pleasure. And, in one word, consider whether the reason¬ 
 ing is in moderation, which says, that when the species, 
 naturally produced with a soul from the limitless and 
 limit, as I previously stated, is corrupted, to it corruption 
 is a pain ; but that the road into their being, and the return 
 back again, is of all a pleasure. 
 
 Prot. Be it so; for it seems to have some stamp (of like¬ 
 lihood). 
 
 Soc. Let us then lay down this as "one kind of pain and 
 pleasure (as existing) under each of those conditions. 
 
 Prot. Let it so lie. 
 
 Soc. Lav down now the expectation of the soul itself, 
 regards the nature of these circumstances; one antecedent 
 
PHILEBUS. 
 
 243 
 
 to pleasures (enjoyed), a matter hoped for, agreeable and 
 full of confidence; the other, antecedent to pains (en¬ 
 dured), a thing of fear and anxiety. 
 
 Prot. This is, therefore, a different species of pleasure 
 and pain, independent of the body, and produced through 
 an expectation of the soul herself. 
 
 Soc. You have understood the matter rightly. Now in 
 these (feelings), I think, according to my opinion at least, 
 being each of them, as it seems, sincere and unmixed, of 
 pain and pleasure, there will be manifest that respecting 
 pleasure, whether the whole genus is to be embraced, or this 
 is to be assigned to some genus different from those before- 
 mentioned; but that to pleasure and pain (it is allowable), 
 like heat and cold, and all other things of this sort, for us 
 to sometimes embrace them, and at other times not to 
 embrace, as being not good in themselves, but admitting 
 only sometimes, and some of them, the nature of the 
 good. 
 
 Prof. You say most correctly that it is requisite for the 
 thing now pursued to be caused to go somewhere in tins 
 road. 
 
 Soc. Let us then look together at this part first. Since, 
 if what has been said is really the fact, when those things 
 are being destroyed, there would be pain, but being pre¬ 
 served, pleasure, let us now consider respecting those which 
 are neither being destroyed, nor being preserved, what 
 condition must there then be to each animal, when such is 
 the case. Give your earnest attention to this point, and tell 
 me, is there not every necessity for every animal at that 
 time to be neither pained nor pleased, either greatly or 
 little ? 
 
 Prot. There is a necessity. 
 
 Soc. There is then some third disposition of this kind, 
 beside that of being delighted and that of being grieved. 
 
 Prot. How not ? 
 
 Soc. Come then, be ready to remember this (decision). 
 For towards the verdict respecting pleasure, it will be not a 
 little thing for us to remember it or not. But let us, if you 
 please, go through this point in few words. 
 
244 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 Trot. Say, what? 
 
 Soc. To a person preferring a life of intellect, you know 
 there is no hinderance to his living in that manner. 
 
 Prot. Do you mean in the state of being neither pleased 
 
 nor pained ? . 
 
 Soc. Yes; for it was stated in our comparison of the 
 lives, that there was no necessity for the person, preferring 
 the life of mind and intellect, to be delighted either much 
 or little. 
 
 Prot. It was altogether said so. 
 
 Soc. In this way therefore it would be to him.. And per¬ 
 haps it would be by no means out of the way, if that life 
 were of all the most godlike. 
 
 Prot. To me at least it seems unlikely that the gods feel 
 neither pleasure nor its opposite. 
 
 Soc. It is highly, indeed, unlikely. For each of these 
 things is unseemly. But let us consider further this point 
 afterwards, if it should be to the purpose; and we will 
 apply it towards (winning) the second prize for mind, 
 should we be unable (o apply it for (winning) the first. 
 Prot. You speak most correctly. 
 
 Soc. Now that other species of pleasures, which we said 
 is peculiar to the soul herself, is all produced through 
 memory. 
 
 Prot. How so? 
 
 Soc. What memory is, we ought, it seems, to previously 
 remember: and prior to memory, what perception is, me- 
 thinks; if, what relates to these points, is about to become, 
 as is fitting, clear to us. 
 
 Prot. How say you? 
 
 Soc. Of those circumstances, which are on every occasion 
 surrounding our body, lay down that some are extinguished, 
 before they enter thoroughly the soul, and leave it un¬ 
 scathed; others going through both, bring on them, as it 
 were, a kind of earthquake, peculiar (to each) and common 
 to both. 
 
 . Prot. Be it laid down. 
 
 Soc. If we should say that those, which do not go 
 through both, lie hid from our soul, but that those which 
 
PHILEBUS. 
 
 245 
 
 (do go) through both, do not lie hid, should we speak most 
 correctly ? 
 
 Prot. How not? 
 
 Soc. By no means understand that I am speaking of 
 lying hid, as being in that case somehow the production of 
 forgetfulness. For forgetfulness is the departure of 
 memory. But that has not as yet, in what has been said, 
 been produced. How of that, which neither is nor has 
 been, it is absurd to say there is any loss. Is it not ? 
 
 Prot. How not ? 
 
 Soc. Only then alter the terms. 
 
 Prot. How? 
 
 Sou. Instead then of (saying that) a thing lies hid from 
 the soul, when it is unscathed by any violent shakings of 
 the body, call that insensibility, which you just now called 
 forgetfulness. 
 
 Prot. I understand. 
 
 Soc. In the soul and the body, when affected, in common 
 by one circumstance, being moved also in common, you 
 would not speak wide of the mark by naming that motion a 
 sensation. 
 
 Prot. You speak most truly. 
 
 Soc. Now then do we not understand, what we mean to 
 call sensation? 
 
 Prot. How not ? 
 
 Soc. And a person saying that memory is a preservation 
 of sensation, would correctly say so in my opinion. 
 
 Prot. He would correctly. 
 
 Soc. Ho we not say that memory differs from recollec¬ 
 tion ? 
 
 Prot. Perhaps so. 
 
 Soc. Is it not in this? 
 
 Prot. In what? 
 
 Soc. When, what the soul has once together with the 
 body suffered, this it does itself by itself without the body, 
 as much as possible, recover, we say that it then recollects. 
 Do we not? 
 
 Prot. Entirely so. 
 
 Soc. Moreover, -when the soul, after losing the memory 
 
246 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 of a thing perceived or learnt, brings it back again, itself 
 by itself, in all these instances too we speak of recollections, 
 and memories. 
 
 Prot. You speak correctly. 
 
 Soc. The reason, for which all this has been said, is 
 this. 
 
 Prot. What? 
 
 Soc. That we may at the same time understand as clearly 
 as possible the pleasure of the soul apart from that of the 
 body, and, at the same time, desire. For both of these 
 seem likely to he made clear through those. 
 
 Prot. Let us then, Socrates, now speak of -what is to 
 follow. 
 
 Soc. In treating of the generation of pleasure, and of 
 its ever}- form, it is necessary it seems for us to look to 
 many points. For even now we must, it appears, consider, 
 what desire is, and where it is produced. 
 
 Prot. Let us then consider; for we shall lose nothing by 
 it. 
 
 Soc. Hay, Protarchus, we shall lose our doubt about 
 them, and this too, after having found what we are in 
 search of. 
 
 Prot. You have well defended yourself. Let us then try 
 to discuss what is next in order to these. 
 
 Soc. Did we not assert just now, that hunger, and thirst, 
 and many other things of the like kind, were certain 
 desires ? 
 
 Prot. Yes, strongly. 
 
 SoT: Looking, then, to what thing, the same (in all), do 
 we call those differing so much (from one another) by one 
 name ? 
 
 Prot. By Zeus, Socrates, it is, perhaps, not easy to say; it 
 must, however, be told. 
 
 Soc. Let us from thence take up the inquiry again from 
 the same points. 
 
 Prot. From whence? 
 
 Soc. Do we not constantly say that thirst is something? 
 
 Prot. How not? 
 
 Soc. Is not this, to have an emptiness ? 
 
PHILEBUS. 
 
 247 
 
 Trot. How not? 
 
 Soc. Is not thirst a desire? 
 
 Prot. Yes, for drink. 
 
 Soc. For drink? or for a repletion from drink? 
 
 Prot. For repletion, I suppose. 
 
 Soc. Whoever of us then is emptied, desires, it seems, 
 what is contrary to what he is suffering. For being emp¬ 
 tied, he desires to be filled. 
 
 Prot. Most clearly so. 
 
 Soc. What then, is it possible that the person, who is 
 empty for the first time, should apprehend, from any quar¬ 
 ter, either from sense or memory, a filling of that, by which 
 he neither is at the present time affected, nor ever was af¬ 
 fected heretofore. 
 
 Prot. How can it be? 
 
 Soc. But, however, the person who desires, 5'esires some¬ 
 thing. 
 
 Prot. How not? 
 
 Soc. Now he does not desire that which he is suffering. 
 For he is suffering thirst, and that is emptiness; but he de¬ 
 sires repletion. 
 
 Prot. True. 
 
 Soc. Something, therefore, of those belonging to the 
 thirsty person, would have a perception in some manner of 
 repletion. 
 
 Prot. Necessarily. 
 
 Soc. Now the body is unable; for it is suffering empti¬ 
 ness. 
 
 Prot. True. 
 
 Soc. It is plain then that it is left for the soul to have a 
 perception, by means of memory, of repletion; for by 
 what means could the soul have such perception? 
 
 Prot. Nearly by none. 
 
 Soc. Learn we then, what follows from this reasoning ? 
 
 Prot. What? 
 
 Soc. This reasoning shows us that desire is not produced 
 from the body. 
 
 Prot. How so? 
 
2 ±8 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 Soc. Because it shows that the endeavor of every animal 
 is opposed to its sufferings. 
 
 Prot. Very much so. 
 
 Soc. Now the inclination, leading to a point opposite to 
 the sufferings, indicate somehow the remembrance of things 
 opposite to those sufferings. 
 
 Prot. Clearly. 
 
 Soc. The reasoning then, having shown that memory 
 leads to the things desired, discovers the general inclina¬ 
 tion and desire, and the ruling power of the soul in every 
 animal. 
 
 Prot. Most correctly. 
 
 Soc. The reasoning then proves that by no means does 
 our body thirst, or hunger, or suffer any of such affections. 
 
 Prot. Mosfrtrue. 
 
 Soc. Let us further observe likewise this, respecting 
 these very same things. For the reasoning appears desir¬ 
 ous of indicating a certain kind of life in those very things. 
 
 Prot. In what things? and of what kind of life are you 
 speaking ? 
 
 Soc. I mean in the being filled, and emptied, and in all 
 the other things, which relate to the preservation and the 
 destruction of animals; and whether one of us, being in 
 either of these states, (at one time) feels pain and another 
 pleasure, according to the changes (of circumstances). , 
 
 Prot. It is so. 
 
 Soc. But what when a person is in the middle of them? 
 
 Prot. How in the middle? 
 
 Soc. When on account of a suffering he is pained, and 
 yet has a remembrance of pleasures past, a part indeed of 
 his pain ceases; but pleasant things have not been filled up 
 at that time. Shall we affirm, or deny, that he is in the 
 midst of two contrary states? 
 
 Prot. Let us affirm it. 
 
 Soc. That he is pained or pleased wholly? 
 
 Prot. By Zeus, he is afflicted by some double pain; ac¬ 
 cording to the body, by his suffering; according to the soul, 
 by a certain longing from an expectation. 
 
 Soc. How, Protarchus, have you spoken of a doubled 
 
PHILEBUS. 
 
 240 
 
 pain ? Is it not, that at one time one of ns, being empty, 
 is in the clear hope of being tilled ? and at another time, on 
 the contrary, is in a hopeless state ? 
 
 Prot. Very much so. 
 
 Soc. Does not the person, who hopes to be filled, seem to 
 you to feel a joy through the recollection (of fulness) ? 
 and yet, being empty, at the same time to be in pain? 
 
 Prot. He must be so. 
 
