"Socrates died like a philosopher, Jesus Christ died like a God."

But we must not talk further about what our readers have yet to see. And how shall we show them the Phædo in its just light, without letting them see it all? But this, of course, is out of the question. The scenery, the reliefs, the transitions, the exchanges of question and reply, the slow and gradual growth of the atmosphere that envelops all and sets life as into a picture-these things we have to lose, and, losing these, we run the risk of losing the Phædo. The gracious play of affectionate irony that beautifies the "coming bulk of death "—this disappears, and what a difference! The groping of hands that feel after immortality in the darkness— what shall compensate for that effect withdrawn? But there is no help for us, and-lest we grieve long enough to take up the room that might have been so used as to forestall occasion of grieving-here is the conclusion to the most pleasing and touching of all Plato's dialogues, the Phædo. We once more let Miss Mason do our translating; Socrates speaks:

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"You, too, Simmias and Cebes, and all the rest of you, must each one day take this journey; but now,' as a tragic poet would say, 'me the voice of fate is calling,' and it is well-nigh time that I should think of the bath; for it seems better for me to bathe before drinking the poison, and not give the women the trouble of washing my body."

When he had thus spoken, Crito said: "Very well, Socrates; but what charge have you to give me or our friends here, about your children or any thing else, which we may most gratify you by fulfilling?"

"Only what I have always said, Crito," answered he, "nothing new; that if you will take heed to yourselves, you will, whatever you do, render me and mine and your own selves a service, even if you do not make any promises now. But if you do not take heed to yourselves, and will not try to follow in the path which I have now and heretofore pointed out, you will bring nothing to pass, no matter how many or how solemn promises you make."

"We will indeed try our best," said he; "but how do you wish us to bury you?"

"Just as you please," he answered, "if you only get hold of me, and

do not let me escape you." And quietly laughing and glancing at us, he said:

"I cannot persuade Crito, my friends, that this Socrates who is now talking with you and laying down each one of these propositions is my very self; for his mind is full of the thought that I am he whom he is to see in a little while as a corpse; and so he asks how he shall bury me. Thus, that long argument of mine, the object of which was to show that after I have drunk the poison I shall be among you no longer, but shall go away to certain joys prepared for the blessed, seems to him but idle talk, uttered only to keep up your spirits as well as my own." . .

...

Thus saying he got up and went into another room to bathe, and Crito followed him; but us he requested to stay behind. We remained, therefore, talking over with one another and inquiring into what had been said; ever and again coming back to the misfortune which had befallen us; for we looked upon ourselves as doomed to go through the rest of life like orphans, bereft of a father.

After he had bathed, his children were brought to him-for he had three sons, two very young, and one who was older-and the women of his household also arrived. And having talked with them, in the presence of Crito, and given them all his directions, he bade them depart, and himself returned to us. It was now near sunset, for he had spent a long time in the inner room. He came then and sat down with us, but he did not speak much after this. And the servant of the Eleven came and standing by him said: "I shall not have to reproach you, O Socrates, as I have others, with being enraged and cursing me when I announce to them, by order of the magistrates, that they must drink the poison; but during this time of your imprisonment I have learned to know you as the noblest and gentlest and best man of all that have ever come here, and so I am sure now that you will not be angry with me; for you know the real authors of this, and will blame them alone. And now-for you know what it is I have come to announce-farewell, and try to bear as best you may the inevitable." And upon this, bursting into tears, he turned and went away; and Socrates, looking after him, said:

"May it fare well with you also! We will do what you have bidden." And to us he added: "How courteous the man is! The whole time I have been here he has been constantly coming to see me, and has frequently talked to me, and shown himself to be the kindest of men; and see how feelingly he weeps for me now! But come, Crito, we must obey him. So let the poison be brought, if it is already mixed; if not, let the man mix it."

And Crito said: "But, Socrates, the sun, I think, is still upon the mountains, and has not yet gone down. Others, I know, have not taken the poison till very late, and have feasted and drunk right heartily, some even enjoying the company of their intimates, long after receiving the order. So do not hasten, for there is yet time."

But Socrates said: "It is very natural, Crito, that those of whom you speak should do this, for they think to gain thereby; but it is just as natural that I should not do so, for I do not think that, by drinking the poison a little later, I should gain any thing more than a laugh at my own expense, for being greedy of life and stingy when nothing is left.' So go and do as I desire."

At these words Crito motioned to the servant standing by, who then went out, and after some time came back with the man who was to give the poison, which he brought mixed in a cup. And Socrates, seeing the man, said:

"Well, my friend, I must ask you, since you have had experience in these matters, what I ought to do?"

