Introduction

After an interval of some months or years, and at Phlius, a town of Peloponnesus, the tale of the last hours of Socrates is narrated to Echecrates and other Phliasians by Phaedo the 'beloved disciple.' The Dialogue necessarily takes the form of a narrative, because Socrates has to be described acting as well as speaking. The minutest particulars of the event are interesting to distant friends, and the narrator has an equal interest in them.

Some months or years later, Phaedo, the 'beloved disciple,' tells the story of Socrates' last hours. He tells it to Echecrates and other people of Phlius, a town in the Peloponnese. The dialogue must take the form of a narrative because it describes Socrates' actions as well as his words. Even the smallest details of the event interest his distant friends, and the narrator is equally interested in them.

During the voyage of the sacred ship to and from Delos, which has occupied thirty days, the execution of Socrates has been deferred. (Compare Xen. Mem.) The time has been passed by him in conversation with a select company of disciples. But now the holy season is over, and the disciples meet earlier than usual in order that they may converse with Socrates for the last time. Those who were present, and those who might have been expected to be present, are mentioned by name. There are Simmias and Cebes (Crito), two disciples of Philolaus whom Socrates 'by his enchantments has attracted from Thebes' (Mem.), Crito the aged friend, the attendant of the prison, who is as good as a friend—these take part in the conversation. There are present also, Hermogenes, from whom Xenophon derived his information about the trial of Socrates (Mem.), the 'madman' Apollodorus (Symp.), Euclid and Terpsion from Megara (compare Theaet.), Ctesippus, Antisthenes, Menexenus, and some other less-known members of the Socratic circle, all of whom are silent auditors. Aristippus, Cleombrotus, and Plato are noted as absent. Almost as soon as the friends of Socrates enter the prison Xanthippe and her children are sent home in the care of one of Crito's servants. Socrates himself has just been released from chains, and is led by this circumstance to make the natural remark that 'pleasure follows pain.' (Observe that Plato is preparing the way for his doctrine of the alternation of opposites.) 'Aesop would have represented them in a fable as a two-headed creature of the gods.' The mention of Aesop reminds Cebes of a question which had been asked by Evenus the poet (compare Apol.): 'Why Socrates, who was not a poet, while in prison had been putting Aesop into verse?'—'Because several times in his life he had been warned in dreams that he should practise music; and as he was about to die and was not certain of what was meant, he wished to fulfil the admonition in the letter as well as in the spirit, by writing verses as well as by cultivating philosophy. Tell this to Evenus; and say that I would have him follow me in death.' 'He is not at all the sort of man to comply with your request, Socrates.' 'Why, is he not a philosopher?' 'Yes.' 'Then he will be willing to die, although he will not take his own life, for that is held to be unlawful.'

Socrates’ execution has been postponed during the sacred ship’s thirty-day voyage to Delos and back. (Compare Xen. Mem.) He has spent this time talking with a select group of disciples. But now the holy season is over. The disciples meet earlier than usual to speak with Socrates for the last time. Those present are named, along with those who might have been expected to attend. Simmias and Cebes (Crito) are there, two disciples of Philolaus. Socrates has ‘drawn them from Thebes with his enchantments’ (Mem.). There is also Crito, his elderly friend, and the prison attendant, who is as good as a friend. These men take part in the conversation. Hermogenes is also present. He supplied Xenophon with his information about Socrates’ trial (Mem.). Other listeners include the ‘madman’ Apollodorus (Symp.), Euclid and Terpsion from Megara (compare Theaet.), Ctesippus, Antisthenes, and Menexenus. They and several less-known members of Socrates’ circle all listen silently. Aristippus, Cleombrotus, and Plato are noted as absent. Almost as soon as Socrates’ friends enter the prison, Xanthippe and her children are sent home. One of Crito’s servants takes care of them. Socrates has just had his chains removed. This leads him to make the natural observation that ‘pleasure follows pain.’ (Notice that Plato is preparing the way for his theory that opposites alternate.) ‘Aesop would have portrayed them in a fable as a two-headed creature made by the gods.’ The mention of Aesop reminds Cebes of a question asked by the poet Evenus (compare Apol.). ‘Why had Socrates, who was not a poet, been putting Aesop’s fables into verse while in prison?’ ‘Because several times in his life, dreams had told him to practice music. Now that he was about to die, he was still uncertain what this meant. He wanted to follow the instruction both literally and in spirit, by writing poetry as well as practicing philosophy. Tell Evenus this, and say that I would like him to follow me in death.’ ‘He is not at all the sort of man to do what you ask, Socrates.’ ‘Why, is he not a philosopher?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Then he will be willing to die, though he will not take his own life. That is considered unlawful.’

Cebes asks why suicide is thought not to be right, if death is to be accounted a good? Well, (1) according to one explanation, because man is a prisoner, who must not open the door of his prison and run away—this is the truth in a 'mystery.' Or (2) rather, because he is not his own property, but a possession of the gods, and has no right to make away with that which does not belong to him. But why, asks Cebes, if he is a possession of the gods, should he wish to die and leave them? For he is under their protection; and surely he cannot take better care of himself than they take of him. Simmias explains that Cebes is really referring to Socrates, whom they think too unmoved at the prospect of leaving the gods and his friends. Socrates answers that he is going to other gods who are wise and good, and perhaps to better friends; and he professes that he is ready to defend himself against the charge of Cebes. The company shall be his judges, and he hopes that he will be more successful in convincing them than he had been in convincing the court.

Cebes asks why suicide is considered wrong if death is considered good. (1) One explanation is that a person is a prisoner who must not open the prison door and escape. This is the truth contained in a 'mystery.' Or (2) rather, people do not belong to themselves but to the gods. They have no right to destroy what does not belong to them. But Cebes asks why someone who belongs to the gods should wish to die and leave them. He is under their protection. Surely he cannot care for himself better than they care for him. Simmias explains that Cebes is really referring to Socrates. They think he is too unconcerned about leaving the gods and his friends. Socrates replies that he is going to other gods who are wise and good, and perhaps to better friends. He declares himself ready to defend himself against Cebes’ accusation. Those present will be his judges. He hopes to convince them more successfully than he convinced the court.

The philosopher desires death—which the wicked world will insinuate that he also deserves: and perhaps he does, but not in any sense which they are capable of understanding. Enough of them: the real question is, What is the nature of that death which he desires? Death is the separation of soul and body—and the philosopher desires such a separation. He would like to be freed from the dominion of bodily pleasures and of the senses, which are always perturbing his mental vision. He wants to get rid of eyes and ears, and with the light of the mind only to behold the light of truth. All the evils and impurities and necessities of men come from the body. And death separates him from these corruptions, which in life he cannot wholly lay aside. Why then should he repine when the hour of separation arrives? Why, if he is dead while he lives, should he fear that other death, through which alone he can behold wisdom in her purity?

The philosopher desires death, and the wicked world will suggest that he deserves it too. Perhaps he does, but not in any sense they can understand. Enough about them. The real question is, what kind of death does he desire? Death is the separation of soul and body, and the philosopher desires this separation. He wants freedom from the control of bodily pleasures and the senses, which constantly cloud his mind’s vision. He wants to be free of eyes and ears, using only the mind’s light to see the light of truth. All human evils, impurities, and needs come from the body. Death separates him from these corruptions, which he cannot fully escape during life. Why, then, should he complain when the time for separation comes? If he is dead while still alive, why should he fear that other death? Only through it can he see wisdom in her purity.

Besides, the philosopher has notions of good and evil unlike those of other men. For they are courageous because they are afraid of greater dangers, and temperate because they desire greater pleasures. But he disdains this balancing of pleasures and pains, which is the exchange of commerce and not of virtue. All the virtues, including wisdom, are regarded by him only as purifications of the soul. And this was the meaning of the founders of the mysteries when they said, 'Many are the wand-bearers but few are the mystics.' (Compare Matt. xxii.: 'Many are called but few are chosen.') And in the hope that he is one of these mystics, Socrates is now departing. This is his answer to any one who charges him with indifference at the prospect of leaving the gods and his friends.

Besides, the philosopher understands good and evil differently from other people. They are brave because they fear greater dangers, and they practice self-control because they desire greater pleasures. But he rejects this weighing of pleasures and pains. It is a commercial exchange, not virtue. He sees all virtues, including wisdom, only as ways to purify the soul. This is what the founders of the mystery rites meant when they said, 'Many carry the ceremonial wand, but few are true initiates.' (Compare Matthew 22: 'Many are called but few are chosen.') Socrates now departs in the hope that he is one of these true initiates. This is his answer to anyone who accuses him of being indifferent about leaving the gods and his friends.

Still, a fear is expressed that the soul upon leaving the body may vanish away like smoke or air. Socrates in answer appeals first of all to the old Orphic tradition that the souls of the dead are in the world below, and that the living come from them. This he attempts to found on a philosophical assumption that all opposites—e.g. less, greater; weaker, stronger; sleeping, waking; life, death—are generated out of each other. Nor can the process of generation be only a passage from living to dying, for then all would end in death. The perpetual sleeper (Endymion) would be no longer distinguished from the rest of mankind. The circle of nature is not complete unless the living come from the dead as well as pass to them.

Still, there is a fear that the soul may vanish like smoke or air when it leaves the body. Socrates first responds by appealing to the ancient Orphic tradition. It holds that the souls of the dead are in the underworld, and that the living come from them. He tries to support this with the philosophical assumption that all opposites arise from each other. Examples include smaller and larger, weaker and stronger, sleeping and waking, life and death. This process cannot move only from living to dying, since then everything would end in death. Endymion, who sleeps forever, would no longer be any different from the rest of humanity. Nature’s cycle is complete only if the living come from the dead as well as join them.

The Platonic doctrine of reminiscence is then adduced as a confirmation of the pre-existence of the soul. Some proofs of this doctrine are demanded. One proof given is the same as that of the Meno, and is derived from the latent knowledge of mathematics, which may be elicited from an unlearned person when a diagram is presented to him. Again, there is a power of association, which from seeing Simmias may remember Cebes, or from seeing a picture of Simmias may remember Simmias. The lyre may recall the player of the lyre, and equal pieces of wood or stone may be associated with the higher notion of absolute equality. But here observe that material equalities fall short of the conception of absolute equality with which they are compared, and which is the measure of them. And the measure or standard must be prior to that which is measured, the idea of equality prior to the visible equals. And if prior to them, then prior also to the perceptions of the senses which recall them, and therefore either given before birth or at birth. But all men have not this knowledge, nor have any without a process of reminiscence; which is a proof that it is not innate or given at birth, unless indeed it was given and taken away at the same instant. But if not given to men in birth, it must have been given before birth—this is the only alternative which remains. And if we had ideas in a former state, then our souls must have existed and must have had intelligence in a former state. The pre-existence of the soul stands or falls with the doctrine of ideas.

Plato’s doctrine of recollection is then presented as support for the soul’s existence before birth. Some proofs of this doctrine are requested. One proof is the same as in the Meno. It draws on hidden mathematical knowledge that someone without education can reveal when shown a diagram. There is also the power of association. Seeing Simmias may remind someone of Cebes, or seeing a picture of Simmias may remind them of Simmias himself. A lyre may bring its player to mind. Equal pieces of wood or stone may suggest the higher idea of absolute equality. But notice that physical examples of equality fall short of absolute equality. This is the concept they are compared with, and it serves as their standard. The standard must come before what it measures. The idea of equality must therefore come before the equal things we see. If so, it must also come before the sense perceptions that bring this idea to mind. This knowledge must therefore have been given either before birth or at birth. But not everyone has this knowledge, and no one has it without a process of recollection. This proves that it is not inborn or given at birth. The only exception would be if it were given and taken away at the very same moment. But if people were not given it at birth, they must have been given it before birth. This is the only remaining possibility. If we had ideas in an earlier existence, our souls must have existed and possessed intelligence then. The soul’s existence before birth stands or falls with the doctrine of ideas.

It is objected by Simmias and Cebes that these arguments only prove a former and not a future existence. Socrates answers this objection by recalling the previous argument, in which he had shown that the living come from the dead. But the fear that the soul at departing may vanish into air (especially if there is a wind blowing at the time) has not yet been charmed away. He proceeds: When we fear that the soul will vanish away, let us ask ourselves what is that which we suppose to be liable to dissolution? Is it the simple or the compound, the unchanging or the changing, the invisible idea or the visible object of sense? Clearly the latter and not the former; and therefore not the soul, which in her own pure thought is unchangeable, and only when using the senses descends into the region of change. Again, the soul commands, the body serves: in this respect too the soul is akin to the divine, and the body to the mortal. And in every point of view the soul is the image of divinity and immortality, and the body of the human and mortal. And whereas the body is liable to speedy dissolution, the soul is almost if not quite indissoluble. (Compare Tim.) Yet even the body may be preserved for ages by the embalmer's art: how unlikely, then, that the soul will perish and be dissipated into air while on her way to the good and wise God! She has been gathered into herself, holding aloof from the body, and practising death all her life long, and she is now finally released from the errors and follies and passions of men, and for ever dwells in the company of the gods.

Simmias and Cebes object that these arguments prove only a past existence, not a future one. Socrates answers by recalling his earlier argument, which showed that the living come from the dead. But one fear has not yet been charmed away. The soul might vanish into air when it leaves the body, especially if a wind is blowing. He continues: When we fear that the soul will vanish, let us ask what we think can break apart. Is it something simple or something made of parts? Is it the unchanging or the changing, the invisible form or the visible object perceived by the senses? Clearly, it is the latter in each case, not the former. So it is not the soul, which is unchanging when engaged in pure thought. Only when using the senses does it descend into the realm of change. Again, the soul commands, and the body serves. In this respect too, the soul resembles the divine, and the body resembles what is mortal. In every respect, the soul reflects the divine and immortal, and the body reflects the human and mortal. The body is likely to break apart quickly. The soul, however, is almost, if not entirely, incapable of breaking apart. (Compare Timaeus.) Yet even the body can be preserved for ages through the embalmer’s skill. How unlikely, then, that the soul will perish and scatter into air on its way to the good and wise God! It has withdrawn into itself, keeping apart from the body and practicing death throughout its life. Now it is finally freed from human errors, follies, and passions, and lives forever in the company of the gods.

But the soul which is polluted and engrossed by the corporeal, and has no eye except that of the senses, and is weighed down by the bodily appetites, cannot attain to this abstraction. In her fear of the world below she lingers about the sepulchre, loath to leave the body which she loved, a ghostly apparition, saturated with sense, and therefore visible. At length entering into some animal of a nature congenial to her former life of sensuality or violence, she takes the form of an ass, a wolf or a kite. And of these earthly souls the happiest are those who have practised virtue without philosophy; they are allowed to pass into gentle and social natures, such as bees and ants. (Compare Republic, Meno.) But only the philosopher who departs pure is permitted to enter the company of the gods. (Compare Phaedrus.) This is the reason why he abstains from fleshly lusts, and not because he fears loss or disgrace, which is the motive of other men. He too has been a captive, and the willing agent of his own captivity. But philosophy has spoken to him, and he has heard her voice; she has gently entreated him, and brought him out of the 'miry clay,' and purged away the mists of passion and the illusions of sense which envelope him; his soul has escaped from the influence of pleasures and pains, which are like nails fastening her to the body. To that prison-house she will not return; and therefore she abstains from bodily pleasures—not from a desire of having more or greater ones, but because she knows that only when calm and free from the dominion of the body can she behold the light of truth.