 Soc. At that time, then, man and other animals are at 
 the same time pained and pleased. 
 
 Prot. It seems so. 
 
 Soc. But what, when a person, being empty, is hopeless 
 of obtaining repletion ? will there not be then that doubled 
 state respecting his pains, on which you just now looked, 
 and thought it was simply doubled. 
 
 Prot. Most true, Socrates. 
 
 Soc. How of this inquiry into these feelings let us make 
 this use. 
 
 Prot. What use? 
 
 Soc. Shall we say that these pains and pleasures are 
 true, or false ? or that some of them are true, and others 
 false ? 
 
 Prot. But how can pleasures or pains, Socrates, be false ? 
 
 Soc. How then, Protarchus, could fears be true or false ? 
 or expectations, true or not ? or opinions, true or false ? 
 
 Prot. Opinions, I would somehow concede, may be; but 
 I would not the others. 
 
 Soc. How say you ? We are however in danger of rais¬ 
 ing up a disquisition of not a little kind. 
 
 Prot. You say true. 
 
 Soc. But whether it relates to what has passed by, 0 
 son of that illustrious father, this must be considered. 
 
 Prot. Perhaps it ought. 
 
 Soc. It is meet then to bid farewell to the rest of the 
 disquisition, and to whatever is said beside the purpose. 
 
 Prot. True. 
 
 Soc. Tell me then, for a wonderment ever continuously 
 seizes me respecting those very doubts, which we have now 
 brought forward. 
 
250 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 Prot. How say you? 
 
 Soc. Are not (some) pleasures false, but others true? 
 
 Prot. How could they be? 
 
 Soc. Neither then is there a dream by night or by day as 
 you hold, nor in fits of madness or silliness is there a per¬ 
 son, who thinks he is pleased, when he is pleased not at all; 
 nor on the other hand, thinks he is pained, when he is not 
 pained. 
 
 Prot. All of us, Socrates, have conceived that all this is 
 the case. 
 
 Soc. But have they done so correctly ? Or must we con¬ 
 sider whether this has been said correctly or not ? 
 
 Prot. We must consider, as I would say. 
 
 Soc. Let us then define still more clearly what was just 
 now said respecting pleasure and opinion. For it is 
 surely possible for us to hold an opinion? 
 
 Prot. Certainly. 
 
 Soc. And to feel a delight. 
 
 Prot. Yes. 
 
 Soc. Moreover that which is held as an opinion, is some¬ 
 thing. 
 
 Prot. How not ? 
 
 Soc. And something too that, th which the thing de¬ 
 lighted feels a delight. 
 
 Prot. Most certainly. 
 
 Soc. The thing then that holds an opinion, whether it 
 holds the opinion rightly or not rightly, never loses the 
 reality of holding an opinion. 
 
 Prot. For how could it ? 
 
 Soc. The thing therefore that feels a delight, whether it 
 feels a delight rightly or not rightly, it is evident it will 
 never lose the reality of feeling a delight. 
 
 'Trot. Certainly; and such is the case. 
 
 Soc. In what manner then is opinion wont to be to us 
 false and true; but pleasure only true ? for to hold an opin¬ 
 ion and to feel a delight, have both equally received the 
 property of a reality. 
 
 Prot. (This) we must consider. 
 
 Soc. Is it that falsehood and truth are incident to opin- 
 
PHILEBUS. 
 
 251 
 
 ion? and that through them it not only becomes opinion, 
 hut also of what kind each opinion is ? Say you that we 
 must consider this? 
 
 Prot. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And in addition to this, whether some things are 
 altogether of certain qualities ; but that only pleasure and 
 pain are, what they are, and do not become certain qualities, 
 must we agree upon this point likewise? 
 
 Prot. Plainly so. 
 
 Soc. But it is not difficult to perceive this, that they too 
 are of certain qualities. For we said of old, that pains and 
 pleasures become great and little, and each of them vehe¬ 
 mently so. 
 
 Prot. By all means. 
 
 Soc. And if to any one of these there he added the quality 
 of evil, shall we not say that opinion has thus become evil, 
 and pleasure likewise evil ? 
 
 Prot. Why not, Socrates ? 
 
 Soc. What then, if rectitude, or the opposite to rec¬ 
 titude, is added to any of them, shall we not say, that 
 opinion is right, if it possess rectitude; and say the same of 
 pleasure ? 
 
 Prot. Necessarily so. 
 
 Soc. But if what is held as an opinion be mistaken by 
 us, must we not acknowledge that the opinion is erroneous, 
 and not right, and not rightly holding an opinion? 
 
 Prot. For how could we ? 
 
 Soc. But what, if we discover (any) pain or pleasure 
 mistaken about that, in which it is pained, or effected con¬ 
 trariwise, shall we give to it the epithet of right, or good, 
 or any other of honorable appellations ? 
 
 Prot. It is impossible, if pleasure shall have been mis- 
 
 tcikcii 
 
 Soc. And yet pleasure seems often to be produced in us, 
 accompanied, not with a right opinion, but with a false 
 
 one. . 
 
 Prot. How not ? And the opinion, Socrates, m that case, 
 and at that time, we say is a false opinion ; but the pleasure 
 itself, no man would ever call it false. 
 
252 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 Soc. You very readily, Protarchus, support your argu¬ 
 ment about pleasure on the present occasion. 
 
 Prot. (I do) nothing else but say what I hear. 
 
 Soc. With us, my friend, makes there no difference the 
 pleasure, accompanied with right opinion and science, and 
 that which is often produced in each of us, accompanied 
 with a false opinion and ignorance. 
 
 Prot. It is probable there is no little difference. 
 
 Soc. Let us then come to the view of the difference be¬ 
 tween them. 
 
 Prot. Lead by whatever road it seems good. 
 
 Soc. I lead then by this. 
 
 Prot. By what? 
 
 Soc. We say there is a false opinion, and there is like¬ 
 wise a true one. 
 
 Prot. There is. 
 
 Soc. Upon them, as we just now said, pleasure and pain 
 oftentimes attend ; I mean, upon opinion true and false. 
 
 Prot. Certainly so. 
 
 Soc. From memory and sensation is not opinion and the 
 attempt to hold an opinion thoroughly produced on every 
 occasion ? / 
 
 Prot. Very much so. 
 
 Soc. Do we, then, deem it necessary for us to have our¬ 
 selves thus? 
 
 Prot. How? 
 
 Soc. Would you say that it often happens to a person 
 looking from a distance, on things not very clearly dis¬ 
 cerned. to be willing to form a judgment of them ? 
 
 Prot. I would say so. 
 
 Soc. Upon this,'would not the person question himself 
 thus ? 
 
 Prot. How ? 
 
 Soc. What is that, which appears to be standing under a 
 tree by the cliff there? Does it not seem to you that a 
 person would speak these -words to himself, looking at some 
 such things as perchance appeared to him ? 
 
 Prot. How not? . . 
 
 Soc, Hereupon would not such a person, as if giving an 
 
PHILEBUS. 253 
 
 answer, say to himself, speaking conjecturingly, It is a 
 man ? 
 
 Prot. Certainty. 
 
 Soc. But. carried beside (the truth), he would perhaps 
 say of the figure clearly discerned, that it is the work of 
 some shepherds. 
 
 Prot. Certainly. 
 
 Soc. And if any one were present, he would express by 
 his voice to the person present, what he had said to him¬ 
 self, and repeat the very same words; and thus, what we 
 lately termed an opinion, becomes a speech. 
 
 Prot. How not? 
 
 Soc. But if he were alone, thinking continuously within 
 himself upon this very same thing, he walks on keeping it 
 in his mind sometimes for even a rather long period. 
 
 Prot. Assuredly. 
 
 Soc. Well then, does that, which takes place respecting 
 these things, appear to you as it does to me? 
 
 Prot. What is it? 
 
 Soc. The soul in that case seems to me to resemble some 
 book. 
 
 Prot. How? 
 
 Soc. The memory coinciding with our sensations, and 
 those affections which are about them, seem to me almost at 
 that time to write in our souls speeches. And when this 
 suffering writes what is true, there result from it true 
 opinions, and true speeches are produced within us; but 
 when such a scribe within us writes what is false, there 
 results what is contrary to the truth. 
 
 Prot. So it seems entirely to me; and I receive what has 
 been stated. 
 
 Soc. Admit likewise, that there is another workman 
 existing at that time within us. 
 
 Prot. Who is he ? 
 
 Soc. A painter, who, after the writer of what has been 
 mentioned, paints of such things the representations in the 
 
 soul. 
 
 Prot. How and when say we this person does so? 
 
 Soc. (It is) when a person, having taken away from 
 
TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 254 
 
 sight, or from any other sense, what have been imagined 
 by and mentioned (to himself), sees somehow within him¬ 
 self the representations of what have been imagined by 
 and spoken (to himself). Or does this not take place 
 within us? 
 
 Prot. (It takes place) very much so. 
 
 Soc. The representations then of true thoughts and 
 speeches are true; but those of the false are false. 
 
 Prot. By all means. 
 
 Soc. Now if we have spoken thus far correctly, let us still 
 consider in addition likewise this. 
 
 Prot. What? 
 
 Soc. Whether it is necessary for us to be affected 
 thus, with respect to things present and past, but not the 
 future. 
 
 Prot. With respect to all time in a similar manner. 
 
 Soc. Were not the pleasures and pains, felt by the soul 
 alone, asserted before to be such, that they would arise 
 prior to those felt by tne body; so that it happens to us to 
 feel antecedently pain and pleasure, about the time about to 
 be produced? 
 
 Prot. Most true. 
 
 Soc. Do then the writings and the pictures, which we 
 laid down a little before, as being produced within us, have 
 regard to the past and present time, but not to the future ? 
 
 Prot. Very much about the future. 
 
 Soc. Do you strongly assert that all these things are ex¬ 
 pectations of the future; and that we are, through a 
 life, full of expectations ? 
 
 Prot. Entirely so. . 
 
 Soc. Now then, in addition to what has been said, an¬ 
 swer this likewise. 
 
 Prot. What ? " . , . 
 
 Soc. A man just, and pious, and entirely good, is he not 
 
 god-loved ? 
 
 Prot. How not ? , 
 
 Soc. What then, is not a man unjust and entirely wicked, 
 
 the reverse of the other? 
 
 Prot, How not? 
 
PHILEBUS. 
 
 255 
 
 Soc. How every man, as we said just now, is full of 
 many expectations. 
 
 Prot. Why not? 
 
 Soc. There are speeches within each of us, which we call 
 
 expectations. 
 
 Prot. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And phantasies also are painted (in us). For one 
 often sees a deal of money belonging to himself, and 
 many pleasures in addition to it, and he views himself 
 painted within himself, as highly delighted. 
 
 Prot. Why not? 
 
 Soc, Of these phantasies, shall we say that the true are 
 painted and placed before the good, for the most part, on 
 account of these persons being god-loved, but the contrary 
 before the bad, for the most part? or shall we deny it? 
 
 Prot. We must assert it strongly. 
 
 Soc. To wicked men, then, likewise pleasures a.re present 
 painted within them; but these are of the false kind. 
 
 Prot. How not ? 
 
 Soc. Wicked men, therefore, for the most part delight 
 in false pleasures; but the good, in the true. 
 
 Prot. You assert what is most necessary. 
 
 Soc. According then to this reasoning, there are in the 
 souls of men false pleasures; imitating however, in a ridi¬ 
 culous way, the true ; and similar is the case with pains. 
 
 Prot. There are. 
 
 Soc. It is possible then for a person, who holds upon 
 every thing an opinion, to hold always an opinion really 
 ¥ upon things which are not, nor have been, and, sometimes, 
 on such as will never be? 
 
 Prot. Certainly. 
 
 Soc. And these are they that effect at that time a false 
 opinion, and the thinking falsely. Is it not? 
 
