of wronging the people he had been their greatest benefactor, and if he deserved anything it was to be maintained free of cost in the Prytaneum—the highest honour bestowed by the state—as a missionary of virtue, and as having been sent by Providence expressly to rouse and stimulate the Athenians. The jurors regarded this as defiance and a contempt of their court. They accordingly voted for the prosecutor's proposal of death. Execution usually followed the next day, but the festival of Delos was then in progress, and it was the custom that no execution should take place till the return of the sacred galley sent by Athens to the island on such occasions. Socrates therefore had another month of life, during which his escape might easily have been secured by wealthy friends. But he refused to break the law by quitting the prison, and remained to die. This is one of those crimes of which popular governments seem little less capable than tyrannies. It can be explained but not defended. Among other things it was useless. Socrates had done his work, and had given the impetus which made the philosophy of which Athens was the home for the next century. He recognised this himself, and knew that the time had come to depart, before age and decrepitude had weakened his influence. He had no fear for the future—it was to be either a dreamless sleep or the companionship of the just. The five hundred Athenian patriots who formed the jury have to share with Pontius Pilate the eternity of ill-fame gained by their spirited “vindication of the law.”
After the disasters of B.C. 305–303 Athens stands