But the soul tainted and absorbed by the body cannot reach this state of separation. She sees only through the senses and is weighed down by bodily desires. Afraid of the underworld, she lingers around the tomb, unwilling to leave the body she loved. She appears as a ghost, so filled with sensory experience that she is visible. Eventually, she enters an animal whose nature matches her former life of sensual pleasure or violence. She takes the form of a donkey, a wolf, or a kite, a bird of prey. Of these earthly souls, the happiest are those who have practiced virtue without philosophy. They are allowed to enter gentle, social creatures, such as bees and ants. (Compare Republic, Meno.) But only the philosopher who leaves this life pure may join the company of the gods. (Compare Phaedrus.) This is why he avoids bodily lusts. He does not act from fear of loss or disgrace, as other men do. He too has been a prisoner and has willingly helped keep himself captive. But philosophy has spoken to him, and he has heard her voice. She has gently appealed to him and brought him out of the 'miry clay.' She has cleared away the fog of passion and the illusions of the senses that surround him. His soul has escaped the power of pleasures and pains, which fasten her to the body like nails. She will not return to that prison. That is why she avoids bodily pleasures, not because she wants more or greater pleasures. She knows she can see the light of truth only when calm and free from the body's control.

Simmias and Cebes remain in doubt; but they are unwilling to raise objections at such a time. Socrates wonders at their reluctance. Let them regard him rather as the swan, who, having sung the praises of Apollo all his life long, sings at his death more lustily than ever. Simmias acknowledges that there is cowardice in not probing truth to the bottom. 'And if truth divine and inspired is not to be had, then let a man take the best of human notions, and upon this frail bark let him sail through life.' He proceeds to state his difficulty: It has been argued that the soul is invisible and incorporeal, and therefore immortal, and prior to the body. But is not the soul acknowledged to be a harmony, and has she not the same relation to the body, as the harmony—which like her is invisible—has to the lyre? And yet the harmony does not survive the lyre. Cebes has also an objection, which like Simmias he expresses in a figure. He is willing to admit that the soul is more lasting than the body. But the more lasting nature of the soul does not prove her immortality; for after having worn out many bodies in a single life, and many more in successive births and deaths, she may at last perish, or, as Socrates afterwards restates the objection, the very act of birth may be the beginning of her death, and her last body may survive her, just as the coat of an old weaver is left behind him after he is dead, although a man is more lasting than his coat. And he who would prove the immortality of the soul, must prove not only that the soul outlives one or many bodies, but that she outlives them all.

Simmias and Cebes still have doubts, but they are unwilling to raise objections at such a time. Socrates is surprised by their reluctance. They should think of him instead as a swan. It has sung Apollo’s praises all its life and sings more strongly than ever as death approaches. Simmias admits that failing to search fully for the truth is cowardly. 'And if divine, inspired truth cannot be found, let a person take the best human ideas available. Let him sail through life on this fragile boat.' He then explains his difficulty. The argument has been that the soul is invisible and has no physical form, making it immortal and older than the body. But isn’t the soul understood to be a harmony? Doesn’t it relate to the body as harmony, which is also invisible, relates to the lyre? Yet the harmony does not survive the lyre. Cebes also has an objection, which he expresses through a comparison, as Simmias does. He is willing to accept that the soul lasts longer than the body. But this does not prove that the soul is immortal. It may wear out many bodies in one life, and many more through repeated births and deaths, yet eventually perish. As Socrates later restates the objection, birth itself may be the beginning of the soul’s death. Its last body may survive it, just as an old weaver’s coat remains after he dies. This happens even though a person lasts longer than his coat. Anyone seeking to prove the soul’s immortality must show more than that it outlives one body or many bodies. They must prove that it outlives them all.

The audience, like the chorus in a play, for a moment interpret the feelings of the actors; there is a temporary depression, and then the enquiry is resumed. It is a melancholy reflection that arguments, like men, are apt to be deceivers; and those who have been often deceived become distrustful both of arguments and of friends. But this unfortunate experience should not make us either haters of men or haters of arguments. The want of health and truth is not in the argument, but in ourselves. Socrates, who is about to die, is sensible of his own weakness; he desires to be impartial, but he cannot help feeling that he has too great an interest in the truth of the argument. And therefore he would have his friends examine and refute him, if they think that he is in error.

The audience, like the chorus in a play, briefly express the feelings of the people taking part. A moment of gloom follows, and then the discussion resumes. It is a sad thought that arguments, like people, can deceive us. Those who have often been deceived become distrustful of both arguments and friends. But this unhappy experience should not make us hate either people or arguments. The lack of sound judgment and truth lies not in the argument, but in ourselves. Socrates, who is about to die, is aware of his own weakness. He wants to be impartial. But he cannot help feeling that he has too much at stake in the argument being true. So he asks his friends to examine his reasoning and prove him wrong if they think he is mistaken.

At his request Simmias and Cebes repeat their objections. They do not go to the length of denying the pre-existence of ideas. Simmias is of opinion that the soul is a harmony of the body. But the admission of the pre-existence of ideas, and therefore of the soul, is at variance with this. (Compare a parallel difficulty in Theaet.) For a harmony is an effect, whereas the soul is not an effect, but a cause; a harmony follows, but the soul leads; a harmony admits of degrees, and the soul has no degrees. Again, upon the supposition that the soul is a harmony, why is one soul better than another? Are they more or less harmonized, or is there one harmony within another? But the soul does not admit of degrees, and cannot therefore be more or less harmonized. Further, the soul is often engaged in resisting the affections of the body, as Homer describes Odysseus 'rebuking his heart.' Could he have written this under the idea that the soul is a harmony of the body? Nay rather, are we not contradicting Homer and ourselves in affirming anything of the sort?

At his request, Simmias and Cebes repeat their objections. They do not go so far as to deny that ideas exist before birth. Simmias believes that the soul is a harmony of the body. But accepting that ideas, and therefore the soul, exist before birth conflicts with this view. (Compare a similar difficulty in Theaetetus.) A harmony is an effect, while the soul is not an effect but a cause. A harmony follows, but the soul leads. A harmony can vary in degree, but the soul cannot. Again, if the soul is a harmony, why is one soul better than another? Are souls more or less harmonious, or is there one harmony within another? But the soul cannot vary in degree, so it cannot be more or less harmonious. Furthermore, the soul often resists the body's feelings and impulses, as when Homer describes Odysseus 'rebuking his heart.' Could he have written this if he thought the soul was a harmony of the body? Rather, are we not contradicting Homer and ourselves by claiming anything of the kind?

The goddess Harmonia, as Socrates playfully terms the argument of Simmias, has been happily disposed of; and now an answer has to be given to the Theban Cadmus. Socrates recapitulates the argument of Cebes, which, as he remarks, involves the whole question of natural growth or causation; about this he proposes to narrate his own mental experience. When he was young he had puzzled himself with physics: he had enquired into the growth and decay of animals, and the origin of thought, until at last he began to doubt the self-evident fact that growth is the result of eating and drinking; and so he arrived at the conclusion that he was not meant for such enquiries. Nor was he less perplexed with notions of comparison and number. At first he had imagined himself to understand differences of greater and less, and to know that ten is two more than eight, and the like. But now those very notions appeared to him to contain a contradiction. For how can one be divided into two? Or two be compounded into one? These are difficulties which Socrates cannot answer. Of generation and destruction he knows nothing. But he has a confused notion of another method in which matters of this sort are to be investigated. (Compare Republic; Charm.)

The goddess Harmonia, as Socrates playfully calls Simmias’s argument, has been successfully dealt with. Now the Theban Cadmus must be answered. Socrates summarizes Cebes’s argument, which, he notes, raises the whole question of natural growth or causation. He proposes to describe his own intellectual experience with this subject. When he was young, he puzzled over the study of nature. He investigated how animals grow and decay, and how thought begins. Eventually, he began to doubt the obvious fact that eating and drinking cause growth. He therefore concluded that he was not suited to such investigations. Ideas about comparison and number puzzled him just as much. At first, he thought he understood differences between greater and smaller quantities. He also thought he knew that ten is two more than eight, and similar facts. But now these very ideas seemed to contain a contradiction. How can one be divided into two? Or two be combined into one? Socrates cannot answer these questions. He knows nothing about how things come into being or pass away. But he has a vague idea of another method for investigating such matters. (Compare Republic; Charm.)

Then he heard some one reading out of a book of Anaxagoras, that mind is the cause of all things. And he said to himself: If mind is the cause of all things, surely mind must dispose them all for the best. The new teacher will show me this 'order of the best' in man and nature. How great had been his hopes and how great his disappointment! For he found that his new friend was anything but consistent in his use of mind as a cause, and that he soon introduced winds, waters, and other eccentric notions. (Compare Arist. Metaph.) It was as if a person had said that Socrates is sitting here because he is made up of bones and muscles, instead of telling the true reason—that he is here because the Athenians have thought good to sentence him to death, and he has thought good to await his sentence. Had his bones and muscles been left by him to their own ideas of right, they would long ago have taken themselves off. But surely there is a great confusion of the cause and condition in all this. And this confusion also leads people into all sorts of erroneous theories about the position and motions of the earth. None of them know how much stronger than any Atlas is the power of the best. But this 'best' is still undiscovered; and in enquiring after the cause, we can only hope to attain the second best.

Then he heard someone reading from a book by Anaxagoras that mind is the cause of all things. He said to himself: If mind causes all things, surely it must arrange them all for the best. This new teacher will show me this 'order of the best' in human beings and nature. How great his hopes had been, and how great his disappointment! He found that his new friend was far from consistent in treating mind as a cause. Before long, he brought in winds, waters, and other strange ideas. (Compare Aristotle’s Metaphysics.) It was as if someone said Socrates is sitting here because he is made of bones and muscles. That would leave out the true reason. He is here because the Athenians thought it right to sentence him to death. And he has thought it right to stay and await his sentence. Had he let his bones and muscles follow their own ideas of right, they would have left long ago. But surely all this deeply confuses a cause with a condition that makes something possible. This confusion also leads people into all sorts of mistaken theories about the earth’s position and movements. None of them knows how much stronger the power of the best is than any Atlas. But this 'best' remains undiscovered. And in searching for the cause, we can only hope to reach the second best.

Now there is a danger in the contemplation of the nature of things, as there is a danger in looking at the sun during an eclipse, unless the precaution is taken of looking only at the image reflected in the water, or in a glass. (Compare Laws; Republic.) 'I was afraid,' says Socrates, 'that I might injure the eye of the soul. I thought that I had better return to the old and safe method of ideas. Though I do not mean to say that he who contemplates existence through the medium of ideas sees only through a glass darkly, any more than he who contemplates actual effects.'

Studying the nature of things carries a danger, just as looking at the sun during an eclipse does. To protect yourself, you must look only at its reflection in water or a mirror. (Compare Laws; Republic.) 'I was afraid,' says Socrates, 'that I might damage the eye of my soul. I thought I should return to the old, safe method of ideas. But I do not mean that studying existence through ideas gives a dimmer view than studying actual effects.'

If the existence of ideas is granted to him, Socrates is of opinion that he will then have no difficulty in proving the immortality of the soul. He will only ask for a further admission:—that beauty is the cause of the beautiful, greatness the cause of the great, smallness of the small, and so on of other things. This is a safe and simple answer, which escapes the contradictions of greater and less (greater by reason of that which is smaller!), of addition and subtraction, and the other difficulties of relation. These subtleties he is for leaving to wiser heads than his own; he prefers to test ideas by the consistency of their consequences, and, if asked to give an account of them, goes back to some higher idea or hypothesis which appears to him to be the best, until at last he arrives at a resting-place. (Republic; Phil.)

If the existence of ideas is accepted, Socrates thinks he can then easily prove that the soul is immortal. He asks for just one further point to be accepted. Beauty causes beautiful things to be beautiful, greatness makes great things great, and smallness makes small things small. The same applies to other things. This answer is safe and simple. It avoids contradictions involving greater and less, such as something being greater because of something smaller. It also avoids difficulties involving addition, subtraction, and other relationships. He prefers to leave these subtleties to minds wiser than his own. Instead, he tests ideas by checking whether their consequences are consistent. If asked to explain these ideas, he turns to a higher idea or hypothesis that seems best to him. He continues until he finally reaches a point where he can rest. (Republic; Phil.)

The doctrine of ideas, which has long ago received the assent of the Socratic circle, is now affirmed by the Phliasian auditor to command the assent of any man of sense. The narrative is continued; Socrates is desirous of explaining how opposite ideas may appear to co-exist but do not really co-exist in the same thing or person. For example, Simmias may be said to have greatness and also smallness, because he is greater than Socrates and less than Phaedo. And yet Simmias is not really great and also small, but only when compared to Phaedo and Socrates. I use the illustration, says Socrates, because I want to show you not only that ideal opposites exclude one another, but also the opposites in us. I, for example, having the attribute of smallness remain small, and cannot become great: the smallness which is in me drives out greatness.

The doctrine of Ideas has long been accepted by Socrates’ circle. Now the listener from Phlius declares that any sensible person must accept it. The story continues. Socrates wants to explain how opposite Ideas can seem to coexist in the same thing or person, but do not really do so. For example, Simmias can be said to possess both largeness and smallness. He is larger than Socrates and smaller than Phaedo. Yet Simmias is not really both large and small, but only in comparison with Phaedo and Socrates. Socrates says he uses this example to show that not only do opposite Ideas exclude one another. The opposites within us also exclude one another. I, for example, possess the quality of smallness, remain small, and cannot become large. The smallness within me drives out largeness.

One of the company here remarked that this was inconsistent with the old assertion that opposites generated opposites. But that, replies Socrates, was affirmed, not of opposite ideas either in us or in nature, but of opposition in the concrete—not of life and death, but of individuals living and dying. When this objection has been removed, Socrates proceeds: This doctrine of the mutual exclusion of opposites is not only true of the opposites themselves, but of things which are inseparable from them. For example, cold and heat are opposed; and fire, which is inseparable from heat, cannot co-exist with cold, or snow, which is inseparable from cold, with heat. Again, the number three excludes the number four, because three is an odd number and four is an even number, and the odd is opposed to the even. Thus we are able to proceed a step beyond 'the safe and simple answer.' We may say, not only that the odd excludes the even, but that the number three, which participates in oddness, excludes the even. And in like manner, not only does life exclude death, but the soul, of which life is the inseparable attribute, also excludes death. And that of which life is the inseparable attribute is by the force of the terms imperishable. If the odd principle were imperishable, then the number three would not perish but remove, on the approach of the even principle. But the immortal is imperishable; and therefore the soul on the approach of death does not perish but removes.

Someone in the group pointed out that this contradicted the earlier claim that opposites give rise to opposites. Socrates replies that the claim did not concern opposite ideas, either within us or in nature. It concerned opposites in concrete cases, not life and death themselves, but individuals who live and die. Having answered this objection, Socrates continues. The principle that opposites exclude each other applies not only to opposites themselves, but also to things inseparable from them. For example, cold and heat are opposites. Fire is inseparable from heat, so it cannot coexist with cold. Snow is inseparable from cold, so it cannot coexist with heat. Likewise, the number three excludes the number four. Three is odd and four is even, and odd is opposed to even. We can therefore go a step beyond 'the safe and simple answer.' We can say not only that odd excludes even, but that three, which shares in oddness, excludes even. Similarly, not only does life exclude death, but the soul, which is inseparable from life, also excludes death. Whatever has life as an inseparable quality is, by definition, imperishable. If the principle of oddness were imperishable, then three would not perish when the principle of evenness approached. Instead, it would withdraw. But what is immortal is imperishable. Therefore, when death approaches, the soul does not perish but withdraws.

Thus all objections appear to be finally silenced. And now the application has to be made: If the soul is immortal, 'what manner of persons ought we to be?' having regard not only to time but to eternity. For death is not the end of all, and the wicked is not released from his evil by death; but every one carries with him into the world below that which he is or has become, and that only.

So all objections now seem to have been answered once and for all. Now we must apply this conclusion. If the soul is immortal, 'what kind of people should we be?' We must consider not only this life but eternity. For death is not the end of everything, and death does not free the wicked from their evil. Everyone carries into the world below only what they are or have become.