 Prot. Yes, it is. 
 
 Soc. Well then, must we not attribute in return to pains 
 and pleasures a state in them the counterpart of that in 
 the others ? 
 
 Prot. How?. 
 
 Soc. That it is possible for a person, who feels a delight 
 
256 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 upon everj’thing, in any manner whatever, and at random, 
 to feel always really a delight, not only from things which 
 are not, and sometimes from things which never were, but 
 frequently too, and, perhaps, the most frequently, from 
 things which are never about to be? 
 
 Prot. This, too, must of necessity be the case. 
 
 Soc. Would there not be the same reasoning as regards 
 fears and desires, and all things of that kind, that all such 
 are sometimes false? 
 
 Prot. Certainly. 
 
 Soc. Well then, can we say of opinions, that they are evil, 
 [and advantageous,] any otherwise than as being false? 
 
 Prot. Xot otherwise. 
 
 Soc. And pleasures, T think, we conceive are bad on no 
 other account, except bjr their being false. 
 
 Prot. Tt is quite the contrary, Socrates, (to what) you 
 have said. For hardly would any man attribute to false¬ 
 hood that pains and pleasures are very evil, but that they 
 fall in with wickedness much and of many-kind by some 
 other way. 
 
 Soc. Of pleasures that are evil, and are such through 
 wickedness, we will speak shortly afterwards, if so it 
 seem good to us. But of those that are false and many and 
 oftentimes existing and produced in us in yet another way, 
 we must say a word. For perhaps we shall make use of it 
 for our decisions. 
 
 Prot. How not ? if indeed they exist. 
 
 Soc. And there are such, Protarchus, at least in my 
 opinion. But as long as this doctrine lies by us (unex¬ 
 amined), it is impossible for it to be disproved. 
 
 Prot. Fairly (said). 
 
 Soc. Let us then stand up, like combatants, against this 
 reasoning. 
 
 Prot. Let us come on. 
 
 Soc. We said, if we remember, a little while before, that, 
 when w r hat are the so-called desires remain in us, the body 
 is at that time laid hold of by its affections in two ways, 
 and apart from the soul. 
 
 Prot. We remember; (for) so it was said. _ 
 
PHILEBUS. 
 
 257 
 
 Soc. The soul therefore was that which desired a con¬ 
 dition contrary to that of the body; but that, which im¬ 
 parted any pain or pleasure through any circumstance, was 
 the body. 
 
 Prot. It was so. 
 
 Soc. Now reckon together what takes place in these. 
 
 Prot. Say what. 
 
 Soc. It takes place then, when such is the case, that at 
 the same time pains and pleasures lie by each other’s side; 
 and that at the same time the sensations respecting these, 
 being contrary, are by the side of each other as has just 
 now appeared. 
 
 Prot. It appears so. 
 
 Soc. Has not this also been said, and is laid down, as 
 having been agreed upon as before ? 
 
 Prot. What? 
 
 Soc. That pain and pleasure, both of them receive “ the 
 more ” and “ the less; ” and that they belong to the limit¬ 
 less. 
 
 Prot. It has been said; what then ? 
 
 Soc. (There is) then some plan for judging of these cor¬ 
 rectly. 
 
 Prot. Where, and how? 
 
 Soc. Does not the design of our decision respecting them 
 aim at distinguishing them on each occasion by such marks 
 as these, which of them as compared with each other is the 
 greater, and which the less; and which is more and which 
 (less) intense pain, as compared with pleasure, and pain 
 with pain, and pleasure with pleasure? 
 
 Prot. Such these things are, and such is the design of 
 our decision. 
 
 Soc. Well now, in the case of vision, to see magnitudes 
 far off and near causes the truth to disappear, and makes 
 us to have false opinions. And does not the very same 
 thing happen in the case of pains and pleasures? 
 
 Prot. Rather much more, Socrates. 
 
 Soc. What has happened now is surely contrary to what 
 occurred a little before. 
 
 Prot. Of what are you speaking? 
 
 17 
 
258 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 'l 
 
 Soc. In that case the opinions themselves, being false and 
 true, infected at the same time pains and pleasures with 
 their own state of suffering. 
 
 Prot. Most true. 
 
 Soc. But now, through being on each occasion changed iji 
 position, and viewed far off and near, and at the same time 
 placed by each other, the pleasures appear greater and more 
 intense as compared with the pains; and the pains, on the 
 other hand, compared with the pleasures (appear) the con¬ 
 trary to those. 
 
 Prot. For such things to arise through such means, is a 
 matter of necessity. 
 
 Soc. As far therefore as each appear greater and less 
 than they really are, if you cut off what each appears to be, 
 but is not, you will neither say that it appears correctly, 
 nor, on the other hand, will you dare to say that the addi¬ 
 tional part of pain and pleasure is correct and true. 
 
 Prot. By no means. 
 
 Soc. Next then in order after these we will look, if we 
 can meet with them here, upon pleasures and pain still 
 more false than those, which both appear to be and are in 
 animals. 
 
 Prot. Of what are you speaking, and how? 
 
 Soc. It has been often said, that when the nature of 
 each thing is being destroj'ed by mixtures and separations, 
 by repletions and evacuations, by increase and decrease, 
 pains, and aches, and throes, and everything else that bear 
 such-like names, do happen to be produced. 
 
 Prot. Yes. this has been said frequently. 
 
 Soc. But that when things return to their natural state, 
 we have received this recovery as a pleasure from our¬ 
 selves. 
 
 Prot. Right. 
 
 Soc. But how is it, when none of these things shall have 
 taken place? 
 
 Prot. When could this be, Socrates? 
 
 Soc. The question, Protarehus, which you have now 
 asked is nothing to the purpose. 
 
 Prot. How so? 
 
PHILEBUS. 259 
 
 Soc. Because it does not hinder me from putting again 
 my question to you. 
 
 Prot. What question? 
 
 Soc. If nothing of this kind, I will say, Protarchus, took 
 place, what must of necessity result to us from it? 
 
 Prot. Do you mean when the body is not moved either 
 way ? 
 
 Soc. Exactly so. 
 
 Prot. It is plain, Socrates, that in such case there would 
 be neither pleasure nor any pain at all. 
 
 Soc. You have spoken extremely well. But I supposb 
 you mean this, that it is necessary for some of these things 
 to happen to us continually, as say the wise. For all things, 
 going upwards and downwards, are in a perpetual flow. 
 
 Prot. So they say indeed, and seem to speak not badly. 
 
 Soc. For how should they (speak badly), not being bad 
 themselves. But from this reasoning, which is rushing 
 against us, I wish to secretly withdraw. I design then to 
 run away by this road; and do you fly with me. 
 
 Prot. Say by what road ? 
 
 Soc. Let us say, then, to these wise men, “ Be it so.” 
 But do you give an answer to this—Whatever any animal 
 suffers, does it, while suffering, perceive that continually? 
 and neither while growing, or suffering any such (change), 
 are we unconscious of it ? or is it quite the reverse ? for 
 almost everything of this kind has lain hid from us. 
 
 Prot. Quite the reverse. 
 
 Soc. That therefore which was just now said, was said by 
 us not correctly, that all changes, which take place up and 
 down, produce pains or pleasures. 
 
 Prot. Why not ? 
 
 Soc. In this way the assertion will be better, and less 
 liable to censure. 
 
 Prot. How? 
 
 Soc. That great changes produce in us pains and pleas¬ 
 ures; but the moderate and trifling neither of them at 
 all. 
 
 Prot. In this manner it is more correctly said than in 
 the other, Socrates. 
 
260 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 Soc. If then these things are so, the life mentioned just 
 now would come back again. 
 
 Prot. What life? 
 
 Soc. That which we said was without pain and pleasures. 
 
 Prot. You speak most truly. 
 
 Soc. From hence let us lay down for ourselves three 
 kinds of life, one pleasant, another painful, and one 
 neutral. Or how would you say respecting them? 
 
 Prot. Not otherwise myself than in this way, that there 
 are three kinds of life. 
 
 Soc. To feel no pain therefore cannot be the same thing 
 as to feel a pleasure. 
 
 Prot. How can it? 
 
 Soc. When therefore you hear that to live through all 
 life without pain, is the most pleasant of all things, what 
 do you understand that a person so saying means? 
 
 Prot. Such a person seems to me at least to mean that it 
 is a pleasure not to feel a pain. 
 
 Soc. Of any three things, whatever you like, existing, 
 lay down, in order that we may adopt the names of things 
 rather pretty, one gold, another silver, and another neither 
 gold nor silver. 
 
 Prot. It is so laid down. 
 
 Soc. Is it possible for that which is neither, to become 
 either gold or silver? 
 
 Prot. (No) ; for how could it? 
 
 Soc. The middle life then being said to be pleasant or 
 painful, would not be correctly thought to be so, should any 
 so think it; nor, should any one so speak of it, would it be 
 so spoken of according at least to a correct reasoning. 
 
 Prot. (No) ; for how could it? 
 
 Soc. And yet, my friend, we perceive there are those, 
 who thus speak and think. 
 
 Prot. Certainly. 
 
 Soc. Do then those persons feel pleasure at the time, 
 when they are not pained? 
 
 Prot. So they say. 
 
 Soc. They think therefore they are pleased then; for 
 otherwise they would not say so. 
 
PHILEBUS. 
 
 261 
 
 Prot. It nearly seems so. 
 
 Soc. They have then a false opinion of pleasure, if the 
 natures of the two things, to be not pained and to be 
 pleased, are separate from each other. 
 
 Prot. And different indeed they were. 
 
 Soc. Shall we choose then that there are, as (we said) 
 just now, three things, or that only two are to be men¬ 
 tioned. pain, an evil to man, and deliverance from pain, 
 a pleasure, as being the good itself. 
 
 Prot. How is it, Socrates, that we are asked this by our¬ 
 selves at the present time? for I do not understand. 
 
 Soc. In fact, Protarchus, you do not understand who are 
 the enemies of Philebus here. 
 
 Prot. Whom do you call such? 
 
 Soc. They, who are said to be very skilled in natural 
 philosophy, assert that pleasures do not exist at all. 
 
 Prot. How so? 
 
 Soc. (They say) that all those things, which the par¬ 
 tisans of Philebus call pleasures, are but escapes from 
 pain. 
 
 Prot. Do you then advise us, Socrates, to hearken to 
 them ? or how ? 
 
 Soc. Not so; but to use them as a kind of diviners; who 
 divine not by any art, but, from the austerity of the not 
 ignoble nature of those, who had a great hate of the power 
 of pleasure, and have held nothing in her to be sound; so 
 that her attraction is merely a witchcraft and not [true] 
 pleasure. In this way then we should use them, especially 
 if we consider their other austerities. But afterwards you 
 sliull hear what seem to me to be true pleasures, in order 
 that, after viewing from both accounts her power, we may 
 place ourselves (so as to come) to a decision. 
 
 Prot. You speak correctly. 
 
 Soc. Let its then go after them, as our allies, along the 
 track of their austerity. For I suppose they assert some 
 such thing as this, beginning from some point above, that, 
 if we wish to know the nature of any species whatever of 
 things, for instance, of the hard, whether by looking to 
 the hardest things, should we thus better understand than 
 
2&2 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 to those endued with hardness in the least. Now, Pro- 
 tarchus, you must give an answer, as if to myself, to these 
 austere persons likewise. 
 
 Prot. By all means; and 1 say to them, that (we must 
 look) to the iirst in magnitude. 
 
 Soc. If then we wish to know the genus of pleasure, and 
 what kind of nature it has, we must look not to the least, 
 but to those called the extreme and violent. 
 
 Prot. On this point every one would agree with you for 
 the present. 
 
 Soc. Do not the pleasures then, which are within reach, 
 and still more the greatest, as we often say, belong to the 
 body ? 
 
