(they were his last words), 'Crito, I owe a cock to Asclepius; will you remember to pay the debt?' 'The debt shall be paid,' said Crito; 'is there anything else?' There was no answer to this question; but in a minute or two a movement was heard, and the attendants uncovered him; his eyes were set, and Crito closed his eyes and mouth. Such was the end, Echecrates, of our friend, whom I may truly call the wisest and justest and best of all the men whom I have ever known."—J.
So ends the "Phædo;" and as we close the volume, we feel as though we too had lost a friend, so simply and yet so touchingly has every detail of that last scene in the prison been painted for us by a master-hand. Even across the lapse of centuries the picture rises before us distinct and lifelike, as it was to the mind of the writer who described it,—the passionate grief of Apollodorus, the despair of Crito, the silent tears of Phædo—even the jailer weeping, and turning away his face and the composure meanwhile of the central figure of the group, talking cheerfully, and playing with Phædo's hair, who is sitting next him. We can well understand the mingled feelings of the spectators of the scene. "I could hardly believe" (says Phædo, telling the story to Echecrates) "that I was present at the death of a friend, and therefore I did not pity him; his mien and his language were so noble and fearless in the hour of death, that to me he appeared blessed. I thought that, in going to the other world, he could not be without a divine call, and that he would be happy, if any man ever was, when he arrived there; and therefore I did not pity him, as might seem natural at such a time. But