For after death the soul is carried away to judgment, and when she has received her punishment returns to earth in the course of ages. The wise soul is conscious of her situation, and follows the attendant angel who guides her through the windings of the world below; but the impure soul wanders hither and thither without companion or guide, and is carried at last to her own place, as the pure soul is also carried away to hers. 'In order that you may understand this, I must first describe to you the nature and conformation of the earth.'

After death, the soul is taken away to be judged. Once she has received her punishment, she returns to earth after many ages. The wise soul understands her situation and follows the attendant angel through the winding paths of the underworld. But the impure soul wanders here and there without a companion or guide. At last, she is taken to her own place, just as the pure soul is taken to hers. 'To help you understand this, I must first describe the nature and shape of the earth.'

Now the whole earth is a globe placed in the centre of the heavens, and is maintained there by the perfection of balance. That which we call the earth is only one of many small hollows, wherein collect the mists and waters and the thick lower air; but the true earth is above, and is in a finer and subtler element. And if, like birds, we could fly to the surface of the air, in the same manner that fishes come to the top of the sea, then we should behold the true earth and the true heaven and the true stars. Our earth is everywhere corrupted and corroded; and even the land which is fairer than the sea, for that is a mere chaos or waste of water and mud and sand, has nothing to show in comparison of the other world. But the heavenly earth is of divers colours, sparkling with jewels brighter than gold and whiter than any snow, having flowers and fruits innumerable. And the inhabitants dwell some on the shore of the sea of air, others in 'islets of the blest,' and they hold converse with the gods, and behold the sun, moon and stars as they truly are, and their other blessedness is of a piece with this.

The whole earth is a globe at the center of the heavens, held there by perfect balance. What we call the earth is only one of many small hollows. Mist, water, and the thick lower air collect in these hollows. But the true earth lies above, in a finer, purer element. Imagine if we could fly like birds to the surface of the air, as fish rise to the sea’s surface. Then we would see the true earth, the true heavens, and the true stars. Our earth is decayed and worn away everywhere. Even the land, which is more beautiful than the sea, cannot compare with that other world. The sea is nothing but a chaotic waste of water, mud, and sand. But the heavenly earth has many colors. It sparkles with jewels brighter than gold and whiter than any snow, and has countless flowers and fruits. Some inhabitants live on the shores of the sea of air, others on the 'islands of the blessed.' They speak with the gods and see the sun, moon, and stars as they truly are. All their other blessings are just as wonderful.

The hollows on the surface of the globe vary in size and shape from that which we inhabit: but all are connected by passages and perforations in the interior of the earth. And there is one huge chasm or opening called Tartarus, into which streams of fire and water and liquid mud are ever flowing; of these small portions find their way to the surface and form seas and rivers and volcanoes. There is a perpetual inhalation and exhalation of the air rising and falling as the waters pass into the depths of the earth and return again, in their course forming lakes and rivers, but never descending below the centre of the earth; for on either side the rivers flowing either way are stopped by a precipice. These rivers are many and mighty, and there are four principal ones, Oceanus, Acheron, Pyriphlegethon, and Cocytus. Oceanus is the river which encircles the earth; Acheron takes an opposite direction, and after flowing under the earth through desert places, at last reaches the Acherusian lake,—this is the river at which the souls of the dead await their return to earth. Pyriphlegethon is a stream of fire, which coils round the earth and flows into the depths of Tartarus. The fourth river, Cocytus, is that which is called by the poets the Stygian river, and passes into and forms the lake Styx, from the waters of which it gains new and strange powers. This river, too, falls into Tartarus.

The hollows on the earth’s surface differ in size and shape from the one we inhabit. But all are connected by passages and openings inside the earth. One huge chasm, called Tartarus, constantly receives streams of fire, water, and liquid mud. Small amounts of these reach the surface and form seas, rivers, and volcanoes. The air continually rises and falls, like breathing, as the waters flow into the earth’s depths and return. Along the way, the waters form lakes and rivers, but they never descend below the earth’s center. On either side, a steep drop stops the rivers flowing in either direction. These rivers are many and powerful. The four main ones are Oceanus, Acheron, Pyriphlegethon, and Cocytus. Oceanus circles the earth. Acheron flows in the opposite direction, passing underground through deserted places until it reaches the Acherusian lake. At this river, the souls of the dead wait to return to earth. Pyriphlegethon is a river of fire that winds around the earth and flows into the depths of Tartarus. The fourth river, Cocytus, is what the poets call the Stygian river. It flows into and forms Lake Styx, whose waters give it new and strange powers. This river also falls into Tartarus.

The dead are first of all judged according to their deeds, and those who are incurable are thrust into Tartarus, from which they never come out. Those who have only committed venial sins are first purified of them, and then rewarded for the good which they have done. Those who have committed crimes, great indeed, but not unpardonable, are thrust into Tartarus, but are cast forth at the end of a year by way of Pyriphlegethon or Cocytus, and these carry them as far as the Acherusian lake, where they call upon their victims to let them come out of the rivers into the lake. And if they prevail, then they are let out and their sufferings cease: if not, they are borne unceasingly into Tartarus and back again, until they at last obtain mercy. The pure souls also receive their reward, and have their abode in the upper earth, and a select few in still fairer 'mansions.'

The dead are first judged according to their deeds. Those beyond reform are thrown into Tartarus, from which they never return. Those who have committed only minor sins are first cleansed of them. They are then rewarded for the good they have done. Those who have committed serious but forgivable crimes are thrown into Tartarus. After a year, they are cast out through the rivers Pyriphlegethon or Cocytus. These rivers carry them to the Acherusian lake. There they call on their victims to let them leave the rivers and enter the lake. If they persuade their victims, they are released, and their suffering ends. If not, they are carried into Tartarus and back again, over and over, until they finally receive mercy. Pure souls also receive their reward and live on the upper earth. A select few live in even more beautiful 'mansions.'

Socrates is not prepared to insist on the literal accuracy of this description, but he is confident that something of the kind is true. He who has sought after the pleasures of knowledge and rejected the pleasures of the body, has reason to be of good hope at the approach of death; whose voice is already speaking to him, and who will one day be heard calling all men.

Socrates is not ready to insist that this description is literally accurate. But he is confident that something like it is true. Anyone who has pursued the pleasures of knowledge and rejected bodily pleasures has reason for hope as death approaches. Death’s voice is already speaking to him, and one day it will be heard calling all people.

The hour has come at which he must drink the poison, and not much remains to be done. How shall they bury him? That is a question which he refuses to entertain, for they are burying, not him, but his dead body. His friends had once been sureties that he would remain, and they shall now be sureties that he has run away. Yet he would not die without the customary ceremonies of washing and burial. Shall he make a libation of the poison? In the spirit he will, but not in the letter. One request he utters in the very act of death, which has been a puzzle to after ages. With a sort of irony he remembers that a trifling religious duty is still unfulfilled, just as above he desires before he departs to compose a few verses in order to satisfy a scruple about a dream—unless, indeed, we suppose him to mean, that he was now restored to health, and made the customary offering to Asclepius in token of his recovery.

The time has come for him to drink the poison, and little remains to be done. How should they bury him? He refuses to consider the question, since they will be burying his dead body, not him. His friends once guaranteed that he would stay. Now they must guarantee that he has escaped. Still, he would not die without the customary washing and burial rites. Should he pour out some poison as a libation, an offering to the gods? He will do so in spirit, but not literally. As he dies, he makes one request that has puzzled later generations. With a kind of irony, he recalls that a small religious duty remains unfulfilled. Earlier, he similarly wanted to compose a few verses before leaving, to settle a religious concern about a dream. Or perhaps he means that he has now been restored to health. In that case, he makes the customary offering to Asclepius as a sign of his recovery.

1. The doctrine of the immortality of the soul has sunk deep into the heart of the human race; and men are apt to rebel against any examination of the nature or grounds of their belief. They do not like to acknowledge that this, as well as the other 'eternal ideas; of man, has a history in time, which may be traced in Greek poetry or philosophy, and also in the Hebrew Scriptures. They convert feeling into reasoning, and throw a network of dialectics over that which is really a deeply-rooted instinct. In the same temper which Socrates reproves in himself they are disposed to think that even fallacies will do no harm, for they will die with them, and while they live they will gain by the delusion. And when they consider the numberless bad arguments which have been pressed into the service of theology, they say, like the companions of Socrates, 'What argument can we ever trust again?' But there is a better and higher spirit to be gathered from the Phaedo, as well as from the other writings of Plato, which says that first principles should be most constantly reviewed (Phaedo and Crat.), and that the highest subjects demand of us the greatest accuracy (Republic); also that we must not become misologists because arguments are apt to be deceivers.

1. Belief in the soul’s immortality has taken deep root in humanity. People tend to resist any examination of what they believe or why they believe it. They dislike admitting that this belief, like humanity’s other 'eternal ideas', has developed over time. Its history can be traced in Greek poetry and philosophy, and also in the Hebrew Scriptures. They turn feelings into arguments, weaving a web of logic around what is really a deeply rooted instinct. They share an attitude that Socrates criticizes in himself. They tend to think that even faulty arguments will do no harm, since those arguments will die with them. While they live, they will benefit from the illusion. They consider the countless bad arguments used to defend theology and say, like Socrates’ companions, 'What argument can we ever trust again?' But the Phaedo and Plato’s other writings offer a better and higher spirit. They teach that our most basic principles should be reviewed most often (Phaedo and Crat.). They also teach that the highest subjects demand the greatest accuracy from us (Republic). And we must not become haters of argument simply because arguments tend to mislead us.

2. In former ages there was a customary rather than a reasoned belief in the immortality of the soul. It was based on the authority of the Church, on the necessity of such a belief to morality and the order of society, on the evidence of an historical fact, and also on analogies and figures of speech which filled up the void or gave an expression in words to a cherished instinct. The mass of mankind went on their way busy with the affairs of this life, hardly stopping to think about another. But in our own day the question has been reopened, and it is doubtful whether the belief which in the first ages of Christianity was the strongest motive of action can survive the conflict with a scientific age in which the rules of evidence are stricter and the mind has become more sensitive to criticism. It has faded into the distance by a natural process as it was removed further and further from the historical fact on which it has been supposed to rest. Arguments derived from material things such as the seed and the ear of corn or transitions in the life of animals from one state of being to another (the chrysalis and the butterfly) are not 'in pari materia' with arguments from the visible to the invisible, and are therefore felt to be no longer applicable. The evidence to the historical fact seems to be weaker than was once supposed: it is not consistent with itself, and is based upon documents which are of unknown origin. The immortality of man must be proved by other arguments than these if it is again to become a living belief. We must ask ourselves afresh why we still maintain it, and seek to discover a foundation for it in the nature of God and in the first principles of morality.

2. In earlier times, belief in the soul’s immortality rested on tradition rather than reason. It rested on the Church’s authority and on the belief’s necessity for morality and social order. It also rested on evidence for a historical event, and on comparisons and figures of speech. These filled a gap or put a deeply held instinct into words. Most people went about their lives, busy with this world’s affairs, hardly stopping to think about another life. But today the question has been reopened. In Christianity’s earliest centuries, this belief was the strongest motive for action. Now it is doubtful whether it can survive the challenge of a scientific age. Standards of evidence are stricter, and minds have become more sensitive to criticism. The belief has naturally faded as it has grown more distant from the historical event supposedly supporting it. Arguments drawn from physical things include the seed and the head of grain. They also include changes in animals from one state of life to another, such as the chrysalis becoming a butterfly. These are not the same kind of argument as reasoning from the visible to the invisible. They are therefore no longer felt to apply. The evidence for the historical event seems weaker than people once thought. It is internally inconsistent and rests on documents whose origins are unknown. Human immortality must be proved by other arguments if it is to become a living belief again. We must ask ourselves anew why we still hold this belief. We must seek its foundation in God’s nature and in the basic principles of morality.

3. At the outset of the discussion we may clear away a confusion. We certainly do not mean by the immortality of the soul the immortality of fame, which whether worth having or not can only be ascribed to a very select class of the whole race of mankind, and even the interest in these few is comparatively short-lived. To have been a benefactor to the world, whether in a higher or a lower sphere of life and thought, is a great thing: to have the reputation of being one, when men have passed out of the sphere of earthly praise or blame, is hardly worthy of consideration. The memory of a great man, so far from being immortal, is really limited to his own generation:—so long as his friends or his disciples are alive, so long as his books continue to be read, so long as his political or military successes fill a page in the history of his country. The praises which are bestowed upon him at his death hardly last longer than the flowers which are strewed upon his coffin or the 'immortelles' which are laid upon his tomb. Literature makes the most of its heroes, but the true man is well aware that far from enjoying an immortality of fame, in a generation or two, or even in a much shorter time, he will be forgotten and the world will get on without him.

3. At the start of this discussion, we can clear up a confusion. By the soul’s immortality, we certainly do not mean lasting fame. Whether worth having or not, such fame belongs only to a very small number of people. Even interest in these few is relatively short-lived. To have benefited the world is a great thing, whether in a higher or lower field of life and thought. But a reputation for doing so hardly matters once people are beyond earthly praise or blame. A great person’s memory is far from immortal. It is really limited to their own generation. It lasts while their friends or students live, while their books are read, or while their political or military achievements occupy a page in their country’s history. The praise given at their death hardly outlasts the flowers scattered on their coffin or the 'immortelles', everlasting flowers, placed on their tomb. Literature makes the most of its heroes. But a person of true worth knows they will not enjoy immortal fame. Within a generation or two, or even much sooner, they will be forgotten, and the world will carry on without them.

4. Modern philosophy is perplexed at this whole question, which is sometimes fairly given up and handed over to the realm of faith. The perplexity should not be forgotten by us when we attempt to submit the Phaedo of Plato to the requirements of logic. For what idea can we form of the soul when separated from the body? Or how can the soul be united with the body and still be independent? Is the soul related to the body as the ideal to the real, or as the whole to the parts, or as the subject to the object, or as the cause to the effect, or as the end to the means? Shall we say with Aristotle, that the soul is the entelechy or form of an organized living body? or with Plato, that she has a life of her own? Is the Pythagorean image of the harmony, or that of the monad, the truer expression? Is the soul related to the body as sight to the eye, or as the boatman to his boat? (Arist. de Anim.) And in another state of being is the soul to be conceived of as vanishing into infinity, hardly possessing an existence which she can call her own, as in the pantheistic system of Spinoza: or as an individual informing another body and entering into new relations, but retaining her own character? (Compare Gorgias.) Or is the opposition of soul and body a mere illusion, and the true self neither soul nor body, but the union of the two in the 'I' which is above them? And is death the assertion of this individuality in the higher nature, and the falling away into nothingness of the lower? Or are we vainly attempting to pass the boundaries of human thought? The body and the soul seem to be inseparable, not only in fact, but in our conceptions of them; and any philosophy which too closely unites them, or too widely separates them, either in this life or in another, disturbs the balance of human nature. No thinker has perfectly adjusted them, or been entirely consistent with himself in describing their relation to one another. Nor can we wonder that Plato in the infancy of human thought should have confused mythology and philosophy, or have mistaken verbal arguments for real ones.