 Prot. (Yes) ; for how not? 
 
 Soc. Are then the pleasures, which exist in, and are 
 generated about, persons in bad health, greater than those 
 about persons in good health? Now let us take care, 
 lest we stumble by answering precipitately. 
 
 Prot. ITow so? 
 
 Soc. For perhaps we might say those about persons in 
 good health. 
 
 Prot. Probably. 
 
 Soc. But what, are not those pleasures the superior, 
 which the strongest desires precede. 
 
 Prot. This indeed is true. 
 
 Soc. But do not both they, who are in a fever, and those 
 afflicted with diseases of that kind, thirst more, and shiver 
 more, and suffer more all that persons are wont to do in the 
 body, and are more conversant with the want of those 
 things, in which, being supplied, they feel a greater pleas¬ 
 ure? Or shall we deny all this to be true? 
 
 Prot. It appears to be altogether as now' stated. 
 
 Soc. What then, should we appear to speak correctly by 
 saying, that, if any one would know what are the greatest 
 pleasures, he must not go and look upon the healthy, but 
 upon the sick? But be careful not to conceive that I am 
 designing to ask you this, vhetheV those in very ill health 
 feel more pleasures than those in good health; bait conceive 
 that I am inquiring about the greatness of pleasure, and 
 
PHILEBUS. 
 
 263 
 
 where (and) when the intensity belonging to such a feel¬ 
 ing is on every occasion produced. For we are to con¬ 
 sider, we say, what is the nature of pleasure, and what they 
 call it, who assert that it does not exist at all. 
 
 Prot. But I nearly follow your argument. 
 
 Soc. Perchance, Protarchus, you will show it not the 
 less. For answer me—In a life of riot do you see greater 
 pleasures—I do not mean more in number, but exceeding 
 in intensity and vehemence—than those in a life of tem¬ 
 perance? Give your mind to the question, and tell 
 me. 
 
 Prot. ISTay, but I understand what you mean; and I see 
 the one that is greatly superior. For the saying that has 
 become a proverb, and which exhorts to “ nothing too 
 much,” on every occasion restrains somehow the temperate 
 who obey it. But intense pleasure possesses even to mad¬ 
 ness the race of the silly and riotous, and makes them in 
 bad repute. 
 
 Soc. Excellent. For if this be the case, it is evident that 
 the greatest pleasures, and likewise the greatest pains, are 
 produced in some wickedness of the soul and of the body, 
 and not in their virtuous state. 
 
 Prot. Certainly. 
 
 Soc. Ought then one not to select some of the pleasures, 
 and to consider what condition they had, when we called 
 them the greatest? 
 
 Prot. It is necessary. 
 
 Soc. Consider now what condition have the pleasures 
 arising from maladies of such a kind. 
 
 Prot. Of what kind? 
 
 Soc. The unseemly; which they, whom we called the aus¬ 
 tere, thoroughly hate. 
 
 Prot. What pleasures? 
 
 Soc. For instance, the curing the itch by scratching, and 
 such others of a kind as need no other remedy; for as to 
 this affection, forsooth, what, by the gods, shall we call it, 
 pleasure or pain ? 
 
 Prot. This, Socrates, seems to be a kind of mixed evil. 
 
 Soc. It was not however for the sake of Philebus that I 
 
264 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 brought forward this argument; but without these pleas¬ 
 ures and those that follow them, unless they were seen, we 
 should have scarcely been able to decide upon the object 
 of the present inquiry. 
 
 Prot. We must then proceed to such as have an affinity 
 with them. 
 
 Soc. Do you mean those, that have some communion by 
 their mixture? 
 
 Prot. Certainly. 
 
 Soc. Of these mixtures then, some belonging to the body, 
 are in the bodies alone; others belonging to the soul alone, 
 are in the soul; but those of the soul and body we shall find 
 to be pains mixed with pleasures, called unitedly at one 
 time pleasures, at another time pains. 
 
 Prot. How? 
 
 Soc. When a person in a restored or decaying state 
 suffers at the same time two contrary affections, (and) 
 when shivering warms himself, and sometimes cools him¬ 
 self when heated, seeking, I presume, to enjoy the one and 
 to be relieved from the other, the so-called sweet mixed 
 with bitter being present with a difficulty of deliverance 
 causes an impatience, and a fierce standing together. 
 
 Prot. And very true is what has been now said. 
 
 Soc. Are not the mixtures of this kind composed some 
 of pain and pleasure in equal proportion, and others of 
 either in a greater one ? 
 
 Prot. How not? 
 
 Soc. Say then that, when the pains are more than the 
 pleasures, those, which have been just now mentioned, be¬ 
 long to the itch and to tinglings. When there is within 
 that, which boils and is inflamed, and a person by rubbing 
 and scratching does not reach it, but only diffuses what is 
 on the surface, then those inflaming the laboring parts, 
 and by that very thing, through the want of remedies, 
 changing to the contrary, at one time they procure im¬ 
 mense pleasures, at another, on the contrary, from the in¬ 
 ternal parts they bring to the pains of the external parts, 
 pleasures mixed" with pains, according as a thing inclines 
 this way or that; because things mixed together violently 
 
PHILEBUS. 265 
 
 disjoin, or separated violently unite, and at the same time 
 place pains by the side of pleasures. 
 
 Prot. Most true. 
 
 Soc. Hence, when on the other hand more pleasure is 
 mingled, according to all such things, the slightly-mingled 
 portion of pain tickles and causes there to be a slight un¬ 
 easiness: but, on the other hand, the much greater pleas¬ 
 ure being infused, puts on the stretch, and sometimes 
 causes to leap, and working out all kinds of color, all kinds 
 of posture, and all kinds of breathings, it works out every 
 stupor and exclamations accompanied with madness. 
 
 Prot. Entirely so. 
 
 Soc. And it causes, my friend, a person to say of him¬ 
 self. and another likewise (to say), that, delighted with 
 such pleasures, he is, as it were, dying. And these pleasures 
 by all means and forever is he pursuing, so much the more, 
 as he happens to be more unrestrained, and less prudent ; 
 and he calls them the greatest, and reckons him the hap¬ 
 piest of men, who lives the most in them. 
 
 Prot. You have gone through, Socrates, all that hap¬ 
 pens to the bulk of mankind, according to their own esti¬ 
 mate. 
 
 Soc. At least, Protarchus, as regards the pleasures which 
 are in the common affections of the body alone, those on 
 the superficies and the body having been mingled. But 
 with regard to those in the soul, the contrary confer with 
 the body, both pain towards pleasure, and pleasure towards 
 pain, so that both come to one mixture; these we have de¬ 
 tailed before, as when (a person), on the other hand, is 
 emptied, he desires repletion, but being emptied he is 
 pained. To these points we did not then appeal as evi¬ 
 dence; but vre now say, that in all those cases, infinite in 
 number, where the soul is different from the body, one 
 mixture of pain and pleasure is produced and comes to¬ 
 gether. 
 
 Prot. You appear nearly to speak most correctly. 
 
 Soc. There is then among the mixtures of pain and 
 pleasure, still one remaining. 
 
 Prot. Of what kind are you speaking? 
 
2G6 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 Soc. The mixture which we said the soul alone oftentimes 
 receives from itself. 
 
 Prot. How then do we say the same thing again ? 
 
 Soc. Anger, and fear, and desire, and lamentation, and 
 love, and emulation, and envy, and all other such passions, 
 do you not lay down these as certain pains of the soul 
 alone ? 
 
 Prot. I do. 
 
 Soc. And shall we not find these very passions fraught 
 with boundless pleasures? Or need we be reminded of 
 that, which leads a very prudent person to be harsh 
 [through his passion and rage] ; 
 
 And which than honey dropping is more sweet; (II. xviii. 107.) 
 
 and that in our lamentations and regrets, pleasures have 
 been mixed up with pains? 
 
 Prot. No (we need not). But in this way and in no 
 other would these happen to be produced. 
 
 Soc. And do you not remember at the representations 
 of tragedies, when persons weep in the midst of joy? 
 
 Prot. How not? 
 
 Soc. And have you perceived the disposition of your soul 
 during a comedy, how that there a mixture of pain and 
 pleasure is found? 
 
 Prot. I do not well comprehend. 
 
 Soc. For it is not altogether easy, Protarchus, at such a 
 time, to understand a feeling of this kind in every case. 
 
 Prot. To me at least it is not at all easy. 
 
 Soc. Let us, however, lay hold of it so much the more, as 
 it is the more obscure, in order that one may be able in 
 other cases to discover more easily the mixture of pain and 
 pleasure. 
 
 Prot. Say on. 
 
 Soc. The name just now mentioned of envy, will you set 
 it down as a sort of pain in the soul, or how ? 
 
 Prot. Just so. 
 
 Soc. And yet the man who envies will plainly appear to 
 be delighted with the evils of his neighbors. 
 
PHILEBUS. 
 
 267 
 
 Prof. Clearly so. - 
 
 Soc. Now ignorance is an evil; and so is the condition 
 which we term stupidity. 
 
 Prot. How not ? 
 
 Soc. From hence perceive what is the nature of the 
 ridiculous. 
 
 Prot. Do you only tell it. 
 
 Soc. A certain depravity is so called, in a few words, 
 after some habit. But of the total depravity, the con¬ 
 trary is that affection, which is mentioned in the inscrip¬ 
 tion at Delphi. 
 
 Prot. You mean, Socrates, the “ Know thyself.*’ 
 
 Soc. I do. And the contrary to that saying would be, it 
 is plain, if mentioned in any writing, “ Not to know one¬ 
 self in any respect at all.” 
 
 Prot. How not? 
 
 Soc. Try now, Protarchus, to divide this very thing 
 '(self-ignorance) into three kinds. 
 
 Prot. How, say you? for I shall not be able (to do it). 
 
 Soc. Do you say that I must make this division for the 
 present ? 
 
 Prot. I say it, and in addition to saying, I request you. 
 
 Soc. Is it not necessary then for each of those, who do 
 not know themselves, to be subject to this condition in three 
 ways ? 
 
 Prot. How? 
 
 Soc. First, with respect to property, to fancy themselves 
 wealthier than according to their substance. 
 
 Prot. Many persons, truly, there are, who are suffering 
 this. 
 
 Soc. Yet more numerous are they, who fancy themselves 
 to be taller and more handsome, and, in all the things 
 excelling, that relate to the body, beyond the real truth 
 itself. 
 
 Prot. Very true. 
 
 Soc. But the most numerous, I think, have, as regards 
 the third, kind of those things in the soul, made a mistake, 
 by fancying themselves rather virtuous, although not being 
 
2G8 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 Prot. Greatly so. 
 
 Soc. Among the virtues, is it not wisdom, that the mul¬ 
 titude clutch at, through being full of contention, and of a 
 false opinion about wisdom? 
 
 Prot. How not ? 
 
 Soc. Should any one then say that all such feeling is an 
 evil, he would say what is true? 
 
 Prot. Perfectly so. 
 
 Soc. This then, Protarc-hus, must still be divided into 
 two parts, if we arc about, on beholding that child-like 
 envy, to see the strange mixhire of pleasure and of pain. 
 
 Prot. How then shall we cut them, say you? 
 
 Soc. All such as foolishly hold this false opinion of them¬ 
 selves, it necessarily happens that upon some of these, as 
 it does in the case of all men in general, strength and 
 power follow; but upon others the reverse. 
 
 Prot. It does so necessarily. 
 
 Soc. In this way then divide them. For whoever of 
 them are accompanied by weakness, and being such are un¬ 
 able, when laughed at, to revenge themselves, in saying 
 that these are open to ridicule, you will speak the truth. 
 But in calling those, who are able to take their revenge, 
 persons to be dreaded, and powerful, [and hostile,] you 
 would give to yourself the most correct account of them. 
 For ignorance, accompanied with power, is hostile and 
 base; for it is hurtful to every one, both itself and what¬ 
 ever are its likenesses. But ignorance, without power, 
 has obtained the rank and nature of what is an object of 
 ridicule. 
 
