The first instance we take shall be that of Socrates. When we think of Socrates, we think of his death. He, like Jesus, spent the time before his death conversing with his friends concerning the highest themes. He talked of immortality through the long summer day. He showed the superiority of the soul to the body in which it dwelt; and he had lost all fear of dying. He had silenced what Plato calls “the child within us, who trembles before death.” In fact, the whole tone of his defence before the judges shows that he did not care to save his life. The verdict of guilty was pronounced by a majority of five or six, in a vote of five hundred and fifty-seven dicasts. He made no preparation for his defence, and said that a blameless life was the best defence. When he came to speak before those whose vote was to decide on his life or death, his speech seems a sort of confidential clearing of his breast of all his opinions. He declares he has been the greatest benefactor of Athens. He tells them they ought not to be offended at the resolute tone of his defence, since it would be unmanly for him to beg and plead for life; for his duty was to instruct them, but not to supplicate. It was strange that so small a majority was cast against him after such a speech. Then the custom required him to say himself what punishment he should suffer. His accuser had called for death. If he had named something less severe, as exile, fine, imprisonment, no doubt his life had been saved. Instead, he said, “I propose that I be rewarded as a public benefactor, by being supported at the public expense, as a teacher of the people. Still, as my friends wish me to name a fine, I will say thirty _minæ_.” They took this as an insult, and sentenced him to death. Then he spent his hours in those immortal conversations which will be remembered when all the rest of the glory and beauty of Greek literature and art has passed away. Every moment of his last hours has been carefully recorded; and the death of Socrates gave a power to his life, and his life an influence to his death, which placed him among the names which will never perish from human memory and gratitude. There is another name, which comes out of the darkness and cruelty of the middle ages, with a sweet, serene, and noble beauty—a pure life glorified by a death of martyrdom. I mean that of Joan of Arc—the Maid of Orleans. On her trial, the readiness and beauty of her answers astonished her prejudiced judges. The poor girl, only nineteen years old, a prisoner in chains, before these doctors and lawyers, showed as much courage as on the field of battle.