4. Modern philosophy is puzzled by this whole question. Sometimes it gives up on it entirely and leaves it to faith. We should remember this difficulty when we try to judge Plato’s Phaedo by the demands of logic. For what idea can we form of the soul apart from the body? Or how can the soul be united with the body yet remain independent? Does the soul relate to the body as the ideal relates to the real? Or as the whole to its parts, the subject to the object, the cause to the effect? Or as the goal to the means? Should we agree with Aristotle that the soul is the entelechy, or form, of an organized living body? Or with Plato that it has a life of its own? Which Pythagorean image expresses it more truly, harmony or the monad, a single indivisible unit? Does the soul relate to the body as sight relates to the eye, or as the boatman to his boat? (Arist. de Anim.) And how should we imagine the soul in another state of existence? Does it dissolve into infinity, barely having an existence it can call its own, as in Spinoza’s pantheistic system? Or does it remain an individual, giving life to another body and entering new relationships while retaining its own character? (Compare Gorgias.) Or is the opposition between soul and body merely an illusion? Is the true self neither soul nor body, but their union in the 'I' that stands above them? And does death affirm this individuality in the higher nature, while the lower nature falls away into nothingness? Or are we trying in vain to go beyond the limits of human thought? Body and soul seem inseparable, not only in fact but also in how we conceive of them. Any philosophy that joins them too closely or separates them too widely upsets the balance of human nature. This applies both to this life and to another. No thinker has perfectly reconciled them or described their relationship with complete consistency. Nor should we be surprised that Plato confused mythology with philosophy when human thought was still in its infancy. Or that he mistook arguments based on words for arguments grounded in reality.

5. Again, believing in the immortality of the soul, we must still ask the question of Socrates, 'What is that which we suppose to be immortal?' Is it the personal and individual element in us, or the spiritual and universal? Is it the principle of knowledge or of goodness, or the union of the two? Is it the mere force of life which is determined to be, or the consciousness of self which cannot be got rid of, or the fire of genius which refuses to be extinguished? Or is there a hidden being which is allied to the Author of all existence, who is because he is perfect, and to whom our ideas of perfection give us a title to belong? Whatever answer is given by us to these questions, there still remains the necessity of allowing the permanence of evil, if not for ever, at any rate for a time, in order that the wicked 'may not have too good a bargain.' For the annihilation of evil at death, or the eternal duration of it, seem to involve equal difficulties in the moral government of the universe. Sometimes we are led by our feelings, rather than by our reason, to think of the good and wise only as existing in another life. Why should the mean, the weak, the idiot, the infant, the herd of men who have never in any proper sense the use of reason, reappear with blinking eyes in the light of another world? But our second thought is that the hope of humanity is a common one, and that all or none will be partakers of immortality. Reason does not allow us to suppose that we have any greater claims than others, and experience may often reveal to us unexpected flashes of the higher nature in those whom we had despised. Why should the wicked suffer any more than ourselves? had we been placed in their circumstances should we have been any better than they? The worst of men are objects of pity rather than of anger to the philanthropist; must they not be equally such to divine benevolence? Even more than the good they have need of another life; not that they may be punished, but that they may be educated. These are a few of the reflections which arise in our minds when we attempt to assign any form to our conceptions of a future state.

5. Even if we believe the soul is immortal, we must still ask Socrates’ question. 'What is it that we suppose to be immortal?' Is it what is personal and individual in us, or what is spiritual and universal? Is it our capacity for knowledge or goodness, or the union of both? Is it simply the force of life, determined to keep existing? Is it the awareness of ourselves that we cannot escape, or the fire of genius that refuses to go out? Or is it a hidden being within us, connected to the Creator of all existence? He exists because he is perfect. Do our ideas of perfection give us a claim to belong to him? Whatever our answers, we must still allow evil to continue, if not forever, then at least for a time. Otherwise, the wicked 'may not have too good a bargain.' Evil’s disappearance at death and its lasting forever seem equally difficult to reconcile with the universe’s moral government. Sometimes our feelings, rather than our reason, lead us to imagine only the good and wise surviving into another life. Why should the petty, the weak, people with severe intellectual disabilities, or infants reappear, blinking in another world’s light? Why should the mass of people who have never truly exercised reason? But on reflection, humanity shares a common hope. Either all will share in immortality, or none will. Reason does not let us suppose that we have any greater claim than others. Experience may reveal unexpected flashes of a higher nature in people we have despised. Why should the wicked suffer any more than we do? If we had lived in their circumstances, would we have been any better? To someone who loves humanity, even the worst people deserve pity rather than anger. Must they not deserve the same from divine goodness? They need another life even more than the good do, not for punishment, but for education. These are some of the thoughts that arise when we try to give shape to our ideas of an afterlife.

There are some other questions which are disturbing to us because we have no answer to them. What is to become of the animals in a future state? Have we not seen dogs more faithful and intelligent than men, and men who are more stupid and brutal than any animals? Does their life cease at death, or is there some 'better thing reserved' also for them? They may be said to have a shadow or imitation of morality, and imperfect moral claims upon the benevolence of man and upon the justice of God. We cannot think of the least or lowest of them, the insect, the bird, the inhabitants of the sea or the desert, as having any place in a future world, and if not all, why should those who are specially attached to man be deemed worthy of any exceptional privilege? When we reason about such a subject, almost at once we degenerate into nonsense. It is a passing thought which has no real hold on the mind. We may argue for the existence of animals in a future state from the attributes of God, or from texts of Scripture ('Are not two sparrows sold for one farthing?' etc.), but the truth is that we are only filling up the void of another world with our own fancies. Again, we often talk about the origin of evil, that great bugbear of theologians, by which they frighten us into believing any superstition. What answer can be made to the old commonplace, 'Is not God the author of evil, if he knowingly permitted, but could have prevented it?' Even if we assume that the inequalities of this life are rectified by some transposition of human beings in another, still the existence of the very least evil if it could have been avoided, seems to be at variance with the love and justice of God. And so we arrive at the conclusion that we are carrying logic too far, and that the attempt to frame the world according to a rule of divine perfection is opposed to experience and had better be given up. The case of the animals is our own. We must admit that the Divine Being, although perfect himself, has placed us in a state of life in which we may work together with him for good, but we are very far from having attained to it.

Other questions trouble us because we have no answers. What will happen to animals in the afterlife? Have we not seen dogs more faithful and intelligent than people? And have we not seen people more stupid and brutal than any animal? Does their life end at death, or is there some 'better thing reserved' for them too? They may be said to have a faint or imperfect form of morality. They also have limited moral claims on human kindness and God's justice. We cannot imagine even the smallest or lowest creatures having any place in a future world. These include insects, birds, and the creatures of the sea or desert. And if not all animals have a place, why should those especially attached to humans receive special treatment? When we reason about this subject, we almost immediately slip into nonsense. It is a passing thought that has no real hold on our minds. We may argue that animals have an afterlife because of God's qualities or passages in Scripture. These include 'Are not two sparrows sold for one farthing?' and others. But in truth, we are only filling the emptiness of another world with our own imaginings. We also often talk about the origin of evil, that great terror theologians use to frighten us into believing any superstition. What answer can we give to the familiar old question? 'Is God not responsible for evil if he knowingly allowed it but could have prevented it?' Suppose we assume that this life's inequalities are corrected by changing people's circumstances in another life. Even then, the smallest avoidable evil seems incompatible with God's love and justice. So we conclude that we are taking logic too far. Trying to make the world fit a standard of divine perfection conflicts with experience and should be abandoned. The animals' situation is also our own. We must admit that God, though perfect himself, has placed us in a life where we can work with him for good. But we are still very far from achieving that good.

6. Again, ideas must be given through something; and we are always prone to argue about the soul from analogies of outward things which may serve to embody our thoughts, but are also partly delusive. For we cannot reason from the natural to the spiritual, or from the outward to the inward. The progress of physiological science, without bringing us nearer to the great secret, has tended to remove some erroneous notions respecting the relations of body and mind, and in this we have the advantage of the ancients. But no one imagines that any seed of immortality is to be discerned in our mortal frames. Most people have been content to rest their belief in another life on the agreement of the more enlightened part of mankind, and on the inseparable connection of such a doctrine with the existence of a God—also in a less degree on the impossibility of doubting about the continued existence of those whom we love and reverence in this world. And after all has been said, the figure, the analogy, the argument, are felt to be only approximations in different forms to an expression of the common sentiment of the human heart. That we shall live again is far more certain than that we shall take any particular form of life.

6. Again, ideas must be expressed through something. We are always inclined to reason about the soul by comparing it with things in the physical world. These comparisons may give shape to our thoughts, but they are also partly misleading. We cannot reason from the natural to the spiritual, or from the outer world to the inner one. Advances in physiology have brought us no closer to the great mystery. But they have helped correct some mistaken ideas about the relationship between body and mind. In this, we have an advantage over the ancients. Yet no one imagines that any seed of immortality can be found in our mortal bodies. Most people have been content to base their belief in another life on agreement among humanity’s more enlightened members. They also base it on the inseparable connection between this belief and the existence of a God. To a lesser extent, they cannot doubt that those they love and respect in this world continue to exist. After everything has been said, we feel that images, comparisons, and arguments are only different ways of approaching something. Each comes close to expressing a feeling shared by the human heart. That we will live again is far more certain than that we will live in any particular form.

7. When we speak of the immortality of the soul, we must ask further what we mean by the word immortality. For of the duration of a living being in countless ages we can form no conception; far less than a three years' old child of the whole of life. The naked eye might as well try to see the furthest star in the infinity of heaven. Whether time and space really exist when we take away the limits of them may be doubted; at any rate the thought of them when unlimited us so overwhelming to us as to lose all distinctness. Philosophers have spoken of them as forms of the human mind, but what is the mind without them? As then infinite time, or an existence out of time, which are the only possible explanations of eternal duration, are equally inconceivable to us, let us substitute for them a hundred or a thousand years after death, and ask not what will be our employment in eternity, but what will happen to us in that definite portion of time; or what is now happening to those who passed out of life a hundred or a thousand years ago. Do we imagine that the wicked are suffering torments, or that the good are singing the praises of God, during a period longer than that of a whole life, or of ten lives of men? Is the suffering physical or mental? And does the worship of God consist only of praise, or of many forms of service? Who are the wicked, and who are the good, whom we venture to divide by a hard and fast line; and in which of the two classes should we place ourselves and our friends? May we not suspect that we are making differences of kind, because we are unable to imagine differences of degree?—putting the whole human race into heaven or hell for the greater convenience of logical division? Are we not at the same time describing them both in superlatives, only that we may satisfy the demands of rhetoric? What is that pain which does not become deadened after a thousand years? or what is the nature of that pleasure or happiness which never wearies by monotony? Earthly pleasures and pains are short in proportion as they are keen; of any others which are both intense and lasting we have no experience, and can form no idea. The words or figures of speech which we use are not consistent with themselves. For are we not imagining Heaven under the similitude of a church, and Hell as a prison, or perhaps a madhouse or chamber of horrors? And yet to beings constituted as we are, the monotony of singing psalms would be as great an infliction as the pains of hell, and might be even pleasantly interrupted by them. Where are the actions worthy of rewards greater than those which are conferred on the greatest benefactors of mankind? And where are the crimes which according to Plato's merciful reckoning,—more merciful, at any rate, than the eternal damnation of so-called Christian teachers,—for every ten years in this life deserve a hundred of punishment in the life to come? We should be ready to die of pity if we could see the least of the sufferings which the writers of Infernos and Purgatorios have attributed to the damned. Yet these joys and terrors seem hardly to exercise an appreciable influence over the lives of men. The wicked man when old, is not, as Plato supposes (Republic), more agitated by the terrors of another world when he is nearer to them, nor the good in an ecstasy at the joys of which he is soon to be the partaker. Age numbs the sense of both worlds; and the habit of life is strongest in death. Even the dying mother is dreaming of her lost children as they were forty or fifty years before, 'pattering over the boards,' not of reunion with them in another state of being. Most persons when the last hour comes are resigned to the order of nature and the will of God. They are not thinking of Dante's Inferno or Paradiso, or of the Pilgrim's Progress. Heaven and hell are not realities to them, but words or ideas; the outward symbols of some great mystery, they hardly know what. Many noble poems and pictures have been suggested by the traditional representations of them, which have been fixed in forms of art and can no longer be altered. Many sermons have been filled with descriptions of celestial or infernal mansions. But hardly even in childhood did the thought of heaven and hell supply the motives of our actions, or at any time seriously affect the substance of our belief.

7. When we speak of the soul’s immortality, we must also ask what we mean by immortality. We cannot imagine a living being existing for countless ages. We understand this far less than a three-year-old child understands the whole of life. The naked eye might just as well try to see the farthest star in the infinite heavens. We may doubt whether time and space really exist once we remove their limits. At any rate, thinking of them without limits overwhelms us until the ideas lose all clarity. Philosophers have called them forms of the human mind. But what is the mind without them? Eternal duration can mean only infinite time or existence outside time. Both are equally impossible for us to imagine. Let us substitute a hundred or a thousand years after death. Instead of asking what we will do in eternity, let us ask what will happen during that definite period. Or let us ask what is happening now to those who died a hundred or a thousand years ago. Do we imagine the wicked suffering torment, or the good singing God’s praises, for longer than an entire human life? Or for longer than ten human lives? Is the suffering physical or mental? Does worshipping God consist only of praise, or does it include many forms of service? Who are the wicked and the good, whom we dare to separate with such a rigid boundary? In which group should we place ourselves and our friends? Might we suspect that we invent differences in kind because we cannot imagine differences in degree? Are we putting the whole human race into heaven or hell simply to make logical classification easier? At the same time, are we describing both in extreme terms merely to satisfy the demands of rhetoric? What pain would not grow dull after a thousand years? What pleasure or happiness would never become tiresome through repetition? Earthly pleasures and pains are brief in proportion to their intensity. We have no experience of others that are both intense and lasting, and we cannot imagine them. The words and images we use are inconsistent. Are we not imagining Heaven as a church, and Hell as a prison? Or perhaps as a madhouse or chamber of horrors? Yet for beings like us, the monotony of singing psalms would be as painful as the torments of hell. Those torments might even provide a welcome interruption. What deeds deserve rewards greater than those given to humanity’s greatest benefactors? And what crimes deserve a hundred years of punishment after death for every ten years lived here? That is Plato’s merciful calculation. It is more merciful, at any rate, than the eternal damnation taught by so-called Christian teachers. We would be ready to die of pity if we witnessed even the least of these sufferings. Yet writers of Infernos and Purgatorios have assigned them to the damned. Still, these joys and terrors seem to have hardly any noticeable influence on people’s lives. Contrary to Plato’s suggestion in the Republic, an old wicked man is not more troubled by terrors beyond death. Their approach does not make him more afraid. Nor is a good man ecstatic about the joys he will soon share. Age dulls our awareness of both worlds, and life’s habits are strongest at death. Even a dying mother dreams of her lost children as they were forty or fifty years earlier, 'pattering over the boards.' She does not dream of reunion with them in another state of existence. When their last hour comes, most people accept the order of nature and the will of God. They are not thinking of Dante’s Inferno or Paradiso, or of the Pilgrim’s Progress. Heaven and hell are not realities to them, but words or ideas. They are outward symbols of some great mystery whose meaning they barely understand. Traditional portrayals of heaven and hell have inspired many noble poems and pictures. These portrayals have become fixed in works of art and can no longer be changed. Many sermons have been filled with descriptions of heavenly or hellish dwellings. Yet even in childhood, the thought of heaven and hell hardly ever motivated our actions. Nor did it ever seriously affect the substance of our beliefs.

8. Another life must be described, if at all, in forms of thought and not of sense. To draw pictures of heaven and hell, whether in the language of Scripture or any other, adds nothing to our real knowledge, but may perhaps disguise our ignorance. The truest conception which we can form of a future life is a state of progress or education—a progress from evil to good, from ignorance to knowledge. To this we are led by the analogy of the present life, in which we see different races and nations of men, and different men and women of the same nation, in various states or stages of cultivation; some more and some less developed, and all of them capable of improvement under favourable circumstances. There are punishments too of children when they are growing up inflicted by their parents, of elder offenders which are imposed by the law of the land, of all men at all times of life, which are attached by the laws of nature to the performance of certain actions. All these punishments are really educational; that is to say, they are not intended to retaliate on the offender, but to teach him a lesson. Also there is an element of chance in them, which is another name for our ignorance of the laws of nature. There is evil too inseparable from good (compare Lysis); not always punished here, as good is not always rewarded. It is capable of being indefinitely diminished; and as knowledge increases, the element of chance may more and more disappear.