 Prot. You speak most correctly. But in these remarks 
 the mixture of pain and pleasure is not to me very ap¬ 
 parent. 
 
 Soc. Understand then first the force of envy. 
 
 Prot. Only tell it. 
 
 Soc. There is an unjust pain surely, and an (unjust) 
 pleasure? 
 
 Prot. There is so of necessity. 
 
 Soc. There is then neither injustice, nor envy, in re¬ 
 joicing at the ills of our enemies. 
 
PHILEBUS. 
 
 269 
 
 Prot. Certainly. How not? 
 
 Soc. But sometimes, on beholding the ills of our friends, 
 to feel no pain, but on the contrary, a pleasure, is not an 
 act of injustice? 
 
 Prot. How not ? 
 
 Soc. Did we not say that ignorance was an evil to all? 
 
 Prot. Correctly so. 
 
 Soc. (Shall we say) that the false notion in our friends 
 of their wisdom, and beauty, and of whatever else we men¬ 
 tioned. while stating that they belonged to three kinds, is 
 an object of ridicule when weak, but of hatred when power¬ 
 ful? or shall we deny, what I just now said, that this 
 habit of our friends, when a person possesses it harmless to 
 others, is an object of ridicule? - 
 
 Prot. Yes, very much. 
 
 Soc. And do we not acknowledge this^ (false notion) to 
 be an evil, as being ignorance ? 
 
 Prot. Heartily. 
 
 Soc. Do we feel pleasure or pain, when we laugh at it? 
 
 Prot. It is plain that we feel pleasure. 
 
 Soc. Did we not say, that it is envy, which produces in 
 us pleasure at the ills of our friends? 
 
 Prot. It must be (envy). 
 
 Soc. Our reasoning then shows, that, when we laugh at 
 what is ridiculous in our friends, by mixing delight with 
 envy we mix together pleasure and pain. For envy was 
 acknowledged long ago to be a pain to the soul, but laugh¬ 
 ing a pleasure; but in these cases they arise, both : them, 
 at the same time. 
 
 Prot. True. 
 
 Soc. Our argument then points out, that in laments and 
 songs of joy, and not only in dramas, but in the whole 
 tragedy and comedy of life, and in a ten-thousand other 
 cases, pains and pleasures are mingled together. 
 
 Prot. It would be impossible, Socrates, for a man not to 
 acknowledge this, were he ever so fond of dispute against 
 an opposite opinion. 
 
 Soc. We have proposed (to consider) anger, and regret, 
 and lamentation, and fear and love, and jealousy and envy, 
 
270 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 and such other passions, in which we said we should find 
 those mixed (feelings), that have been so often mentioned. 
 Did we not? 
 
 Prot. Yes. 
 
 Sue. Do we understand that all, which relates to grief, 
 and envy, and anger, has been now despatched? 
 
 Prot. How do we not understand ? 
 
 Soc. Is there not much yet remaining? 
 
 Prot. Yes, very much. 
 
 Soc. On what account, principally, do you suppose it 
 was that I explained to you the mixture (of feelings) in a 
 comedy ? Was it not from a belief, that it was easy to show 
 the mixture in fear, in love, and in the other (passions) ? 
 and that, after you had admitted this to yourself, it would 
 be meet to dismiss me, and by no longer proceeding to the 
 rest, that I might not prolong the argument; but that you 
 might receive, without exception, this doctrine,—that the 
 body without the soul, and the soul without the body, and 
 both together likewise, are, in the things affecting them, 
 full of pleasure mingled with pain. Now therefore say 
 whether you will dismiss me, or inake it midnight (before 
 I finish). But I imagine that, after speaking a little more, 
 I shall obtain from you my dismissal. For of all these 
 things I shall be willing to give you an account to-morrow; 
 but at present I wish to proceed on my course to what re¬ 
 mains towards the decision, which Philebus enjoins. 
 
 Prot. Well have you spoken, Socrates; and as io what re¬ 
 mains, go through it in whatever way is agreeable to your¬ 
 self. 
 
 Soc. According to nature, then, after the mixed pleas¬ 
 ures, we will proceed in turn by a kind of necessity to the 
 unmixed. 
 
 Prot. You have spoken most beautifully. 
 
 Soc. These I will endeavor in turn to point out to you. 
 For to those, who assert that all pleasures are but a cessa¬ 
 tion from pain, I do not altogether give credit. But, as I 
 said before, I make use of these persons as to the fact,— 
 that some pleasures seem to be, but are by no means so in 
 reality; and that some others appear to be many and great, 
 
PHl'LEBUS. 
 
 271 
 
 but are mixed up with pains, and a cessation from the 
 greatest pains, touching the difficulties of the body and the 
 
 soul. 
 
 Prot. But what pleasures are those, Socrates, which 
 a person, deeming to be true, would rightly think so ? 
 
 Soc. Those which relate to what are called beautiful 
 colors, and to figures, and to the generality of odors, and 
 to sounds, and to whatever that possesses wants unper¬ 
 ceived, and that without pain yields a repletion perceived, 
 and pleasant, (and) unmixed with pain. 
 
 Prot. How, Socrates, speak we thus again of these 
 things ? 
 
 Soc. What I am saying is not, indeed, directly obvious: 
 I must therefore try to make it clear. For I will endeavor 
 to speak of the beauty of figures, not as the majority of 
 persons understand them, such as of animals, and some 
 paintings to the life, but as reason says, 1 allude to some¬ 
 thing straight and round, and the figures formed from 
 them by the turner’s lathe, both superficial and solid, and 
 those by the plumb-line and angle-rule, if you understand 
 me. For these, I say, are not beautiful for a particular 
 purpose, as other things are; hut are by nature ever beauti¬ 
 ful by themselves, and possess certain peculiar pleasures, 
 not at all similar to those from scratchings; and colors 
 possessing this form beautiful and pleasures. But do we 
 understand? or how? 
 
 Prot. I endeavor (to do so), Socrates; but do you en¬ 
 deavor likewise to speak still more clearly. 
 
 Soc. I say then that sounds gentle and clear, and send¬ 
 ing out one pure strain, are beautiful, not with relation 
 to another strain, hut singly by themselves, and that in¬ 
 herent pleasures attend them. 
 
 Prot. Such is indeed the fact. 
 
 Soc. The kind of pleasures arising from odors is less 
 divine than those; but through pains being not of neces¬ 
 sity mixed with them, and their happening to be produced 
 for us by any means and in any thing, I lay down all this 
 as opposed to those. But, if you observe, these are two 
 kinds of pleasures spoken of, 
 
272 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 Prot. I do observe. 
 
 Soc. To these then let us still add the pleasures connected 
 with learning; if indeed they seem to us not to have a 
 hunger after learning, nor pains arising at the commence¬ 
 ment, through the hunger after learning. 
 
 Prot. But so it seems to me. 
 
 Soc. What then if there should be to those, who have 
 been filled with learning, losses subsequently through for¬ 
 getfulness, do you perceive any pains in those (losses) ? 
 
 Prot. Not naturally, but through some reasonings re¬ 
 specting the suffering, when, after being deprived, a person 
 feels a pain through a want. 
 
 Soc. At present, however, blessed man, we are going 
 through the feelings arising only from nature, independent 
 of any reasonings. 
 
 Prot. You are right then, in saying, that, in learning, 
 a forgetfulness frequently takes place, without, any pain 
 to us. 
 
 Soc. These pleasures, then, of learning, we must say are 
 unmixed with pains. But by no means do they belong to 
 the majority of mankind, but to the very few. 
 
 Prot. How must we not say so ? 
 
 Soc. Since, then, we have tolerably well distinguished 
 between the pure pleasures and those which are almost 
 rightly called impure, let us [in our account] attribute 
 to vehement pleasures immoderation; to those that are not 
 so, the contrary moderation; and those that admit the 
 great and the intensely, and contrariwise (the little and 
 the mildly), such, let us sav, do all of them ever belong to 
 the limitless genus, namely, the more and the less, borne 
 along through the body and soul; but that those, which do 
 not admit of these properties, belong to the moderate. 
 
 Prot. You speak most correctly, Socrates. 
 
 Soc. Still further, in addition to these, we must look 
 thoroughly subsequently into this belonging to them. 
 
 Prot. What? 
 
 Soc. What it is meet to say contributes to truth. Is it 
 the pure, and sincere, and sufficient, or the violent, and the 
 many, and the much ? 
 
PHILEBUS. 
 
 273 
 
 Prot. What do yon mean, Socrates, in asking this? 
 
 Soc. That I may omit proving nothing relating to pleas¬ 
 ure and knowledge, whether in either of them a part is 
 pure, and a part not pure, in order that each being pure 
 may come to a trial, and enable myself and you and all 
 these here to form a decision more easily. 
 
 Prot. Most correctly (said). 
 
 Soc. Come then, let us consider in this way respecting 
 all the kinds which we say are pure; (and) having first 
 selected some one from among them, look at it thoroughly. 
 
 Prot. What then shall we select ? 
 
 Soc. Let us look, if you will, at the white kind amongst 
 the first. 
 
 Prot. By all means. 
 
 Soc. How then, and what would he the purity of white? 
 whether, where there is the greatest and most, or where it 
 is the least mixed in that substance, in which there is no 
 portion of any other color? 
 
 Prot. Evidently, where it is the most sincere. 
 
 Soc. Rightly (said). Shall we then, Protarchus, not lay 
 down this as the truest, and at the same the most beautiful 
 of all whites; but not that, where it is the largest, and 
 most. 
 
 Prot. Most correctly. 
 
 Soc. If then we should say, that a little of pure white is 
 more white, and more beautiful, and more truly white, than 
 a great quantity of mixed white, we should say what is 
 entirely correct. 
 
 Prot. Most correctly. 
 
 Soc. Well then, we shall assuredly be not wanting in 
 any such examples in favor of our reasoning respecting 
 pleasure; but it is sufficient for us to perceive from thence, 
 that in the case of pleasure in general, a portion small in 
 size and little in quantity, yet unmixed with pain, would be 
 more sweet, more true, and more beautiful, than a por¬ 
 tion large in size, and great in quality, (mixed with 
 pain). 
 
 Prot. Greatly so, and quite sufficient is the example. 
 
 Soc. But what is one of this kind? Have we not heard 
 
 18 
 
274 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 respecting pleasure, that it is a thing always generating, 
 and that of pleasure there is no existence at all? For some 
 clever persons, forsooth, to whom we owe thanks, attempt 
 to point out to us this kind of reasoning. 
 
 Prot. What is it ? 
 
 Soc. Shall I go through it before you, friend Protarchus, 
 and interrogate you? 
 
 Proi. Only tell it, and interrogate. 
 
 Soc. There are some two things; one itself by itself; the 
 other always desirous of (something) else. 
 
 Prot. How say you this? and of what (are you speak¬ 
 ing) ? 
 
 Soc. The one is by nature most worthy of respect; the 
 other falls short of it. 
 
 Prot. Speak a little more clearly. 
 
 Soc. We have beheld young persons beautiful and good, 
 and seen their admirers. 
 
 Prot. Often. 
 
 Soc. Similar then to these two seek two others, according 
 to all those things, which we say is the third to another. 
 
 Prot. State more plainly, Socrates, what you mean. 
 
 Soc. It is nothing subtle, Protarchus. But our present 
 argument is playing with us; and says, that of things ex¬ 
 isting one thing is ever for the sake of something; and the 
 other, for the sake of which there is on every occasion pro¬ 
 duced that, which is produced always for the-sake of some¬ 
 thing. 
 
 Prot. I scarcely understand you, through the being said 
 oftentimes. 
 
