of life and mortality, not such as sinks and swells by undulations of time, but a procession, an emanation, from some mystery of endless dawn.”—­In point of fact, to get a true portrait of Socrates you have to look at the Memnon’s head.  The Egyptian artists carved it to be the likeness of the Perfect Man, the Soul, always in itself sublime, absolute master of its flesh and personality.  That was what Socrates was.

Well; the century ended, with that last quarter of it in which the Lodge makes always its outward effort.  Socrates for the Lodge had left no stone unturned; he had made his utmost effort dally.  The democracy had been reinstated, and he was understood to be a moderate in politics.  And the democracy was conventional-minded in religion; and he was understood to be irreligious, a disturber and innovator.  And the democracy was still smarting from the wound; imposed on it by Critias and Charmides, understood to have been his disciples; and could not forget the treacheries of Alcibiades, another.  And there were vicious youths besides, whom he had tried and failed to save; they had ruined themselves, and their reputable parents blamed and hated him for the ruin, not understanding the position.  And he himself had seen so many of his efforts come to nothing:  Alcibiades play the traitor; Critias and Charmides, the bloody tyrant;—­he had seen many he had labored for frustrate his labors; he had seen Athens fallen.  He had done all he could, quietly, unfailingly and without any fuss; now it was time for him to go.  But going, he might yet strike one more great blow for the Light.

So with quiet zest and humor he entered upon the plans of his adversaries, accepting his trial and sentence like—­like Socrates; for there is no simile for him, outside himself.  He turned it all masterfully to the advantage of the Light he loved.  You all know how he cracked his grand solemn joke when the death sentence was passed on him.  By Athenian law, he might suggest an alternative sentence; as, to pay a fine, or banishment.  Well, said he; death was not certainly an evil; it might be a very good thing; whereas banishment was certainly an evil, and so was paying a fine.  And besides, he had no money to pay it.  So the only alternative he could suggest was that Athens should support him for the rest of his life in the Prytaneum as a public benefactor.  Not a smile from him; not a tremor.  He elected deliberately; he chose death; knowing well that, as things stood, he could serve humanity in no other way so well.  So he put aside Crito’s very feasible plan for his escape, and at the last gathered his friends around him, and discoursed to them.

On Reincarnation.  It was an old tradition, said he; and what could be more reasonable than that the soul, departing to Hades, should return again in its season:—­the living born from the dead, as the dead are from the living?  Did not experience show that opposites proceed from opposites?  Then life must proceed from, and follow, death.  If the dead came from the living, and not the living from the dead, the universe would at last be consumed in death.  Then, too, there was the doctrine that knowledge comes from recollection; what is recollected must have been previously known.  Our souls must have existed then, before birth. . . .