8. If we can describe another life at all, we must use ideas rather than images drawn from the senses. Pictures of heaven and hell add nothing to our real knowledge, whether drawn from Scripture or elsewhere. They may perhaps hide our ignorance. The truest idea we can form of a future life is a state of progress or education. It is progress from evil to good, from ignorance to knowledge. The analogy with our present life leads us to this view. We see different races and nations at different stages of development. The same is true of individual men and women within each nation. Some are more developed and some less, but all can improve under favorable conditions. Parents punish children as they grow up. The law of the land punishes older offenders. The laws of nature also attach punishments to certain actions, for all people at every stage of life. All these punishments are really educational. Their purpose is not to take revenge on offenders, but to teach them a lesson. They also contain an element of chance, which is another name for our ignorance of nature’s laws. There is also evil inseparable from good (compare Lysis). Evil is not always punished in this life, just as good is not always rewarded. Evil can be reduced without limit. As knowledge grows, the element of chance may disappear more and more.

For we do not argue merely from the analogy of the present state of this world to another, but from the analogy of a probable future to which we are tending. The greatest changes of which we have had experience as yet are due to our increasing knowledge of history and of nature. They have been produced by a few minds appearing in three or four favoured nations, in a comparatively short period of time. May we be allowed to imagine the minds of men everywhere working together during many ages for the completion of our knowledge? May not the science of physiology transform the world? Again, the majority of mankind have really experienced some moral improvement; almost every one feels that he has tendencies to good, and is capable of becoming better. And these germs of good are often found to be developed by new circumstances, like stunted trees when transplanted to a better soil. The differences between the savage and the civilized man, or between the civilized man in old and new countries, may be indefinitely increased. The first difference is the effect of a few thousand, the second of a few hundred years. We congratulate ourselves that slavery has become industry; that law and constitutional government have superseded despotism and violence; that an ethical religion has taken the place of Fetichism. There may yet come a time when the many may be as well off as the few; when no one will be weighed down by excessive toil; when the necessity of providing for the body will not interfere with mental improvement; when the physical frame may be strengthened and developed; and the religion of all men may become a reasonable service.

We do not argue merely by comparing this world’s present state with another world. We also draw on the likely future toward which we are moving. The greatest changes we have experienced so far have come from our growing knowledge of history and nature. A few minds have produced them in three or four fortunate nations, over a relatively short time. May we imagine human minds everywhere working together over many ages to complete our knowledge? Might the science of physiology transform the world? Most people have also experienced some moral improvement. Almost everyone feels some tendency toward goodness and some ability to become better. New circumstances often develop these seeds of goodness, like stunted trees transplanted into better soil. The differences between people called savage and those called civilized may grow without limit. So may the differences between civilized people in old and new countries. The first difference results from a few thousand years, the second from a few hundred. We congratulate ourselves that slavery has given way to paid work. Law and constitutional government have replaced absolute rule and violence. A religion based on moral principles has replaced the worship of objects believed to hold spiritual power. A time may yet come when the many are as well off as the few. No one may be burdened by excessive work. The need to provide for the body may no longer interfere with developing the mind. The body may be strengthened and developed. And everyone’s religion may become a form of worship guided by reason.

Nothing therefore, either in the present state of man or in the tendencies of the future, as far as we can entertain conjecture of them, would lead us to suppose that God governs us vindictively in this world, and therefore we have no reason to infer that he will govern us vindictively in another. The true argument from analogy is not, 'This life is a mixed state of justice and injustice, of great waste, of sudden casualties, of disproportionate punishments, and therefore the like inconsistencies, irregularities, injustices are to be expected in another;' but 'This life is subject to law, and is in a state of progress, and therefore law and progress may be believed to be the governing principles of another.' All the analogies of this world would be against unmeaning punishments inflicted a hundred or a thousand years after an offence had been committed. Suffering there might be as a part of education, but not hopeless or protracted; as there might be a retrogression of individuals or of bodies of men, yet not such as to interfere with a plan for the improvement of the whole (compare Laws.)

Nothing in humanity’s present condition suggests that God governs us out of vengeance in this world. Nor do future trends suggest this, as far as we can predict them. So we have no reason to conclude that he will govern us out of vengeance in another world. The true argument by analogy is not, 'This life mixes justice and injustice, great waste, sudden disasters, and disproportionate punishments. Therefore, we should expect similar inconsistencies, irregularities, and injustices in another life.' Instead, it is, 'This life follows laws and is progressing. Therefore, we may believe that law and progress are the governing principles of another life.' All the parallels in this world argue against pointless punishments imposed a hundred or a thousand years after an offense. There might be suffering as part of education, but it would not be hopeless or prolonged. Individuals or groups might move backward. But this would not interfere with a plan for the improvement of the whole (compare Laws.)

9. But some one will say: That we cannot reason from the seen to the unseen, and that we are creating another world after the image of this, just as men in former ages have created gods in their own likeness. And we, like the companions of Socrates, may feel discouraged at hearing our favourite 'argument from analogy' thus summarily disposed of. Like himself, too, we may adduce other arguments in which he seems to have anticipated us, though he expresses them in different language. For we feel that the soul partakes of the ideal and invisible; and can never fall into the error of confusing the external circumstances of man with his higher self; or his origin with his nature. It is as repugnant to us as it was to him to imagine that our moral ideas are to be attributed only to cerebral forces. The value of a human soul, like the value of a man's life to himself, is inestimable, and cannot be reckoned in earthly or material things. The human being alone has the consciousness of truth and justice and love, which is the consciousness of God. And the soul becoming more conscious of these, becomes more conscious of her own immortality.

9. But someone will say that we cannot reason from what we see to what we cannot see. They will say we are creating another world in the image of this one. People in earlier ages did the same when they created gods in their own likeness. Like Socrates’ companions, we may feel discouraged when our favourite 'argument from analogy' is dismissed so quickly. Like Socrates himself, we may also offer other arguments. He seems to have anticipated these, though he expresses them differently. For we feel that the soul shares in what is ideal and invisible. We can never make the mistake of confusing a person’s outward circumstances with their higher self, or their origins with their nature. The idea that our moral concepts come only from brain activity is as repugnant to us as it was to him. The value of a human soul, like the value of a person’s life to themselves, is beyond measure. It cannot be measured in earthly or material terms. Human beings alone are conscious of truth, justice, and love, and this is consciousness of God. As the soul becomes more conscious of these, it becomes more conscious of its own immortality.

10. The last ground of our belief in immortality, and the strongest, is the perfection of the divine nature. The mere fact of the existence of God does not tend to show the continued existence of man. An evil God or an indifferent God might have had the power, but not the will, to preserve us. He might have regarded us as fitted to minister to his service by a succession of existences,—like the animals, without attributing to each soul an incomparable value. But if he is perfect, he must will that all rational beings should partake of that perfection which he himself is. In the words of the Timaeus, he is good, and therefore he desires that all other things should be as like himself as possible. And the manner in which he accomplishes this is by permitting evil, or rather degrees of good, which are otherwise called evil. For all progress is good relatively to the past, and yet may be comparatively evil when regarded in the light of the future. Good and evil are relative terms, and degrees of evil are merely the negative aspect of degrees of good. Of the absolute goodness of any finite nature we can form no conception; we are all of us in process of transition from one degree of good or evil to another. The difficulties which are urged about the origin or existence of evil are mere dialectical puzzles, standing in the same relation to Christian philosophy as the puzzles of the Cynics and Megarians to the philosophy of Plato. They arise out of the tendency of the human mind to regard good and evil both as relative and absolute; just as the riddles about motion are to be explained by the double conception of space or matter, which the human mind has the power of regarding either as continuous or discrete.

10. The final and strongest basis for our belief in immortality is the perfection of God’s nature. God’s existence alone does not suggest that human beings continue to exist after death. An evil or indifferent God might have had the power to preserve us, but not the will. He might have seen us as suited to serve him through a succession of lives, like animals. He need not have given each soul an incomparable value. But if he is perfect, he must want all rational beings to share in the perfection that is his nature. In the words of the Timaeus, he is good. He therefore wants all other things to be as much like himself as possible. He achieves this by allowing evil, or rather, degrees of good that are also called evil. All progress is good compared with the past. Yet it may be comparatively evil when viewed in light of the future. Good and evil are relative terms. Degrees of evil are merely the negative side of degrees of good. We cannot conceive of absolute goodness in any finite being. All of us are moving from one degree of good or evil to another. The difficulties raised about evil’s origin or existence are merely puzzles of logical argument. They relate to Christian philosophy as the puzzles of the Cynics and Megarians relate to Plato’s philosophy. They arise from the human mind’s tendency to treat good and evil as both relative and absolute. Similarly, riddles about motion can be explained by our two ways of understanding space or matter. The human mind can view either as continuous or as made up of separate parts.

In speaking of divine perfection, we mean to say that God is just and true and loving, the author of order and not of disorder, of good and not of evil. Or rather, that he is justice, that he is truth, that he is love, that he is order, that he is the very progress of which we were speaking; and that wherever these qualities are present, whether in the human soul or in the order of nature, there is God. We might still see him everywhere, if we had not been mistakenly seeking for him apart from us, instead of in us; away from the laws of nature, instead of in them. And we become united to him not by mystical absorption, but by partaking, whether consciously or unconsciously, of that truth and justice and love which he himself is.

When we speak of divine perfection, we mean that God is just, truthful, and loving. He is the source of order, not disorder, and of good, not evil. More precisely, he is justice, truth, love, and order. He is the very progress we were speaking of. Wherever these qualities exist, whether in the human soul or in the order of nature, God is there. We might still see him everywhere if we had not mistakenly looked for him outside ourselves rather than within us. We have looked for him outside the laws of nature rather than within them. We become united with him not by being mystically absorbed into him, but by sharing in what he is. Whether we know it or not, we share in the truth, justice, and love that he himself is.

Thus the belief in the immortality of the soul rests at last on the belief in God. If there is a good and wise God, then there is a progress of mankind towards perfection; and if there is no progress of men towards perfection, then there is no good and wise God. We cannot suppose that the moral government of God of which we see the beginnings in the world and in ourselves will cease when we pass out of life.

So belief in the soul’s immortality ultimately rests on belief in God. If there is a good and wise God, then humanity is progressing toward perfection. If people are not progressing toward perfection, then there is no good and wise God. We see the beginnings of God’s moral rule in the world and in ourselves. We cannot suppose that this rule will end when we die.

11. Considering the 'feebleness of the human faculties and the uncertainty of the subject,' we are inclined to believe that the fewer our words the better. At the approach of death there is not much said; good men are too honest to go out of the world professing more than they know. There is perhaps no important subject about which, at any time, even religious people speak so little to one another. In the fulness of life the thought of death is mostly awakened by the sight or recollection of the death of others rather than by the prospect of our own. We must also acknowledge that there are degrees of the belief in immortality, and many forms in which it presents itself to the mind. Some persons will say no more than that they trust in God, and that they leave all to Him. It is a great part of true religion not to pretend to know more than we do. Others when they quit this world are comforted with the hope 'That they will see and know their friends in heaven.' But it is better to leave them in the hands of God and to be assured that 'no evil shall touch them.' There are others again to whom the belief in a divine personality has ceased to have any longer a meaning; yet they are satisfied that the end of all is not here, but that something still remains to us, 'and some better thing for the good than for the evil.' They are persuaded, in spite of their theological nihilism, that the ideas of justice and truth and holiness and love are realities. They cherish an enthusiastic devotion to the first principles of morality. Through these they see, or seem to see, darkly, and in a figure, that the soul is immortal.

11. Given the 'weakness of human abilities and the uncertainty of the subject,' we tend to think fewer words are better. As death approaches, little is said. Good people are too honest to leave this world claiming to know more than they do. Perhaps there is no important subject that even religious people discuss so little with one another, at any time. In the midst of life, seeing or remembering others' deaths usually makes us think of death, rather than anticipating our own. We must also recognize that belief in immortality varies in strength and takes many forms in people's minds. Some will say only that they trust in God and leave everything to him. An important part of true religion is not pretending to know more than we do. Others, as they leave this world, find comfort in the hope 'that they will see and know their friends in heaven.' But it is better to leave them in God's hands, assured that 'no evil will touch them.' For still others, belief in a personal God no longer has any meaning. Yet they are satisfied that everything does not end here, that something still remains for us. They believe there is 'something better for the good than for the evil.' Despite rejecting all theological beliefs, they remain convinced that justice, truth, holiness, and love are real. They are deeply devoted to the basic principles of morality. Through these principles, they see, or seem to see, dimly and symbolically, that the soul is immortal.

But besides differences of theological opinion which must ever prevail about things unseen, the hope of immortality is weaker or stronger in men at one time of life than at another; it even varies from day to day. It comes and goes; the mind, like the sky, is apt to be overclouded. Other generations of men may have sometimes lived under an 'eclipse of faith,' to us the total disappearance of it might be compared to the 'sun falling from heaven.' And we may sometimes have to begin again and acquire the belief for ourselves; or to win it back again when it is lost. It is really weakest in the hour of death. For Nature, like a kind mother or nurse, lays us to sleep without frightening us; physicians, who are the witnesses of such scenes, say that under ordinary circumstances there is no fear of the future. Often, as Plato tells us, death is accompanied 'with pleasure.' (Tim.) When the end is still uncertain, the cry of many a one has been, 'Pray, that I may be taken.' The last thoughts even of the best men depend chiefly on the accidents of their bodily state. Pain soon overpowers the desire of life; old age, like the child, is laid to sleep almost in a moment. The long experience of life will often destroy the interest which mankind have in it. So various are the feelings with which different persons draw near to death; and still more various the forms in which imagination clothes it. For this alternation of feeling compare the Old Testament,—Psalm vi.; Isaiah; Eccles.

People will always differ in their religious views about things unseen. Beyond this, their hope of immortality grows stronger or weaker at different stages of life. It even changes from day to day. It comes and goes. The mind, like the sky, is easily clouded over. Other generations may sometimes have lived through an 'eclipse of faith.' To us, its complete disappearance might seem like the 'sun falling from heaven.' Sometimes we may have to start again and develop this belief for ourselves. Or we may have to regain it after losing it. This hope is actually weakest at the hour of death. For Nature, like a kind mother or nurse, puts us to sleep without frightening us. Doctors who witness such scenes say that, under ordinary circumstances, there is no fear of the future. Often, as Plato tells us, death comes 'with pleasure.' (Tim.) When the outcome is still uncertain, many have cried, 'Pray, that I may be taken.' Even the final thoughts of the best people depend mainly on the chance circumstances of their physical condition. Pain soon overcomes the desire to live. An old person, like a child, is put to sleep almost in a moment. Long experience of life will often destroy people's interest in it. People's feelings as they approach death vary greatly. The forms their imagination gives to death vary even more. For these shifts in feeling, compare the Old Testament, Psalm vi., Isaiah, and Ecclesiastes.

12. When we think of God and of man in his relation to God; of the imperfection of our present state and yet of the progress which is observable in the history of the world and of the human mind; of the depth and power of our moral ideas which seem to partake of the very nature of God Himself; when we consider the contrast between the physical laws to which we are subject and the higher law which raises us above them and is yet a part of them; when we reflect on our capacity of becoming the 'spectators of all time and all existence,' and of framing in our own minds the ideal of a perfect Being; when we see how the human mind in all the higher religions of the world, including Buddhism, notwithstanding some aberrations, has tended towards such a belief—we have reason to think that our destiny is different from that of animals; and though we cannot altogether shut out the childish fear that the soul upon leaving the body may 'vanish into thin air,' we have still, so far as the nature of the subject admits, a hope of immortality with which we comfort ourselves on sufficient grounds. The denial of the belief takes the heart out of human life; it lowers men to the level of the material. As Goethe also says, 'He is dead even in this world who has no belief in another.'