 Soc. Perhaps, however, we shall better understand, boy, 
 as the reasoning proceeds. 
 
 Prot. How not ? 
 
 Soc. Let us now take these two different things. 
 
 Prot. Of what kinds? 
 
 Soc. The generating of all things is one kind; the exist¬ 
 ence, another. 
 
 Prot. I acknowledge these two, existence and generating. 
 
 Soc. Most correctly. Now, which of these shall we say 
 is for the sake of which ? Shall we say, generating is for 
 
PHILEBUS. 275 
 
 the sake of existence, or existence for the sake of genera¬ 
 ting? 
 
 Prot. Are you now inquiring whether that, which is 
 called existence, is what it is for the sake of generating? 
 
 Soc. I appear so. 
 
 Prot. By the gods, would you be asking me in addi¬ 
 tion? 
 
 Soc. I mean, Protarchus, something of this kind. Would 
 .you say that ship-building exists for the- sake of ships, or 
 ships for the sake of ship-building? and whatever things 
 there are of the like kind, Protarchus, I mean by this very 
 (question). 
 
 Prot. Why then, Socrates, do you not give an answer to it 
 yourself ? 
 
 Soc. There is no reason why not. Do you however take 
 a share with me in the discourse. 
 
 Prot. By all means. 
 
 Soc: I say then, that, for the sake of generating, medi¬ 
 cines, and all instruments, and all matter is placed by the 
 side of all; but that each act of generating is for the sake 
 of some individual existence, one for one kind and another 
 for another; but that generating taken universally is for 
 the sake of existence taken universally. 
 
 Prot. Most clearly. 
 
 Soc. Pleasure then, if it be a generating, will of necessity 
 he for the sake of some existence. 
 
 Prot. How not ? 
 
 Soc. How that, for the sake of which the thing generated 
 for the sake of something would be always generated, is in 
 the portion of the good; but that which is generated for 
 the sake of any thing, must, my friend, be placed in 
 another portion. 
 
 Prot. It is most necessary. 
 
 Soc. If then pleasure be a generating, shall we not in 
 placing it in an allotment different from that of the good, 
 correctly place it? 
 
 Prot. Most correctly. 
 
 Soc. Hence, as I said at the beginning of this argument, 
 we owe many thanks to the person, who pointed out, re- 
 
276 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 specting pleasure, that it is a generating, but that its ex¬ 
 istence is not anj r thing whatever. For it is plain that this 
 person would laugh at those who assert that pleasure is a 
 good. 
 
 Trot. Yer\ r heartily. 
 
 Soc. And this very same person would certainly on every 
 occasion laugh at those, who place their ultimate end in 
 gcneratings. 
 
 Trot. How, and what kind of men, do you mean? 
 
 Soc. Such as those curing hunger or thirst, or any of 
 such things as by generating cures are delighted on account 
 of generating being a pleasure; and who declare they would 
 not choose to live without being thirsty and hungry, and 
 suffering those other things, which one might mention as 
 following such kinds of feelings. 
 
 Trot. They are likely (to do 60). 
 
 Soc. Would not all of us say that destruction is the con¬ 
 trary of generation? 
 
 Trot. It is of necessity so. 
 
 Soc. Whoever then chooses this, would choose destruction 
 and generation, but not that third life, in which it is pos¬ 
 sible for a person to be neither pleased nor pained, but to 
 have thoughts the purest possible. - 
 
 Trot. Much absurdity, as it seems, Socrates, would re¬ 
 sult, should any one lay down that pleasure is a good. 
 
 Soc. Much; since let us discourse still in this way. 
 
 Trot. In what? 
 
 Soc. How is it not absurd for nothing good or beautiful 
 to exist, neither in the body nor in many other things, ex¬ 
 cept in the soul, and there only pleasure; and that neither 
 fortitude, nor temperance, nor mind, nor any of the good 
 things, which the soul has obtained by lot, should exist of 
 that kind? And still in addition to this, that the person 
 not delighted, but in pain, should be compelled to say. that 
 he is then wicked, when he is in pain, although he be the 
 best of all men; and on the other hand, that the person 
 delighted excels in virtue so much the more, as he is the 
 more delighted then, when he is delighted. 
 
PHILEBTJS. 277 
 
 Prot. All these suppositions, Socrates, are absurdities, 
 the greatest possible. 
 
 Soc. Let us then not endeavor to make an examination 
 of pleasure at all; nor appear to be, as it were, very chary 
 of mind and science'; but let us spiritedly strike every 
 thing all round, if perchance it gives a cracked sound, until 
 coming to the view of that, which is naturally the most 
 free from a flaw, we may use it for our decision, suited 
 alike both to the truest parts c it these and of pleasure like¬ 
 wise. 
 
 Prot. Eightly (said). 
 
 Soc. Is there not, I think, one part of the sciences rela¬ 
 ting to learning in general, connected with handicraft 
 trades, and another with instruction and nurture ? 
 
 Prot. It is so. 
 
 Soc. Now in the manual arts, let us consider, first, 
 whether there is one part more closely connected with 
 science, and another part less so; and whether it, is meet 
 to reckon the former as the most pure, but the latter as 
 the most impure. 
 
 Prot. It is meet. 
 
 Soc. We must therefore take the leading arts apart from 
 each individual one. 
 
 Prot. What arts? and how? 
 
 Soc. As if a person should, for example, separate from 
 all arts, arithmetic, and mensuration, and weighing, the 
 remainder of each would become, so to say, inconsider¬ 
 able. 
 
 Prot. Inconsiderable indeed. 
 
 Soc. For after these there would be left for those only 
 to conjecture, and to exercise the senses by experience and 
 practice, who by making use of the power of guessing, 
 which the many "call art, have worked out their strength by 
 assiduity and labor. 
 
 Prot. You say what is most necessarily (true). 
 
 Soc. In the first place,(is not) the musical art full (of 
 conjecture), while adapting the harmony not by (a fixed) 
 measure, but by practice? and of it taken universally (do 
 not) hautboy-playing (and harp-playing) hunt out the 
 
278 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 measure suited to each by the aid of (a mouth-piece and) 
 string through guessing merely, so that it has a great deal 
 mixed, which is not very certain, and only a little, that is 
 sure. 
 
 Prot. Very tnie. 
 
 Soc. Moreover we shall find that the medical, and agri¬ 
 cultural, and naval, and military arts are in a similar con¬ 
 dition. 
 
 Prot. Very much so. 
 
 Soc. But the art of building (we shall find), I think, 
 making use of very many measures and instruments; which, 
 giving to it great accuracy, make it more scientific than the 
 majority of arts. 
 
 Prot. How so? 
 
 Soc. So too in ship-building, and house-building, and 
 in many other works of carpentry. For in these, I think, 
 (the art) uses the straight rule, and the turning-lathe, 
 and the compass, and .he plumb-line, and the marking¬ 
 line, and the level properly formed. 
 
 Prot. You say very correctly, Socrates. 
 
 Soc. Let us then place the arts so called into two kinds; 
 some following music, (and) possessing in their works a 
 less share of accuracy; others, building, possessing a larger 
 share. 
 
 Prot. Let them be so placed. 
 
 Soc. And of these arts, that those are the most accurate 
 which we lately said were the prime (or leading). 
 
 Prot. You seem to me to be speaking of arithmetic, and 
 those other arts, which together with it you mentioned just 
 now. 
 
 Soc. Just so. But. Protarehus, must we not say that 
 each of these, again, is twofold ? or how ? 
 
 Prot. What arts do you mean ? 
 
 Soc. Must we not say, in the first place, that the arith¬ 
 metic of the many is of one kind, but that of pliilosophers 
 another ? 
 
 Prot. By dividing in what way, can a person lay down 
 the one and the other? 
 
 Soc. The boundary, Protarehus, is not-trifling. For of 
 
PHILEBUS. 
 
 279 
 
 the things relating to number, the many calculate by un¬ 
 equal units; as two armies, two oxen, two things the small¬ 
 est, or two the greatest of all things. But philosophers 
 could not follow them, unless a person should lay down an 
 unit, differing in no respect from each of the units in ten 
 thousand. 
 
 Prot. Indeed you say very correctly that there is no 
 little difference amongst those, who occupy themselves in 
 arithmetic; so as to make it reasonable that there are two 
 kinds. 
 
 Soc. And what of calculation in trade, and of mensura¬ 
 tion in building? (Do these differ) from the geometry 
 and the calculations made by students in philosophy? 
 Shall we say that each of them is one art? or shall we 
 set down each as two? 
 
 Prot. Following out the preceding remarks, I should, 
 according to my vote, lay down that each of these is two. 
 
 Soc. Correctly so. But do you understand for what 
 reason we have brought forward these matters between us ? 
 
 Prot. Perhaps I do. But I would wish yourself to lay 
 open the question just asked. 
 
 Soc. To me at least then this reasoning seems no less, 
 than when we commenced detailing it by seeking something 
 the counterpart to pleasures, to have reached to that 
 noint, where it is possible to consider what science is more 
 pure than another science, as (one) pleasure (was more 
 so than another) pleasure. 
 
 Prot. This at least is very clear, that it attempted those 
 things for the sake of these. 
 
 Soc. What then, has it discovered, in what has gone 
 before, that over others one art is clearer than another, 
 and one less clear than another? 
 
 Prot. Entirely. 
 
 Soc. And has not in these instances the reasoning, after 
 speaking of some art, of the same name (as another), led 
 to the opinion of both being one; and does it not then 
 inquire, as if being two, their clearness and purity, whether 
 the opinion of those who philosophize, or those who do not, 
 is the more accurate respecting them ? 
 
2S0 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 Prot. And it appears to me to make this inquiry very 
 correctly. 
 
 Soc. What answer then, Protarclms, shall we give it ? 
 
 Prot. To a wonderful extent of difference have we, Soc¬ 
 rates, arrived, touching a clear view of the sciences. 
 
 Soc. We shall therefore answer more easily. 
 
 Prot. How not ? And let it be said, that these (leading) 
 arts differ greatly from the others; and that from these 
 themselves differ those, which engage the exertions of per¬ 
 sons philosophizing really with accuracy and truth on the 
 subject of measures and numbers. 
 
 Soc. Let this be according to your views; and trusting 
 to you, let us boldly give an answer to those, who are 
 terrible in tearing arguments to pieces. 
 
 Prot. Of what kind ? 
 
 Soc. That there are two kinds of arithmetic, and two of 
 mensuration, and many others of the same kind, following 
 rhese and possessing this duality, but having one name in 
 common. 
 
 Prot. Let us, Socrates, with good luck give to those, 
 whom you say are terrible, that very answer. 
 
 Soc. Do we then affirm, that these sciences are the most 
 accurate. 
 
 Prot. By all means. 
 
 Soc. But the dialectic power, Protarchus, would repu¬ 
 diate us, if we preferred any other science to hers. 
 
 Prot. Whom must we call by that name? 
 
 Soc. Plainly, Protarchus, her, who perceives all the 
 (knowledge) just now mentioned. For I am entirely of 
 opinion, that all persons, to whom even a small particle 
 of mind has been apportioned, must deem the knowledge, 
 which relates to the really existing, and that which is ever 
 by nature according to the same, to be by far the most true 
 notion. But what and how would you, Protarchus, de¬ 
 cide? 
 
 Prot. I have often, Socrates, heard from Gorgias on each 
 occasion, that the art of persuasion excels by much all 
 other arts. For it would make all things its slaves will¬ 
 ingly, and not by violence; and therefore it would be of all 
 
PHILEBUS. 
 
 281 
 
 arts by far tlie best. Now I should not be willing to lay 
 down what is opposed to you or him. 
 
 Soc. You seem to me to say that, having wished for 
 arms, you are ashamed of having deserted them. 
 
 Prot. Let these matters be in the place, where it seems 
 good to you. 
 