'Nothing," said he, but walk about after drinking until you feel a heaviness in your legs, and then, if you lie down, the poison will take effect of itself."

With this, he handed the cup to Socrates, who took it right cheerfully, O Echecrates [E-kek'ra-tēs], without tremor, or change of color or countenance, and, looking at the man from under his brows with that intent gaze peculiar to himself, said: “What say you to pouring a libation from this cup to one of the gods? Is it allowed or not?

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We prepare, Socrates," answered he, "only just so much as we think is the right quantity to drink.'

"I understand," said 'he; "but prayer to the gods is surely allowed, and must be made, that it may fare well with me on my journey yonder. For this, then, I pray, and so be it!"

Thus speaking, he put the cup to his lips, and right easily and blithely drank it off. Now most of us had until then been able to keep back our tears; but when we saw him drinking, and then that he had finished the draught, we could do so no longer. In spite of myself, my tears burst forth in floods, so that I covered my face and wept aloud, not for him assuredly, but for my own fate in being deprived of such a friend. Now Crito, even before I gave way, had not been able to restrain his tears, and so had moved away. But A-pol-lo-do ́rus all along had not ceased to weep; and now, when he burst into loud sobs, there was not one of those present who was not overcome by his tears and distress, except Socrates himself. But he asked: "What are you doing, you strange

people? My chief reason for sending away the women was, that we might be spared such discordance as this; for I have heard that a man ought to die in solemn stillness. So pray be composed, and restrain yourselves!"

On hearing this, we were ashamed, and forced back our tears. And he walked about until he said that he began to feel a heaviness in his legs, and then he lay down on his back, as he had been told to do. Thereupon the man who had given the poison, taking hold of him, examined from time to time his feet and legs, and then, pressing one foot hard, asked if he felt it, to which he answered, No; and after that, again his legs, and then still higher, showing us the while that he was getting cold and stiff. Then Socrates himself did the same, and said that by the time the poison had reached his heart he should be gone. And now he was cold nearly up to his middle, when, uncovering his face, for he had covered it up, he said—and these were his last words-"Crito, we owe a cock to Esculapius. Pay the debt, and do not neglect it."

"It shall be done, Socrates," said he. But think if you have nothing else to say."

There was no answer to this question; but after a moment Socrates stirred, and when the man uncovered him we saw that his face was set. Crito, on seeing this, closed his mouth and eyes. Such was the end, O Echecrates, of our friend, a man whom we may well call, of all men known to us of our day, the best, and besides the wisest and the most just.

What a gentle ending-told how gently, but with what power of pathos gently told—to that matchless pagan life! For such a case, shall we not at least “faintly trust the larger hope?"

Platonism had a remarkable revival in Neo-Platonism (New Platonism) long after the great teacher's death. This was when Alexandria had become the transferred chief seat of Greek letters. Neo-Platonism exercised a powerful influence for many centuries on Christian theology. That influence is, perhaps, not yet spent. About a century ago, Thomas Taylor, known in literary history as "the Platonist," presented to the world the example of an Englishman, born so to speak out of due time and out of due place, swearing into the words of Plato.

That Zeus, if he had spoken Greek, would have spoken it

like Plato, was the sentence of antiquity. Praise could not further go. Though some might be inclined to place Demosthenes before him, Plato will, no doubt, always remain in general consent the greatest prose writer of ancient Greece.

VII.

ÆSCHYLUS.

WITH Eschylus we enter upon a representation of Greek tragic poetry.

The first thing important in preparation for a right estimate of Greek tragedy is to disabuse the mind of a certain very natural false prepossession. We English-speakers, we students of Shakespeare, have, of course, formed our ideas of what tragedy is from the examples familiar to us of Shakespeare's art in this line of literary production. Nothing more instinctive than that we should look to find a body of literature in Greek that has the same name, tragedy, having also the same character. Nothing more instinctive, and nothing more fallacious. Greek tragedy and English tragedy are two very distinct affairs. They both have their conventions, but their conventions are widely different. If you judge the Greek tragedy by the standard of the English, you will think very ill of the Greek. Conversely, if you judge the English tragedy by the standard of the Greek, you will think very ill of the English. But you will, in either case, commit a critical blunder and think very wrongly.

Regard Greek tragedy as an attempt to represent real life on the stage, and you will be right in pronouncing Greek tragedy very rude literary art, art entirely unworthy of the praise it has received. But Greek tragedy was no such attempt. Its material was not reality, and its aim was not to produce a life-like representation. We may state the differ