12. We think of God and of human beings in their relationship to God. We recognize the imperfection of our present state. Yet we also see progress in the history of the world and of the human mind. Our moral ideas have depth and power, and seem to share in the very nature of God himself. We consider the contrast between the physical laws that govern us and a higher law. This higher law raises us above those laws, yet is also part of them. We reflect on our ability to become 'spectators of all time and all existence.' We can also form in our minds the ideal of a perfect Being. In all the world's higher religions, including Buddhism, the human mind has tended toward this belief, despite some deviations. These considerations give us reason to think that our destiny differs from that of animals. We cannot entirely dismiss the childish fear that the soul may 'vanish into thin air' when it leaves the body. Still, as far as the nature of the subject allows, we have sufficient grounds for a comforting hope of immortality. Denying this belief takes the heart out of human life. It reduces human beings to the level of purely material things. As Goethe also says, 'He is dead even in this world who has no belief in another.'

13. It is well also that we should sometimes think of the forms of thought under which the idea of immortality is most naturally presented to us. It is clear that to our minds the risen soul can no longer be described, as in a picture, by the symbol of a creature half-bird, half-human, nor in any other form of sense. The multitude of angels, as in Milton, singing the Almighty's praises, are a noble image, and may furnish a theme for the poet or the painter, but they are no longer an adequate expression of the kingdom of God which is within us. Neither is there any mansion, in this world or another, in which the departed can be imagined to dwell and carry on their occupations. When this earthly tabernacle is dissolved, no other habitation or building can take them in: it is in the language of ideas only that we speak of them.

13. We should also sometimes consider the ways of thinking that most naturally express the idea of immortality to us. Clearly, we can no longer picture the risen soul as a creature that is half-bird and half-human. Nor can we represent it in any other physical form. The host of angels singing the Almighty's praises, as in Milton, is a noble image. It may provide a subject for poets or painters. But it no longer adequately expresses the kingdom of God within us. Nor can we imagine any dwelling, in this world or another, where the dead live and continue their activities. When this earthly body is dissolved, no other home or building can receive them. We can speak of them only in the language of ideas.

First of all there is the thought of rest and freedom from pain; they have gone home, as the common saying is, and the cares of this world touch them no more. Secondly, we may imagine them as they were at their best and brightest, humbly fulfilling their daily round of duties—selfless, childlike, unaffected by the world; when the eye was single and the whole body seemed to be full of light; when the mind was clear and saw into the purposes of God. Thirdly, we may think of them as possessed by a great love of God and man, working out His will at a further stage in the heavenly pilgrimage. And yet we acknowledge that these are the things which eye hath not seen nor ear heard and therefore it hath not entered into the heart of man in any sensible manner to conceive them. Fourthly, there may have been some moments in our own lives when we have risen above ourselves, or been conscious of our truer selves, in which the will of God has superseded our wills, and we have entered into communion with Him, and been partakers for a brief season of the Divine truth and love, in which like Christ we have been inspired to utter the prayer, 'I in them, and thou in me, that we may be all made perfect in one.' These precious moments, if we have ever known them, are the nearest approach which we can make to the idea of immortality.

First, there is the thought of rest and freedom from pain. They have gone home, as people often say, and the cares of this world no longer touch them. Second, we may imagine them as they were at their best and brightest, humbly carrying out their daily duties. They were selfless, childlike, and untouched by the world. Their vision was undivided, and their whole bodies seemed full of light. Their minds were clear, and they understood God’s purposes. Third, we may think of them as filled with a great love for God and humanity. They are carrying out his will at a later stage of their heavenly journey. Yet we acknowledge that no eye has seen these things, nor has any ear heard them. No human heart, therefore, has been able to form any concrete idea of them. Fourth, there may have been moments in our own lives when we rose above ourselves or became aware of our truer selves. In these moments, God’s will took the place of our own, and we entered into communion with him. For a short time, we shared in divine truth and love. Like Christ, we were inspired to offer the prayer, 'I in them, and you in me, that we may all be made perfect in one.' These precious moments, if we have ever known them, are the closest we can come to understanding immortality.

14. Returning now to the earlier stage of human thought which is represented by the writings of Plato, we find that many of the same questions have already arisen: there is the same tendency to materialism; the same inconsistency in the application of the idea of mind; the same doubt whether the soul is to be regarded as a cause or as an effect; the same falling back on moral convictions. In the Phaedo the soul is conscious of her divine nature, and the separation from the body which has been commenced in this life is perfected in another. Beginning in mystery, Socrates, in the intermediate part of the Dialogue, attempts to bring the doctrine of a future life into connection with his theory of knowledge. In proportion as he succeeds in this, the individual seems to disappear in a more general notion of the soul; the contemplation of ideas 'under the form of eternity' takes the place of past and future states of existence. His language may be compared to that of some modern philosophers, who speak of eternity, not in the sense of perpetual duration of time, but as an ever-present quality of the soul. Yet at the conclusion of the Dialogue, having 'arrived at the end of the intellectual world' (Republic), he replaces the veil of mythology, and describes the soul and her attendant genius in the language of the mysteries or of a disciple of Zoroaster. Nor can we fairly demand of Plato a consistency which is wanting among ourselves, who acknowledge that another world is beyond the range of human thought, and yet are always seeking to represent the mansions of heaven or hell in the colours of the painter, or in the descriptions of the poet or rhetorician.

14. Returning now to the earlier stage of human thought represented by Plato’s writings, we find many of the same questions. There is the same tendency toward materialism and the same inconsistency in applying the idea of mind. There is the same doubt about whether the soul is a cause or an effect. There is also the same reliance on moral convictions. In the Phaedo, the soul is aware of its divine nature. Its separation from the body begins in this life and is completed in another. Socrates begins with religious mysteries. In the middle of the Dialogue, he tries to connect the doctrine of an afterlife with his theory of knowledge. As he succeeds, the individual seems to disappear into a more general idea of the soul. Contemplating ideas 'under the form of eternity' replaces the consideration of past and future states of existence. His language resembles that of some modern philosophers. They speak of eternity not as time lasting forever, but as an ever-present quality of the soul. Yet at the Dialogue’s conclusion, he has 'arrived at the end of the intellectual world' (Republic). He then draws the veil of mythology over it again. He describes the soul and its guardian spirit in the language of the mysteries or of a follower of Zoroaster. Nor can we fairly demand a consistency from Plato that we ourselves lack. We acknowledge that another world lies beyond the reach of human thought. Yet we constantly try to depict the dwellings of heaven or hell. We use the painter’s colours or the descriptions of poets and skilled speakers.

15. The doctrine of the immortality of the soul was not new to the Greeks in the age of Socrates, but, like the unity of God, had a foundation in the popular belief. The old Homeric notion of a gibbering ghost flitting away to Hades; or of a few illustrious heroes enjoying the isles of the blest; or of an existence divided between the two; or the Hesiodic, of righteous spirits, who become guardian angels,—had given place in the mysteries and the Orphic poets to representations, partly fanciful, of a future state of rewards and punishments. (Laws.) The reticence of the Greeks on public occasions and in some part of their literature respecting this 'underground' religion, is not to be taken as a measure of the diffusion of such beliefs. If Pericles in the funeral oration is silent on the consolations of immortality, the poet Pindar and the tragedians on the other hand constantly assume the continued existence of the dead in an upper or under world. Darius and Laius are still alive; Antigone will be dear to her brethren after death; the way to the palace of Cronos is found by those who 'have thrice departed from evil.' The tragedy of the Greeks is not 'rounded' by this life, but is deeply set in decrees of fate and mysterious workings of powers beneath the earth. In the caricature of Aristophanes there is also a witness to the common sentiment. The Ionian and Pythagorean philosophies arose, and some new elements were added to the popular belief. The individual must find an expression as well as the world. Either the soul was supposed to exist in the form of a magnet, or of a particle of fire, or of light, or air, or water; or of a number or of a harmony of number; or to be or have, like the stars, a principle of motion (Arist. de Anim.). At length Anaxagoras, hardly distinguishing between life and mind, or between mind human and divine, attained the pure abstraction; and this, like the other abstractions of Greek philosophy, sank deep into the human intelligence. The opposition of the intelligible and the sensible, and of God to the world, supplied an analogy which assisted in the separation of soul and body. If ideas were separable from phenomena, mind was also separable from matter; if the ideas were eternal, the mind that conceived them was eternal too. As the unity of God was more distinctly acknowledged, the conception of the human soul became more developed. The succession, or alternation of life and death, had occurred to Heracleitus. The Eleatic Parmenides had stumbled upon the modern thesis, that 'thought and being are the same.' The Eastern belief in transmigration defined the sense of individuality; and some, like Empedocles, fancied that the blood which they had shed in another state of being was crying against them, and that for thirty thousand years they were to be 'fugitives and vagabonds upon the earth.' The desire of recognizing a lost mother or love or friend in the world below (Phaedo) was a natural feeling which, in that age as well as in every other, has given distinctness to the hope of immortality. Nor were ethical considerations wanting, partly derived from the necessity of punishing the greater sort of criminals, whom no avenging power of this world could reach. The voice of conscience, too, was heard reminding the good man that he was not altogether innocent. (Republic.) To these indistinct longings and fears an expression was given in the mysteries and Orphic poets: a 'heap of books' (Republic), passing under the names of Musaeus and Orpheus in Plato's time, were filled with notions of an under-world.

15. The belief in the soul’s immortality was not new to the Greeks in Socrates’ time. Like belief in the unity of God, it had roots in popular belief. Homer’s old picture showed a babbling ghost flitting away to Hades. Other versions placed a few great heroes in the Isles of the Blessed, or divided existence between the two realms. Hesiod described righteous spirits becoming guardian angels. In the mystery religions and Orphic poetry, these views had given way to partly fanciful accounts of future rewards and punishments. (Laws.) The Greeks said little about this ‘underground’ religion in public and in some of their literature. Their silence should not be taken as a measure of how widespread these beliefs were. Pericles says nothing about the comfort of immortality in his funeral speech. Yet Pindar and the tragic poets constantly assume that the dead continue to exist in an upper or lower world. Darius and Laius are still alive. Antigone will remain dear to her brothers after death. Those who ‘have thrice departed from evil’ find the way to the palace of Cronos. Greek tragedy is not confined to this life. It is deeply rooted in fate’s decrees and the mysterious workings of powers beneath the earth. Aristophanes’ comic exaggerations also bear witness to this common belief. Ionian and Pythagorean philosophy arose, adding new elements to popular belief. The individual, as well as the world, needed an explanation. Some imagined the soul as a magnet, a particle of fire, light, air, or water. Others saw it as a number or a harmony of numbers. Others thought it was, or possessed, a source of motion, like the stars. (Arist. de Anim.) Finally, Anaxagoras arrived at the purely abstract concept of mind. He scarcely distinguished life from mind, or human mind from divine mind. Like other abstractions in Greek philosophy, this concept became deeply rooted in human thought. The contrast between what the mind understands and what the senses perceive helped distinguish soul from body. So did the contrast between God and the world. If ideas could exist apart from observable things, mind could also exist apart from matter. If ideas were eternal, the mind that conceived them was eternal too. As the unity of God became more clearly recognized, the concept of the human soul became more developed. Heracleitus had considered the succession, or alternation, of life and death. Parmenides, of the Eleatic school, had stumbled upon the modern claim that ‘thought and being are the same.’ The Eastern belief in the soul’s passage from one body to another sharpened the sense of individuality. Some, like Empedocles, imagined that blood they had shed in a previous existence cried out against them. They believed they were condemned for thirty thousand years to be ‘fugitives and vagabonds upon the earth.’ The wish to recognize a lost mother, beloved, or friend in the world below was a natural feeling. (Phaedo.) In that age, as in every other, it gave a clearer shape to the hope of immortality. Moral considerations also played a part. These arose partly from the need to punish the worst criminals, beyond the reach of any earthly power of vengeance. Conscience, too, reminded the good man that he was not entirely innocent. (Republic.) The mystery religions and Orphic poets gave expression to these vague longings and fears. In Plato’s time, a ‘heap of books’ circulated under the names of Musaeus and Orpheus. (Republic.) They were filled with ideas about an underworld.

16. Yet after all the belief in the individuality of the soul after death had but a feeble hold on the Greek mind. Like the personality of God, the personality of man in a future state was not inseparably bound up with the reality of his existence. For the distinction between the personal and impersonal, and also between the divine and human, was far less marked to the Greek than to ourselves. And as Plato readily passes from the notion of the good to that of God, he also passes almost imperceptibly to himself and his reader from the future life of the individual soul to the eternal being of the absolute soul. There has been a clearer statement and a clearer denial of the belief in modern times than is found in early Greek philosophy, and hence the comparative silence on the whole subject which is often remarked in ancient writers, and particularly in Aristotle. For Plato and Aristotle are not further removed in their teaching about the immortality of the soul than they are in their theory of knowledge.

16. Yet the belief that the soul remained an individual after death had only a weak hold on Greek thought. Belief in God’s existence did not necessarily require belief in a personal God. Likewise, belief in human existence after death did not necessarily require belief that people retained their individual identities. For the Greeks, the distinctions between personal and impersonal, and between divine and human, were much less sharp than ours. Plato readily moves from the idea of the good to the idea of God. He also moves from the individual soul’s future life to the eternal existence of the absolute soul. This shift is almost unnoticeable to both him and his reader. In modern times, this belief has been both stated and denied more clearly than in early Greek philosophy. This helps explain why ancient writers, especially Aristotle, are often noted for saying relatively little about the whole subject. For Plato and Aristotle differ no more in their teachings on the soul’s immortality than in their theories of knowledge.

17. Living in an age when logic was beginning to mould human thought, Plato naturally cast his belief in immortality into a logical form. And when we consider how much the doctrine of ideas was also one of words, it is not surprising that he should have fallen into verbal fallacies: early logic is always mistaking the truth of the form for the truth of the matter. It is easy to see that the alternation of opposites is not the same as the generation of them out of each other; and that the generation of them out of each other, which is the first argument in the Phaedo, is at variance with their mutual exclusion of each other, whether in themselves or in us, which is the last. For even if we admit the distinction which he draws between the opposites and the things which have the opposites, still individuals fall under the latter class; and we have to pass out of the region of human hopes and fears to a conception of an abstract soul which is the impersonation of the ideas. Such a conception, which in Plato himself is but half expressed, is unmeaning to us, and relative only to a particular stage in the history of thought. The doctrine of reminiscence is also a fragment of a former world, which has no place in the philosophy of modern times. But Plato had the wonders of psychology just opening to him, and he had not the explanation of them which is supplied by the analysis of language and the history of the human mind. The question, 'Whence come our abstract ideas?' he could only answer by an imaginary hypothesis. Nor is it difficult to see that his crowning argument is purely verbal, and is but the expression of an instinctive confidence put into a logical form:—'The soul is immortal because it contains a principle of imperishableness.' Nor does he himself seem at all to be aware that nothing is added to human knowledge by his 'safe and simple answer,' that beauty is the cause of the beautiful; and that he is merely reasserting the Eleatic being 'divided by the Pythagorean numbers,' against the Heracleitean doctrine of perpetual generation. The answer to the 'very serious question' of generation and destruction is really the denial of them. For this he would substitute, as in the Republic, a system of ideas, tested, not by experience, but by their consequences, and not explained by actual causes, but by a higher, that is, a more general notion. Consistency with themselves is the only test which is to be applied to them. (Republic, and Phaedo.)

