It leads to the underworld, through regions mute and silent.
There the sluggish Styx breathes forth its mists, and by that path descend the ghosts of those newly dead, the shades of mortals duly laid to rest in their tombs.
Far and wide the desolate spot is wrapped in gloomy chill.
The ghosts, but lately come, do not know where the road lies, that leads to the Stygian city, nor where to go to find the grim palace of dusky Dis.
His populous city has a thousand approaches, and gates on every side, all standing open.
As the sea absorbs rivers from all over the earth, so does that place receive every soul: it is never too small, however great the throng.
New crowds arriving make no difference.
Lifeless shadows without body or bones wander about, some jostling in the market-place, some round the palace of the underworld’s king, while others busy themselves with the trades which they practised in the old days, when they were alive.
Others again, are subjected to punishment, each according to his crime.
Ovid, Metamorphoses, Book IV