 Soc. Am I the cause of your not correctly understand¬ 
 ing? 
 
 Prot. What? 
 
 Soc. I did not, friend Protarchus, inquire this—what 
 art or what science is superior to all, by its being the great¬ 
 est, and best, and benefiting us the most; but what is 
 that, which looks upon the clear, the accurate, and the most 
 true, although it may be little and benefit but little. This 
 it is which we are now seeking. Look to it. For you will 
 not become hateful to Gorgias, if you allow his art to be 
 of use to the ruling of mankind, but, what I just now 
 said, to the busy occupation, as I then said respecting 
 white, that if there be a little but pure, it excels a large 
 quantity that is not such, by the very circumstance of its 
 being the most true. xAnd now, having thought greatly 
 upon this, and reasoned about it sufficiently, and looking 
 to neither the utility of sciences nor to their high repute, 
 but, if there be any power inherent in our soul to love 
 the truth, and for its sake to do everything, of this let 
 us speak; and having thoroughly searched out the. purity 
 of mind and intellect, let us seek whether we can say that 
 in all probability we possess this, or any other power more 
 powerful than this. 
 
 Prot. Nay, I do consider, and I think it is difficult to 
 admit that any other science or art lays hold of truth more 
 than this. 
 
 Soc. Have you said what you have said now, after per¬ 
 ceiving something of this kind, that the majority of arts, 
 and such as busy themselves about matters here, make use 
 in the first place of opinions, and with the mind on the 
 stretch are in search of u T hat relates to opinions; and if a 
 person thinks fit to pry into the phenomena of Nature, 
 you know that through life he merely searches into the 
 
2S2 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 matters relating to this world, how it has been produced, 
 and in what way it suffers, and in what way it acts. Shall 
 we say this, or how ? 
 
 Prot. Thus. 
 
 Soc. Such a person then has undertaken this study, not 
 about the things which exist always, but about those that 
 are in the course of being, and will be, and have been. 
 
 Prot. Most true. 
 
 Soc. What clearness then can we say exists in truths 
 the most exact respecting those things, not one of which 
 has possessed ever, or will possess, or possesses at present, 
 the state of saneness ? 
 
 Prot. How can we? 
 
 Soc. How then respecting things, which do not possess 
 any stability whatever, can there be anything stable in 
 
 us? 
 
 Prot. By no means, I imagine. 
 
 Soc. Nor is there mind, nor any knowledge possessing 
 the greatest truth respecting them. 
 
 Prot. It is probable there is not? 
 
 Soc. We ought then, both you and I, to leave and bid 
 farewell frequently to Gorgias and Philebus, and in our 
 reasoning to appeal to this as a testimony. 
 
 Prot. What? 
 
 Soc. That there either is respecting those matters the 
 stable, and the pure, and the true, and what we lately called 
 the immaculate, as regards the things, which have the 
 property of existing ever in the same manner, and similarly 
 perfectly unmixed; or secondly, whatever has the most 
 affinity with them; but that of all the rest we must speak 
 as secondary and subsequent. 
 
 Prot. You speak most truly. 
 
 Soc. With respect then to things of this kind, is it not 
 most just to give the most beautiful names to things the 
 most beautiful? 
 
 Prot. It is at least reasonable. 
 
 Soc. Are not mind and intellect and wisdom the names 
 which a person would hold in the highest honor? 
 
 Prot. Yes. 
 
PHILEBUS. 
 
 283 
 
 Soc. These then, after having been formed accurately, 
 may be correct!}" given to the notions conversant about the 
 things really existing. 
 
 Prot. Perfectly. 
 
 Soc. And the things, which I formerly brought for our 
 decision, are not other than these names. 
 
 Prot. How not, Socrates? 
 
 Soc. Be it so. If then a person were to say that, what 
 relates to intellect and pleasure, touching their mutual 
 mixture, is placed before us, as before workmen, from which 
 or in which th oust fabricate something, he would 
 make a compar able to our discourse. 
 
 Prot. Very much so. 
 
 Soc. Must we not in the next place attempt to mix them ? 
 
 Prot. How not ? 
 
 Soc. Would it not be best to mention beforehand, and 
 call to remembrance things of this kind? 
 
 Prot. Of what kind? 
 
 Soc. Those we have mentioned before. For the proverb 
 seems to be well, “ Twice and thrice what is well to turn 
 over ” in our discourse is meet. 
 
 Prot. How not ? 
 
 Soc. Come then, by Zeus; for I think that what has been 
 stated previously, was said in this wise. 
 
 Prot. How? 
 
 Soc. Philebus affirms that pleasure has been established 
 as the proper aim for all animals, and that all persons ought 
 to aim at it; that this very thing is to all universally the 
 good; and that the two terms “ good ” and “ pleasant ” have 
 been correctly assigned to one thing and to one nature. 
 But Socrates denies this; and (says) that in the first place 
 the things are, like the terms, two;.and secondly, that the 
 good and the pleasant possess a nature different from each 
 other; and that intellect partakes in a share of the good 
 more than pleasure does. Is not this now, and was it not 
 then, stated so, Protarchus? 
 
 Prot. Strongly so. 
 
 Soc. And was not this (agreed upon) then, and should 
 we not agree upon it now? 
 
284 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 Prot. What? 
 
 Soc. That the nature of the good differs from the rest 
 of things in this? 
 
 Prot. In what? 
 
 Soc. That whatever animal possesses it forever, perfectly, 
 and under all circumstances of time and place, such a being 
 has no want of anything beside, but has what is sufficient 
 and most complete. Is it not so? 
 
 Prot. It is so. 
 
 Soc. Have we then not endeavored in this discourse, by 
 placing each apart from each as regards the life of each, 
 (to leave) pleasure unmixed with intellect, and in like 
 manner intellect possessing not the smallest particle of 
 pleasure ? 
 
 Prot. It is so. 
 
 Soc. Did either of those (lives) seem to us at that time 
 to be sufficient for any person ? , 
 
 Prot. How could it? 
 
 Soc. But if at that time we were carried in any respect 
 beside the mark, let any person whatever, taking up again 
 the subject, say what is more correct, laying down that 
 memory, and intellect, and science, and correct opinion 
 belong to the very same species, and considering whether 
 any one would without those choose that anything what¬ 
 ever should happen to him, much less pleasure, be it the 
 greatest' in quantity and most intense in kind, provided 
 he had neither a true conception of being delighted, nor 
 knew at all by what things he was affected, nor had a recol¬ 
 lection of the circumstance for any period whatever. And 
 let him say the same respecting intellect likewise, whether 
 any one would choose without all pleasures, or even the 
 least, to possess intellect, rather than with some pleasures, 
 or all pleasures without intellect, rather than with some in¬ 
 tellect. 
 
 Prot. There is no one, Socrates. And there is no need 
 to ask these questions frequently. 
 
 Soc. Neither one of these then would be the perfect, 
 and all-eligible, and consummate good, 
 
 Prot, For how could it ? 
 
PHILEBUS. 
 
 285 
 
 Soc. This good then we must comprehend clearly, or at 
 least some form of it, in order that we may have some¬ 
 thing to give the second prize. 
 
 Prot. You speak most correctly. 
 
 Soc. Have we not taken then some kind of road to the 
 good ? 
 
 Prot. What road ? 
 
 Soc. As if a person in search of another should first 
 hear of his dwelling [where he resides], he would surely 
 have something great towards the discovery of the person 
 sought. 
 
 Prot. How not? 
 
 Soc. And now a reasoning has pointed out to us, as at 
 the commencement, not to seek the good in the unmixed 
 life, but in the mixed one. 
 
 Prot. Entirely so. 
 
 Soc. There is moreover a hope that the thing sought for 
 will be more conspicuous in the mixed than in the not 
 mixed. 
 
 Prot. Much more. 
 
 Soc. Let us then, Protarchus, make a mixing after pray¬ 
 ing to the gods; whether Dionysus, or Hephaestus, or what¬ 
 ever else of the gods, has obtained by lot the honor (of 
 presiding over) the mixing. 
 
 Prot. By all means. 
 
 Soc. And now, to us, as it were to butlers, stand (two) 
 fonts; the one of pleasure a person might guess to be of 
 honey; but that of intellect, hard and healthful, sober and 
 wineless, to be of water; which let us be ready to mix to¬ 
 gether in the best manner we can. 
 
 Prot. How not? 
 
 Soc. Come then (and say) whether by mingling all pleas¬ 
 ure with all intellect we may in the best way obtain the 
 doing it well. 
 
 Prot. Perhaps so. 
 
 Soc. But it is not safe. But how we may make a mixing 
 with less danger, I seem to myself to be able to put out 
 a notion. 
 
 Prot. Say what. 
 
286 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 Soc. There was formerly, as we truly thought, one pleas¬ 
 ure more pure than another; and one art more accurate 
 than another. 
 
 Prot. Undoubtedly so. 
 
 Soc. One science too differs from another; one in looking 
 to things that are produced and perish; another to things 
 which are neither produced nor perish, but exist with 
 the properties of the same, the similar, and the eternal. 
 And looking to the truth, we deemed this science to be 
 more true than the other. 
 
 Prot. Very correctly so. 
 
 Soc. If then, in the first place, after having mixed to¬ 
 gether the truest particles of each, when we look upon them, 
 (shall we sav,) that these, being mixed together, are suffi¬ 
 cient to enable us to work out the most desirable life? or 
 do we still want something, and not of such a kind? 
 
 Prot. To me it seems we must act thus. 
 
 Soc. Let there be then a man having a notion of justice 
 itself, and knowing what it is, and having a language fol¬ 
 lowing upon his notions, and thinking thoroughly in like 
 manner upon everything else in existence. 
 
 Prot. Let there be such a person. 
 
 Soc. Will now this man have a sufficiency of science by 
 knowing the nature of the circle, and of the divine sphere 
 itself, while, ignorant of the sphere, and of the circles made 
 by man. he is making a bad use in building, and in other 
 things similarly, of straight-rules and circles. 
 
 Prot. Ridiculous we should call our position here, Soc¬ 
 rates, if it existed only in the sciences relating to things 
 divine. 
 
 Soc. How say you ? Must we throw and mix together in 
 common the art neither stable nor pure of the false straight- 
 rule and mason’s chisel, and mix them with the other in¬ 
 gredients ? 
 
 Prot. Yes; for it is necessary, if any of us is about on 
 each occasion to find the wav home. 
 
 Soc. And music too, which we said a little before was 
 wanting in purity, as being full of conjecture and imita¬ 
 tion? 
 
 / 
 
PHILEBUS. 28? 
 
 Prot. To me it seems necessary, if our life is to be in 
 any manner whatever a life. 
 
 Soc. Are you then willing, like a door-keeper, jostled and 
 forced by a throng of people, to yield and throw open the 
 doors, and suffer all the sciences to rush in, and to be mixed 
 together the wanting (in purity) with the pure. 
 
 Prot. I cannot perceive, Socrates, how any one would be 
 hurt by receiving all the other sciences, if possessing al¬ 
 ready the leading. 
 
 Soc. Let me then admit them all to come pouring into 
 the receptacle of Homer’s poetical mingling of the waters 
 in a valley. 
 
 Prot. By all means. 
 
 Soc. They are admitted. And let us now return to the 
 font of pleasure. For when we thought of mixing them 
 together, the portions of the true had not been produced; 
 but, from our love of all science, we sent them in a crowd 
 to the same spot, and even before the pleasures. 
 
 Prot. You speak most truly. 
 
 Soc. It is now time for us to consult about the pleasures; 
 whether we should let them all come thronging in, or 
 whether we should admit those, that are true, the first. 
 
 Prot. It makes a great difference in point of safety, to let 
 in first the true. 
 
 Soc. Let these then be admitted. But what after this? 
 Must we not, if some are necessary, mix together these as 
 we did those ? 
 