17. Plato lived when logic was beginning to shape human thought. Naturally, he gave his belief in immortality a logical form. His theory of ideas was also largely a theory about words. So it is not surprising that he fell into errors based on language. Early logic always confuses the truth of an argument’s form with the truth of its content. Clearly, opposites taking turns is not the same as opposites arising from each other. And their arising from each other, the first argument in the Phaedo, conflicts with their mutual exclusion, the last argument. This exclusion applies both to opposites themselves and to opposites within us. Plato distinguishes between opposites and the things that possess them. But even if we accept this distinction, individual people still belong to the second category. We must therefore leave behind human hopes and fears and conceive of an abstract soul that embodies the ideas. Plato himself expresses this conception only partly. It has no meaning for us and belongs only to a particular stage in the history of thought. The theory of recollection is also a fragment of an earlier world. It has no place in modern philosophy. But the wonders of psychology were only beginning to open up to Plato. He lacked the explanations supplied by studying language and the history of the human mind. He could answer the question, 'Where do our abstract ideas come from?' only with an imagined hypothesis. It is also easy to see that his final, culminating argument rests entirely on words. It simply gives logical form to an instinctive confidence: 'The soul is immortal because it contains a principle of imperishability.' Nor does Plato seem at all aware that his 'safe and simple answer' adds nothing to human knowledge. This answer says that beauty is the cause of beautiful things. He is merely restating the Eleatic concept of being, 'divided by the Pythagorean numbers,' against Heraclitus’s doctrine of continual becoming. His answer to the 'very serious question' of coming into being and passing away really denies both processes. In their place, as in the Republic, he would put a system of ideas. These ideas are tested by their consequences, not by experience. They are explained not by actual causes, but by a higher, meaning more general, concept. Internal consistency is the only test to be applied to them. (Republic, and Phaedo.)

18. To deal fairly with such arguments, they should be translated as far as possible into their modern equivalents. 'If the ideas of men are eternal, their souls are eternal, and if not the ideas, then not the souls.' Such an argument stands nearly in the same relation to Plato and his age, as the argument from the existence of God to immortality among ourselves. 'If God exists, then the soul exists after death; and if there is no God, there is no existence of the soul after death.' For the ideas are to his mind the reality, the truth, the principle of permanence, as well as of intelligence and order in the world. When Simmias and Cebes say that they are more strongly persuaded of the existence of ideas than they are of the immortality of the soul, they represent fairly enough the order of thought in Greek philosophy. And we might say in the same way that we are more certain of the existence of God than we are of the immortality of the soul, and are led by the belief in the one to a belief in the other. The parallel, as Socrates would say, is not perfect, but agrees in as far as the mind in either case is regarded as dependent on something above and beyond herself. The analogy may even be pressed a step further: 'We are more certain of our ideas of truth and right than we are of the existence of God, and are led on in the order of thought from one to the other.' Or more correctly: 'The existence of right and truth is the existence of God, and can never for a moment be separated from Him.'

18. To judge such arguments fairly, we should restate them as closely as possible in modern terms. 'If the Ideas of human beings are eternal, their souls are eternal. If the Ideas are not eternal, neither are their souls.' This argument had much the same place in Plato’s time as an argument from God’s existence to immortality has today. 'If God exists, then the soul lives on after death. If there is no God, the soul does not live on after death.' For Plato, the Ideas are reality and truth. They are the basis of permanence, intelligence, and order in the world. Simmias and Cebes are more convinced that the Ideas exist than that the soul is immortal. In saying this, they fairly reflect the order of thought in Greek philosophy. Similarly, we might say we are more certain that God exists than that the soul is immortal. Belief in the first leads us to believe the second. As Socrates would say, the parallel is not exact. But in both cases, the mind is seen as depending on something above and beyond itself. We can take the comparison one step further. 'We are more certain of our ideas of truth and right than we are of God’s existence. Our thinking leads us from the first belief to the second.' Or, more accurately: 'The existence of right and truth is the existence of God. They can never, even for a moment, be separated from him.'

19. The main argument of the Phaedo is derived from the existence of eternal ideas of which the soul is a partaker; the other argument of the alternation of opposites is replaced by this. And there have not been wanting philosophers of the idealist school who have imagined that the doctrine of the immortality of the soul is a theory of knowledge, and that in what has preceded Plato is accommodating himself to the popular belief. Such a view can only be elicited from the Phaedo by what may be termed the transcendental method of interpretation, and is obviously inconsistent with the Gorgias and the Republic. Those who maintain it are immediately compelled to renounce the shadow which they have grasped, as a play of words only. But the truth is, that Plato in his argument for the immortality of the soul has collected many elements of proof or persuasion, ethical and mythological as well as dialectical, which are not easily to be reconciled with one another; and he is as much in earnest about his doctrine of retribution, which is repeated in all his more ethical writings, as about his theory of knowledge. And while we may fairly translate the dialectical into the language of Hegel, and the religious and mythological into the language of Dante or Bunyan, the ethical speaks to us still in the same voice, and appeals to a common feeling.

19. The main argument of the Phaedo rests on the existence of eternal ideas, in which the soul shares. This replaces the other argument, based on the alternation of opposites. Some idealist philosophers have thought that the doctrine of the soul’s immortality is a theory of knowledge. They believe that, in the earlier discussion, Plato is adapting his argument to popular belief. Such a reading of the Phaedo requires what might be called a transcendental method of interpretation. It plainly conflicts with the Gorgias and the Republic. Those who defend it must immediately abandon the shadow they have grasped, admitting that it is merely wordplay. The truth is that Plato brings together many kinds of proof or persuasion in arguing for the soul’s immortality. These include ethical and mythological elements, as well as logical arguments, which are difficult to reconcile with one another. His doctrine of reward and punishment appears repeatedly in all his more ethical writings. He takes it just as seriously as his theory of knowledge. We may reasonably express his logical arguments in Hegel’s language, and his religious and mythological ideas in Dante’s or Bunyan’s. But his ethical ideas still speak to us in the same voice and appeal to a shared feeling.

20. Two arguments of this ethical character occur in the Phaedo. The first may be described as the aspiration of the soul after another state of being. Like the Oriental or Christian mystic, the philosopher is seeking to withdraw from impurities of sense, to leave the world and the things of the world, and to find his higher self. Plato recognizes in these aspirations the foretaste of immortality; as Butler and Addison in modern times have argued, the one from the moral tendencies of mankind, the other from the progress of the soul towards perfection. In using this argument Plato has certainly confused the soul which has left the body, with the soul of the good and wise. (Compare Republic.) Such a confusion was natural, and arose partly out of the antithesis of soul and body. The soul in her own essence, and the soul 'clothed upon' with virtues and graces, were easily interchanged with one another, because on a subject which passes expression the distinctions of language can hardly be maintained.

20. Two ethical arguments appear in the Phaedo. The first concerns the soul’s longing for another state of existence. Like an Eastern or Christian mystic, the philosopher seeks to withdraw from the impurities of the senses. He seeks to leave the world and its concerns behind and find his higher self. Plato sees these longings as a foretaste of immortality. In modern times, Butler and Addison have made similar arguments. Butler argued from humanity’s moral tendencies, while Addison argued from the soul’s progress toward perfection. In making this argument, Plato has certainly confused the soul freed from the body with the good and wise soul. (Compare Republic.) This confusion was natural and arose partly from the contrast between soul and body. The soul in its essential nature was easily confused with the soul ‘clothed upon’ with virtues and graces. The subject goes beyond what words can express, making precise distinctions in language difficult to maintain.

21. The ethical proof of the immortality of the soul is derived from the necessity of retribution. The wicked would be too well off if their evil deeds came to an end. It is not to be supposed that an Ardiaeus, an Archelaus, an Ismenias could ever have suffered the penalty of their crimes in this world. The manner in which this retribution is accomplished Plato represents under the figures of mythology. Doubtless he felt that it was easier to improve than to invent, and that in religion especially the traditional form was required in order to give verisimilitude to the myth. The myth too is far more probable to that age than to ours, and may fairly be regarded as 'one guess among many' about the nature of the earth, which he cleverly supports by the indications of geology. Not that he insists on the absolute truth of his own particular notions: 'no man of sense will be confident in such matters; but he will be confident that something of the kind is true.' As in other passages (Gorg., Tim., compare Crito), he wins belief for his fictions by the moderation of his statements; he does not, like Dante or Swedenborg, allow himself to be deceived by his own creations.

21. The moral argument for the soul’s immortality rests on the need for punishment. The wicked would be too fortunate if the consequences of their evil deeds ended with death. We cannot suppose that an Ardiaeus, an Archelaus, or an Ismenias could have been fully punished in this world. Plato uses mythological images to describe how this punishment takes place. No doubt he felt it was easier to improve existing stories than to invent new ones. Especially in religion, traditional forms were needed to make a myth seem believable. The myth also seemed far more plausible in that age than in ours. It can fairly be seen as ‘one guess among many’ about the earth’s nature. Plato cleverly supports it with geological evidence. He does not, however, insist that his particular ideas are absolutely true. ‘No sensible person will be certain about such matters, but he will be certain that something like this is true.’ As elsewhere (Gorgias, Timaeus, compare Crito), he makes his invented accounts believable by keeping his claims moderate. Unlike Dante or Swedenborg, he does not let his own creations deceive him.

The Dialogue must be read in the light of the situation. And first of all we are struck by the calmness of the scene. Like the spectators at the time, we cannot pity Socrates; his mien and his language are so noble and fearless. He is the same that he ever was, but milder and gentler, and he has in no degree lost his interest in dialectics; he will not forego the delight of an argument in compliance with the jailer's intimation that he should not heat himself with talking. At such a time he naturally expresses the hope of his life, that he has been a true mystic and not a mere retainer or wand-bearer: and he refers to passages of his personal history. To his old enemies the Comic poets, and to the proceedings on the trial, he alludes playfully; but he vividly remembers the disappointment which he felt in reading the books of Anaxagoras. The return of Xanthippe and his children indicates that the philosopher is not 'made of oak or rock.' Some other traits of his character may be noted; for example, the courteous manner in which he inclines his head to the last objector, or the ironical touch, 'Me already, as the tragic poet would say, the voice of fate calls;' or the depreciation of the arguments with which 'he comforted himself and them;' or his fear of 'misology;' or his references to Homer; or the playful smile with which he 'talks like a book' about greater and less; or the allusion to the possibility of finding another teacher among barbarous races (compare Polit.); or the mysterious reference to another science (mathematics?) of generation and destruction for which he is vainly feeling. There is no change in him; only now he is invested with a sort of sacred character, as the prophet or priest of Apollo the God of the festival, in whose honour he first of all composes a hymn, and then like the swan pours forth his dying lay. Perhaps the extreme elevation of Socrates above his own situation, and the ordinary interests of life (compare his jeu d'esprit about his burial, in which for a moment he puts on the 'Silenus mask'), create in the mind of the reader an impression stronger than could be derived from arguments that such a one has in him 'a principle which does not admit of death.'

The dialogue must be read in light of its setting. Above all, we are struck by the calmness of the scene. Like those present at the time, we cannot pity Socrates. His manner and words are so noble and fearless. He is the same as ever, but milder and gentler. He has lost none of his interest in philosophical debate. He will not give up the pleasure of argument, despite the jailer’s warning against getting overheated by talking. At such a time, he naturally expresses his lifelong hope. He hopes he has been truly initiated into the mysteries, not merely an attendant or ceremonial wand-bearer. He also refers to events in his own life. He playfully mentions his old enemies, the comic poets, and the proceedings at his trial. But he vividly remembers his disappointment when reading the books of Anaxagoras. The return of Xanthippe and his children shows that the philosopher is not 'made of oak or rock.' Other features of his character are also worth noting. He courteously bows his head toward the last person to challenge him. There is his ironic remark, 'Already, as the tragic poet would say, the voice of fate calls me.' He downplays the arguments with which 'he comforted himself and them.' He fears 'misology,' the hatred of reasoning, and refers to Homer. He smiles playfully as he 'talks like a book' about greater and less. He suggests that another teacher might be found among peoples the Greeks called barbarians (compare the Statesman). He also mysteriously refers to another science of coming into being and passing away, perhaps mathematics. He is searching for it in vain. He has not changed. Yet now he takes on a kind of sacred character, as a prophet or priest of Apollo. Apollo is the god of the festival, and Socrates first composes a hymn in his honor. Then, like the swan, he pours out his dying song. Socrates rises far above his own circumstances and the ordinary concerns of life. Compare his joke about his burial, when he briefly puts on the 'Silenus mask.' Perhaps this leaves a stronger impression on the reader than arguments could. We sense that someone like him has within him 'a principle that does not admit death.'

The other persons of the Dialogue may be considered under two heads: (1) private friends; (2) the respondents in the argument.

The other participants in the dialogue fall into two groups: (1) personal friends, (2) those answering questions in the argument.

First there is Crito, who has been already introduced to us in the Euthydemus and the Crito; he is the equal in years of Socrates, and stands in quite a different relation to him from his younger disciples. He is a man of the world who is rich and prosperous (compare the jest in the Euthydemus), the best friend of Socrates, who wants to know his commands, in whose presence he talks to his family, and who performs the last duty of closing his eyes. It is observable too that, as in the Euthydemus, Crito shows no aptitude for philosophical discussions. Nor among the friends of Socrates must the jailer be forgotten, who seems to have been introduced by Plato in order to show the impression made by the extraordinary man on the common. The gentle nature of the man is indicated by his weeping at the announcement of his errand and then turning away, and also by the words of Socrates to his disciples: 'How charming the man is! since I have been in prison he has been always coming to me, and is as good as could be to me.' We are reminded too that he has retained this gentle nature amid scenes of death and violence by the contrasts which he draws between the behaviour of Socrates and of others when about to die.

First there is Crito, whom we have already met in the Euthydemus and the Crito. He is the same age as Socrates. His relationship with him is quite different from that of the younger disciples. He is a wealthy, successful man with worldly experience, as the joke in the Euthydemus suggests. He is Socrates’ closest friend and asks what Socrates wants him to do. Socrates speaks to his family in Crito’s presence, and Crito performs the final duty of closing his eyes. It is also worth noting that, as in the Euthydemus, Crito shows no talent for philosophical discussion. The jailer must also be remembered among Socrates’ friends. Plato seems to have included him to show the impression this extraordinary man made on ordinary people. The jailer’s gentle nature shows when he weeps as he announces why he has come, then turns away. It also shows in Socrates’ words to his disciples: 'What a lovely man! Since I have been in prison, he has kept coming to see me. He has been as kind to me as anyone could be.' The jailer also contrasts Socrates’ behavior with that of others facing death. These comparisons remind us that he has kept his gentle nature despite witnessing death and violence.

Another person who takes no part in the philosophical discussion is the excitable Apollodorus, the same who, in the Symposium, of which he is the narrator, is called 'the madman,' and who testifies his grief by the most violent emotions. Phaedo is also present, the 'beloved disciple' as he may be termed, who is described, if not 'leaning on his bosom,' as seated next to Socrates, who is playing with his hair. He too, like Apollodorus, takes no part in the discussion, but he loves above all things to hear and speak of Socrates after his death. The calmness of his behaviour, veiling his face when he can no longer restrain his tears, contrasts with the passionate outcries of the other. At a particular point the argument is described as falling before the attack of Simmias. A sort of despair is introduced in the minds of the company. The effect of this is heightened by the description of Phaedo, who has been the eye-witness of the scene, and by the sympathy of his Phliasian auditors who are beginning to think 'that they too can never trust an argument again.' And the intense interest of the company is communicated not only to the first auditors, but to us who in a distant country read the narrative of their emotions after more than two thousand years have passed away.

Another person who takes no part in the philosophical discussion is the excitable Apollodorus. He is the narrator of the Symposium, where he is called 'the madman.' He expresses his grief through the most intense displays of emotion. Phaedo is also present and might be called the 'beloved disciple.' He is described, if not as 'leaning on his bosom,' as sitting beside Socrates, who plays with his hair. Like Apollodorus, he takes no part in the discussion. But after Socrates’ death, he loves above all things to hear and talk about him. When he can no longer hold back his tears, he covers his face. His calm behavior contrasts with Apollodorus’ passionate cries. At one point, the argument is described as collapsing under Simmias’ attack. A kind of despair takes hold of the group. Phaedo’s account heightens this effect, since he witnessed the scene himself. So does the sympathy of his listeners from Phlius. They begin to think 'that they too can never trust an argument again.' The group’s intense interest reaches not only those first listeners but also us. In a distant country, more than two thousand years later, we read the account of their emotions.

The two principal interlocutors are Simmias and Cebes, the disciples of Philolaus the Pythagorean philosopher of Thebes. Simmias is described in the Phaedrus as fonder of an argument than any man living; and Cebes, although finally persuaded by Socrates, is said to be the most incredulous of human beings. It is Cebes who at the commencement of the Dialogue asks why 'suicide is held to be unlawful,' and who first supplies the doctrine of recollection in confirmation of the pre-existence of the soul. It is Cebes who urges that the pre-existence does not necessarily involve the future existence of the soul, as is shown by the illustration of the weaver and his coat. Simmias, on the other hand, raises the question about harmony and the lyre, which is naturally put into the mouth of a Pythagorean disciple. It is Simmias, too, who first remarks on the uncertainty of human knowledge, and only at last concedes to the argument such a qualified approval as is consistent with the feebleness of the human faculties. Cebes is the deeper and more consecutive thinker, Simmias more superficial and rhetorical; they are distinguished in much the same manner as Adeimantus and Glaucon in the Republic.

The two main speakers are Simmias and Cebes, students of Philolaus, the Pythagorean philosopher of Thebes. In the Phaedrus, Simmias is described as more fond of debate than anyone alive. Cebes, though finally convinced by Socrates, is said to be the most skeptical of all human beings. At the start of the dialogue, Cebes asks why 'suicide is held to be unlawful.' He also first introduces the doctrine of recollection to support the soul’s existence before birth. Cebes argues that its existence before birth does not necessarily imply that it will continue to exist after death. He illustrates this with the example of the weaver and his coat. Simmias, by contrast, raises the question about harmony and the lyre. This is a natural question for a Pythagorean student to ask. Simmias is also the first to comment on the uncertainty of human knowledge. Only at the end does he cautiously accept the argument, with reservations reflecting the weakness of human understanding. Cebes is the deeper and more logical thinker, while Simmias is more superficial and rhetorical. They are distinguished in much the same way as Adeimantus and Glaucon in the Republic.

Other persons, Menexenus, Ctesippus, Lysis, are old friends; Evenus has been already satirized in the Apology; Aeschines and Epigenes were present at the trial; Euclid and Terpsion will reappear in the Introduction to the Theaetetus, Hermogenes has already appeared in the Cratylus. No inference can fairly be drawn from the absence of Aristippus, nor from the omission of Xenophon, who at the time of Socrates' death was in Asia. The mention of Plato's own absence seems like an expression of sorrow, and may, perhaps, be an indication that the report of the conversation is not to be taken literally.

Others, including Menexenus, Ctesippus, and Lysis, are old friends. Evenus has already been satirized in the Apology. Aeschines and Epigenes were present at the trial. Euclid and Terpsion will appear again in the introduction to the Theaetetus. Hermogenes has already appeared in the Cratylus. No conclusion can fairly be drawn from Aristippus’s absence or from the failure to mention Xenophon. Xenophon was in Asia at the time of Socrates’ death. The mention of Plato’s own absence seems to express sorrow. It may also, perhaps, suggest that the account of the conversation should not be taken literally.

The place of the Dialogue in the series is doubtful. The doctrine of ideas is certainly carried beyond the Socratic point of view; in no other of the writings of Plato is the theory of them so completely developed. Whether the belief in immortality can be attributed to Socrates or not is uncertain; the silence of the Memorabilia, and of the earlier Dialogues of Plato, is an argument to the contrary. Yet in the Cyropaedia Xenophon has put language into the mouth of the dying Cyrus which recalls the Phaedo, and may have been derived from the teaching of Socrates. It may be fairly urged that the greatest religious interest of mankind could not have been wholly ignored by one who passed his life in fulfilling the commands of an oracle, and who recognized a Divine plan in man and nature. (Xen. Mem.) And the language of the Apology and of the Crito confirms this view.

The Dialogue’s place in the sequence is uncertain. Its doctrine of ideas clearly goes beyond Socrates’ own views. No other work by Plato develops this theory so fully. It is uncertain whether Socrates believed in immortality. The silence of Xenophon’s Memorabilia and Plato’s earlier Dialogues is an argument against this belief. Yet in the Cyropaedia, Xenophon gives the dying Cyrus words that recall the Phaedo. These words may have come from Socrates’ teaching. One can reasonably argue that Socrates could not have entirely ignored humanity’s greatest religious concern. He spent his life carrying out an oracle’s commands and recognized a divine plan in humanity and nature. (Xen. Mem.) The language of the Apology and the Crito also supports this view.

The Phaedo is not one of the Socratic Dialogues of Plato; nor, on the other hand, can it be assigned to that later stage of the Platonic writings at which the doctrine of ideas appears to be forgotten. It belongs rather to the intermediate period of the Platonic philosophy, which roughly corresponds to the Phaedrus, Gorgias, Republic, Theaetetus. Without pretending to determine the real time of their composition, the Symposium, Meno, Euthyphro, Apology, Phaedo may be conveniently read by us in this order as illustrative of the life of Socrates. Another chain may be formed of the Meno, Phaedrus, Phaedo, in which the immortality of the soul is connected with the doctrine of ideas. In the Meno the theory of ideas is based on the ancient belief in transmigration, which reappears again in the Phaedrus as well as in the Republic and Timaeus, and in all of them is connected with a doctrine of retribution. In the Phaedrus the immortality of the soul is supposed to rest on the conception of the soul as a principle of motion, whereas in the Republic the argument turns on the natural continuance of the soul, which, if not destroyed by her own proper evil, can hardly be destroyed by any other. The soul of man in the Timaeus is derived from the Supreme Creator, and either returns after death to her kindred star, or descends into the lower life of an animal. The Apology expresses the same view as the Phaedo, but with less confidence; there the probability of death being a long sleep is not excluded. The Theaetetus also describes, in a digression, the desire of the soul to fly away and be with God—'and to fly to him is to be like him.' The Symposium may be observed to resemble as well as to differ from the Phaedo. While the first notion of immortality is only in the way of natural procreation or of posthumous fame and glory, the higher revelation of beauty, like the good in the Republic, is the vision of the eternal idea. So deeply rooted in Plato's mind is the belief in immortality; so various are the forms of expression which he employs.

The Phaedo is not one of Plato’s Socratic dialogues. Nor does it belong to his later writings, where the theory of Forms seems to have been forgotten. Instead, it belongs to the middle period of Plato’s philosophy, alongside the Phaedrus, Gorgias, Republic, and Theaetetus. We need not claim to know when these works were actually written. To illustrate Socrates’ life, we can conveniently read the Symposium, Meno, Euthyphro, Apology, and Phaedo in that order. Another sequence links the Meno, Phaedrus, and Phaedo through their connection between the soul’s immortality and the theory of Forms. In the Meno, the theory of Forms rests on the ancient belief that souls pass from one life to another. This belief reappears in the Phaedrus, Republic, and Timaeus. In all these works, it is linked to a teaching about rewards and punishments. In the Phaedrus, the soul’s immortality is thought to rest on the idea that the soul is a source of motion. In the Republic, the argument rests on the soul’s natural persistence. If the evil specific to the soul does not destroy it, hardly anything else can. In the Timaeus, the human soul comes from the Supreme Creator. After death, it either returns to its kindred star or descends into the lower life of an animal. The Apology expresses the same view as the Phaedo, but with less confidence. It does not rule out the possibility that death is a long sleep. In a digression, the Theaetetus also describes the soul’s desire to fly away and be with God. It says, 'and to fly to him is to be like him.' The Symposium both resembles and differs from the Phaedo. Its initial idea of immortality involves only natural reproduction or lasting fame and glory after death. But its higher revelation of beauty is a vision of the eternal Form, like the Good in the Republic. So deeply rooted is Plato’s belief in immortality, and so varied are the ways he expresses it.

As in several other Dialogues, there is more of system in the Phaedo than appears at first sight. The succession of arguments is based on previous philosophies; beginning with the mysteries and the Heracleitean alternation of opposites, and proceeding to the Pythagorean harmony and transmigration; making a step by the aid of Platonic reminiscence, and a further step by the help of the nous of Anaxagoras; until at last we rest in the conviction that the soul is inseparable from the ideas, and belongs to the world of the invisible and unknown. Then, as in the Gorgias or Republic, the curtain falls, and the veil of mythology descends upon the argument. After the confession of Socrates that he is an interested party, and the acknowledgment that no man of sense will think the details of his narrative true, but that something of the kind is true, we return from speculation to practice. He is himself more confident of immortality than he is of his own arguments; and the confidence which he expresses is less strong than that which his cheerfulness and composure in death inspire in us.

Like several other Dialogues, the Phaedo is more systematically organized than it first appears. Its sequence of arguments draws on earlier philosophies. It begins with the mysteries and Heraclitus’s idea that opposites alternate. It then moves to Pythagorean harmony and the soul’s passage from one body to another. Plato’s theory of recollection takes the argument a step further. Anaxagoras’s concept of nous, or mind, advances it again. Finally, we reach the conviction that the soul cannot be separated from the Ideas, or Forms. It belongs to the invisible and unknown world. Then, as in the Gorgias or Republic, the curtain falls, and mythology draws a veil over the argument. Socrates admits that he has a personal stake in the argument. He also acknowledges that no sensible person will believe the details of his account are true. Yet something like it is true. We then return from speculation to practice. Socrates himself is more certain of immortality than he is of his own arguments. His expressed confidence is less powerful than the confidence his cheerfulness and calm in the face of death inspire in us.

Difficulties of two kinds occur in the Phaedo—one kind to be explained out of contemporary philosophy, the other not admitting of an entire solution. (1) The difficulty which Socrates says that he experienced in explaining generation and corruption; the assumption of hypotheses which proceed from the less general to the more general, and are tested by their consequences; the puzzle about greater and less; the resort to the method of ideas, which to us appear only abstract terms,—these are to be explained out of the position of Socrates and Plato in the history of philosophy. They were living in a twilight between the sensible and the intellectual world, and saw no way of connecting them. They could neither explain the relation of ideas to phenomena, nor their correlation to one another. The very idea of relation or comparison was embarrassing to them. Yet in this intellectual uncertainty they had a conception of a proof from results, and of a moral truth, which remained unshaken amid the questionings of philosophy. (2) The other is a difficulty which is touched upon in the Republic as well as in the Phaedo, and is common to modern and ancient philosophy. Plato is not altogether satisfied with his safe and simple method of ideas. He wants to have proved to him by facts that all things are for the best, and that there is one mind or design which pervades them all. But this 'power of the best' he is unable to explain; and therefore takes refuge in universal ideas. And are not we at this day seeking to discover that which Socrates in a glass darkly foresaw?

Two kinds of difficulty arise in the Phaedo. One can be explained through the philosophy of its time. The other cannot be fully resolved. (1) Socrates says he struggled to explain how things come into being and pass away. Other difficulties involve adopting hypotheses that move from less general to more general claims and testing them by their consequences. There is also the puzzle about greater and less, and the turn to the method of ideas. To us, these ideas seem to be merely abstract terms. These difficulties can be explained by Socrates’ and Plato’s place in the history of philosophy. They lived in a twilight between the world of the senses and the world of thought. They saw no way to connect them. They could explain neither how ideas relate to observable things nor how ideas relate to one another. Even the concept of relation or comparison caused them difficulty. Yet amid this intellectual uncertainty, they had a conception of proof based on results. They also had a conception of moral truth that remained unshaken by philosophical questioning. (2) The other difficulty appears in both the Republic and the Phaedo. It is shared by ancient and modern philosophy. Plato is not entirely satisfied with his safe and simple method of ideas. He wants facts to prove that all things are arranged for the best. He also wants proof that a single mind or design runs through them all. But he cannot explain this 'power of the best', so he takes refuge in universal ideas. And are we not still seeking today what Socrates dimly foresaw, as though through a darkened mirror?

Some resemblances to the Greek drama may be noted in all the Dialogues of Plato. The Phaedo is the tragedy of which Socrates is the protagonist and Simmias and Cebes the secondary performers, standing to them in the same relation as to Glaucon and Adeimantus in the Republic. No Dialogue has a greater unity of subject and feeling. Plato has certainly fulfilled the condition of Greek, or rather of all art, which requires that scenes of death and suffering should be clothed in beauty. The gathering of the friends at the commencement of the Dialogue, the dismissal of Xanthippe, whose presence would have been out of place at a philosophical discussion, but who returns again with her children to take a final farewell, the dejection of the audience at the temporary overthrow of the argument, the picture of Socrates playing with the hair of Phaedo, the final scene in which Socrates alone retains his composure—are masterpieces of art. And the chorus at the end might have interpreted the feeling of the play: 'There can no evil happen to a good man in life or death.'

All of Plato’s Dialogues have some similarities to Greek drama. The Phaedo is a tragedy with Socrates as its central character and Simmias and Cebes in supporting roles. Socrates relates to them as he does to Glaucon and Adeimantus in the Republic. No Dialogue has greater unity of subject and feeling. Plato has certainly met the requirement of Greek art, or rather all art, that death and suffering be presented beautifully. The friends gather at the beginning of the Dialogue. Xanthippe is sent away because her presence would have been out of place in a philosophical discussion. But she returns with her children to say a final goodbye. The listeners become dejected when the argument is temporarily defeated. Socrates plays with Phaedo’s hair. In the final scene, Socrates alone remains composed. These scenes are masterpieces of art. And a chorus at the end might have expressed the feeling of the play: 'No evil can happen to a good man in life or death.'

'The art of concealing art' is nowhere more perfect than in those writings of Plato which describe the trial and death of Socrates. Their charm is their simplicity, which gives them verisimilitude; and yet they touch, as if incidentally, and because they were suitable to the occasion, on some of the deepest truths of philosophy. There is nothing in any tragedy, ancient or modern, nothing in poetry or history (with one exception), like the last hours of Socrates in Plato. The master could not be more fitly occupied at such a time than in discoursing of immortality; nor the disciples more divinely consoled. The arguments, taken in the spirit and not in the letter, are our arguments; and Socrates by anticipation may be even thought to refute some 'eccentric notions; current in our own age. For there are philosophers among ourselves who do not seem to understand how much stronger is the power of intelligence, or of the best, than of Atlas, or mechanical force. How far the words attributed to Socrates were actually uttered by him we forbear to ask; for no answer can be given to this question. And it is better to resign ourselves to the feeling of a great work, than to linger among critical uncertainties.

‘The art of concealing art’ is nowhere more perfect than in Plato’s accounts of Socrates’ trial and death. Their charm lies in their simplicity, which makes them seem true to life. Yet they touch on some of philosophy’s deepest truths, seemingly in passing and because the occasion calls for them. Nothing in ancient or modern tragedy, poetry, or history, with one exception, compares to Socrates’ last hours in Plato’s account. No subject could better suit the teacher at such a time than immortality. Nor could his students receive more divine comfort. Taken in spirit rather than literally, the arguments are our own. Socrates may even be seen as anticipating and refuting some ‘eccentric notions’ common in our own age. Some philosophers today seem not to understand how much stronger intelligence, or what is best, is than Atlas or mechanical force. We will not ask how much of what Plato attributes to Socrates he actually said. That question cannot be answered. It is better to surrender to the emotional power of a great work than to dwell on uncertainties of interpretation.