 Prot. Why not ? at least the necessary, surely. 
 
 Soc. But if, as we held it harmless and useful to know 
 through life all the arts, we now assert the same of pleas¬ 
 ures likewise, we must mix them all together, if indeed if 
 is conducive to us and harmless for all to enjoy all kinds of 
 pleasures through life. 
 
 Prot. How shall we say then on these very points ? and 
 how act? 
 
 Soc. It is not proper, Protarehus, to ask us this question; 
 but the pleasures themselves, and intellect, by inquiring re¬ 
 specting each other, some such thing as this, 
 
 Prot. Of what kind? 
 
288 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 Soc. Ye friends, whether we must call you Pleasures, or 
 by any other name whatever, would ye choose to dwell with 
 all Intellect, or without Intellect? To this I think it is 
 most necessary to say thus. 
 
 Prot. How? 
 
 Soc. That, as was said before, for any pure kind to be 
 alone and deserted, it is neither very possible nor useful. 
 We deem it however that the best of all kinds should, one 
 above others, dwell with us;—that one, which is able 
 to know both all the rest and itself likewise, and at the 
 same time each of us as perfectly as possible. 
 
 Prot. And well have ye now answered, we will say to 
 them. 
 
 Soc. Correctly so. After this then we must inquire of 
 Intellect and Mind. Have ye any need of Pleasure in your 
 mixture? | we will say on the other hand, interrogating 
 Mind and Intellect]/ What pleasures? they would per¬ 
 haps reply. 
 
 Prot. Probably. 
 
 Soc. To such a question our language would be this. 
 Beside those true pleasures, we will say, do ye further 
 want pleasures the greatest and most intense to dwell with 
 you ? How, Socrates, they would say, should we want those, 
 which give a thousand hinderances to us by disturbing the 
 souls, where we dwell with maddening pleasures, and do 
 not permit us to exist, and entirely spoil our children, there 
 bom. by introducing for the most part carelessness through 
 forgetfulness? But the other pleasures, of which you have 
 spoken, the true and the pure, do thou consider as nearly 
 related to us; and beside these, such as are accompanied 
 with health and sobriety, and such also as are in the train 
 of all* Virtue in general, as if of a goddess, and everywhere 
 follow her, all these do thou mix (with us). But those 
 that always accompany folly, and the rest of depravity, it 
 is a great absurdity for a man to mix with intellect, who 
 desires to see a mixture the most beautiful, and the least 
 disturbed, and to try to learn from it what good is naturally, 
 not only in man, but in the universe; and to divine what 
 is the idea (of good) itself. Shall we not say that Mind 
 
PHILEBUS. 
 
 289 
 
 lias, in answering thus, spoken prudently, and with self- 
 possession, in behalf of itself and memory, and right 
 opinion ? 
 
 Prot. By all means. 
 
 Soc. And this moreover is necessary, for not a single 
 thing could ever otherwise exist. 
 
 Prot. What is that? 
 
 Soc. That, with which we cannot mix truth, could never 
 bo in existence truly, nor ever have been. 
 
 Prot. For how could it? 
 
 Soc. By no means. But if anything further be yet 
 wanting for the mixture, do you and Philebus mention it. 
 For to me our present reasoning appears, like some in¬ 
 corporeal world about to rule correctly over an animated 
 body, to have been worked out. 
 
 Prot. And to me say, Socrates, it has seemed thus. 
 
 Soc. Should we then, in saying that we are now stand¬ 
 ing at the very vestibule of the good, and the residence of 
 a thing of such a kind, correctly perhaps in a certain 
 manner say so? 
 
 Prot. To me at least it seems so. 
 
 Soc. What then would appear to us to be in this mixture 
 the thing most valuable, and especially the cause of such a 
 disposition being agreeable to all? For after having seen 
 this, v r e will subsequently consider whether to pleasure or 
 to mind it adheres the closer, and the more intimately, in 
 the constitution of the universe. 
 
 Prot. Bight. For this will conduce the most to our de¬ 
 cision. 
 
 Sec. And there is, indeed, no difficulty in discovering the 
 cause of mixture in general, through which it is worth every 
 thing or nothing. 
 
 Prot. How say you ? 
 
 Soc. No man is surely ignorant of this. 
 
 Prot. Of what ? 
 
 Soc. That every mixture, whatever it be, and whatever 
 its quantity, if it does not meet with measure and a sym¬ 
 metrical nature, does of necessity destroy both the in¬ 
 gredients and itself. For there exists not a tempering, but 
 
 19 
 
290 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 a certain unmixed bringing together, (and) confused truly 
 of this kind on every occasion in reality to those who pos¬ 
 sess it. 
 
 Prot. Most truly so. 
 
 Soc. The power then of the good has fled from us into 
 the nature of the beautiful. For surely everywhere modera¬ 
 tion and symmetry happens to be a beauty and a virtue. 
 
 Prot. Certainly. 
 
 Soc. Now we have said that truth also was an ingredient 
 in the mixture. 
 
 Prot. Entirely so. 
 
 Soc. If then we are not able to hunt out the good in one 
 form, yet. taking it in three together, beauty, and sym¬ 
 metry, and truth, let us say that we can most justly con¬ 
 sider these as one cause of the ingredients in the mixture, 
 and that through this, as being good, the mixture is itself 
 produced of such a kind. 
 
 Prot. Most truly indeed. 
 
 Soc. Now then, Protarchus. any person whatever would 
 be a competent judge respecting pleasure and intellect, as 
 to which of the two is more closely allied to the greatest 
 good, and in higher honor both amongst men and gods. 
 
 Prot. (The decision) is clear indeed; yet it is better to 
 go through it in our discourse. 
 
 Soc. Let us then compare each of the three severally 
 with pleasure and with intellect. For we are to see to 
 which of the two we must assign each of the three as being 
 the nearer related. 
 
 Prot. Are you speaking of beauty, and truth, and 
 moderation ? 
 
 Soc. Yes. Now lay hold in the first place, Protarchus, 
 of truth; and having laid hold of it, look at the three, 
 mind, and truth, and pleasure; and after waiting a con¬ 
 siderable time, answer to yourself, whether pleasure or 
 mind i; nearer related to truth. 
 
 Prot. What need is there of time? for I think they 
 differ greatly. For of all things pleasure is the greatest 
 braggart; and as the saying is, in the pleasures of Venus, 
 which seem to be the greatest, even perjury has obtained 
 
PHILEBUS. 
 
 291 
 
 pardon from the gods; since pleasures, like children, pos¬ 
 sess not the least particle of mind. But mind is either 
 the same thing as truth, or of all things the most like to 
 it, [and the most truthful.] 
 
 Soc. Consider then after this in the same manner 1 
 moderation, whether pleasure possesses more of it than 
 intellect, or intellect more of it than pleasure. 
 
 Prot. And this inquiry too which you have proposed, is 
 easy to be considered. For I imagine no person will find 
 any thing more immoderate than pleasure and extravagant 
 joy; nor a single thing of more moderation than mind and 
 intellect. 
 
 Soc. You have spoken well. But however still mention 
 the third thing. Has mind partaken of beauty more than 
 any kind of pleasure, so that mind is more beautiful than 
 pleasure, or the reverse ? 
 
 Prot. Has then, Socrates, any man in a day-dream or 
 night-dream seen or imagined that intellect and mind is in 
 any matter or in any manner a thing that has been, or is, 
 or will be unhandsome ? 
 
 Soc. Right. 
 
 Prot. But whenever we see any person whatever delighted 
 with pleasures, and those too the greatest, and behold the 
 ridiculous, or what is the most disgraceful of all things, 
 following upon them, we are ashamed ourselves, and by 
 putting them out of sight, conceal them by giving them, as 
 far as possible, to night and darkness, all such things as 
 not being fit for the light to look on. 
 
 Soc. To all then and everywhere, Protarchus, you will 
 declare, sending by messengers (to the absent), and speak¬ 
 ing to those present, that pleasure is a possession, neither 
 the first nor the second in worth, but that the first relates 
 to moderation, and that the moderate and seasonable, and 
 all that it is meet to consider as such, have obtained the 
 eternal nature. 
 
 Prot. It appears so from what has been said already. 
 
 Soc. And that the second relates to symmetry and 
 beauty, the perfect and the sufficient, and whatever else is 
 of that family. 
 
292 
 
 TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 Prot. So it seems. 
 
 Soc. In placing, as my divination (says), mind and in¬ 
 tellect the third, you would not greatly pass by the truth. 
 
 Prot. Perhaps so. 
 
 Soc. And are not the fourth those things, which we 
 assigned to the soul herself, called sciences and arts, and 
 right opinions? that these are the fourth in addition to 
 those three; if, indeed, they are more nearly related to 
 the good than to pleasure. 
 
 Prot. Perhaps. 
 
 Soc. That the fifth are what we laid down as pleasures, 
 having defined them as painless, and denominated them 
 pure; and following not the knowledge of the 60 ul, but its 
 sensations. 
 
 Prot. Perhaps so. 
 
 Soc. 
 
 Of the song the order in the sixth race close, 
 
 says Orpheus. And our discourse seems to be now closed 
 with the sixth decision. After this, nothing remains for us 
 but to affix a head, as it were, to what has been said. 
 
 Prot. It is fit that we should. 
 
 Soc. Come, then, let us proceed in calling upon the same 
 reason, as if it were the third cup to the saviour god, to 
 bear witness. 
 
 Prot. What? 
 
 Soc. Philebus has laid down that the good was wholly 
 and entirely a pleasure. 
 
 Prot. The third you have, it seems, Socrates, said, just 
 now, ought to resume the original argument. 
 
 Soc. Yes. But let us hear what follows. I, having seen 
 thoroughly what I have just now gone through, and dis¬ 
 liking the doctrine not of Philebus only, but of other thou¬ 
 sands frequently, asserted, that mind was a thing far better, 
 and better for the life of man than pleasure. 
 
 Prot. That is the fact. 
 
 Soc. But then, suspecting that there were many other 
 things, I stated that if something should appear better 
 than both of those, I would combat for the second prize, in 
 
f HILEBUS. 293 
 
 behalf of mind against pleasure; and that pleasure would 
 be deprived of the second prize. 
 
 Prot. So you said. 
 
 Soc. Afterwards it very sufficiently appeared that neither 
 of these were sufficient. 
 
 Prot. Most true. 
 
 Soc. By this reasoning then both mind and pleasure 
 were dismissed from being either of them the good itself, 
 being deprived of self-sufficiency, and the power belong- 
 ing to the sufficient and perfect. 
 
 Prot, Very right. 
 
 Soc. But when a third was discovered, superior to either; 
 of those two, mind appeared a thousand-fold nearer re¬ 
 lated and more closely adhering to the form of the con- 
 queror than pleasure did. 
 
 Prot. How not ? 
 
 Soc. The fifth then would be, according to the decision, 
 which the reasoning has declared, the power of pleasure. 
 
 Prot. So it appears. 
 
 Soc. But the first place I would not yield up, not if all 
 the bulls and horses, and all wild beasts whatever should 
 assert it, to the pursuit of pleasure; trusting to whom, 
 just as augurs do to birds, the multitude decide that pleas¬ 
 ures avail the most for living well; and think that the 
 loves of wild animals are a stronger evidence, than the say¬ 
 ings of those who have spoken prophetically on every oc¬ 
 casion in the Muse of Philosophy. 
 
 Prot. That the greatest truth has been spoken by you,' 
 Socrates, we all now assert. 
 
 Soc. Now then ye dismiss me. 
 
 Prot. There is, Socrates, still a little left. For you will 
 surely not march off before us; and I will put you in mind 
 of what is left unsaid. 
 
 
 XHE END. 
 
Date Due 
 
 
888.4 P718CH 
 
 37357 
 
 4