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Title: Apology
Also known as "The Death of Socrates"
Author: Plato
Translator: Benjamin Jowett
Release Date: November 3, 2008 [EBook #1656]
Language: English
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK APOLOGY ***
Produced by Sue Asscher, and David Widger
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APOLOGY
By Plato
Translated by Benjamin Jowett
Contents
INTRODUCTION.
APOLOGY
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INTRODUCTION.
In what relation the Apology of Plato stands to the real defence
of Socrates, there are no means of determining. It certainly agrees
in tone and character with the description of Xenophon, who says
in the Memorabilia that Socrates might have been acquitted 'if in
any moderate degree he would have conciliated the favour of the
dicasts;’ and who informs us in another passage, on the testimony
of Hermogenes, the friend of Socrates, that he had no wish to live;
and that the divine sign refused to allow him to prepare a defence,
and also that Socrates himself declared this to be unnecessary, on
the ground that all his life long he had been preparing against that
hour. For the speech breathes throughout a spirit of defiance, (ut
non supplex aut reus sed magister aut dominus videretur esse ju-
dicum’, Cic. de Orat.); and the loose and desultory style is an imita-
tion of the 'accustomed manner’ in which Socrates spoke in 'the
agora and among the tables of the money-changers.'
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The allusion in the Crito may, perhaps, be adduced as a further evidence of the
literal accuracy of some parts. But in the main it must be regarded
as the ideal of Socrates, according to Plato's conception of him, ap-
pearing in the greatest and most public scene of his life, and in the
height of his triumph, when he is weakest, and yet his mastery over
mankind is greatest, and his habitual irony acquires a new mean-
ing and a sort of tragic pathos in the face of death. The facts of his
life are summed up, and the features of his character are brought
out as if by accident in the course of the defence. The conversation-
al manner, the seeming want of arrangement, the ironical
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simplicity, are found to result in a perfect work of art, which is the
portrait of Socrates.
Yet some of the topics may have been actually used by Socrates;
and the recollection of his very words may have rung in the ears of
his disciple. The Apology of Plato may be compared generally with
those speeches of Thucydides in which he has embodied his con-
ception of the lofty character and policy of the great Pericles, and
which at the same time furnish a commentary on the situation of
affairs from the point of view of the historian. So in the Apology
there is an ideal rather than a literal truth; much is said which was
not said, and is only Plato's view of the situation. Plato was not,
like Xenophon, a chronicler of facts; he does not appear in any of
his writings to have aimed at literal accuracy. He is not therefore to
be supplemented from the Memorabilia and Symposium of Xeno-
phon, who belongs to an entirely different class of writers. The
Apology of Plato is not the report of what Socrates said, but an
elaborate composition, quite as much so in fact as one of the Dia-
logues. And we may perhaps even indulge in the fancy that the ac-
tual defence of Socrates was as much greater than the Platonic de-
fence as the master was greater than the disciple. But in any case,
some of the words used by him must have been remembered, and
some of the facts recorded must have actually occurred. It is signi-
ficant that Plato is said to have been present at the defence (Apol.),
as he is also said to have been absent at the last scene in the
Phaedo. Is it fanciful to suppose that he meant to give the stamp of
authenticity to the one and not to the other?— especially when we
consider that these two passages are the only ones in which Plato
makes mention of himself. The circumstance that Plato was to be
one of his sureties for the payment of the fine which he proposed
has the appearance of truth. More suspicious is the statement that
Socrates received the first impulse to his favourite calling of cross-
examining the world from the Oracle of Delphi; for he must already
have been famous before Chaerephon went to consult the Oracle
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(Riddell), and the story is of a kind which is very likely to have been
invented. On the whole we arrive at the conclusion that the Apo-
logy is true to the character of Socrates, but we cannot show that
any single sentence in it was actually spoken by him. It breathes
the spirit of Socrates, but has been cast anew in the mould of Plato.
There is not much in the other Dialogues which can be compared
with the Apology. The same recollection of his master may have
been present to the mind of Plato when depicting the sufferings of
the Just in the Republic. The Crito may also be regarded as a sort
of appendage to the Apology, in which Socrates, who has defied the
judges, is nevertheless represented as scrupulously obedient to the
laws. The idealization of the sufferer is carried still further in the
Gorgias, in which the thesis is maintained, that 'to suffer is better
than to do evil;' and the art of rhetoric is described as only useful
for the purpose of self-accusation. The parallelisms which occur in
the so-called Apology of Xenophon are not worth noticing, because
the writing in which they are contained is manifestly spurious. The
statements of the Memorabilia respecting the trial and death of So-
crates agree generally with Plato; but they have lost the flavour of
Socratic irony in the narrative of Xenophon.
The Apology or Platonic defence of Socrates is divided into three
parts: 1st. The defence properly so called; 2nd. The shorter address
in mitigation of the penalty; 3rd. The last words of prophetic re-
buke and exhortation.
The first part commences with an apology for his colloquial style;
he is, as he has always been, the enemy of rhetoric, and knows of
no rhetoric but truth; he will not falsify his character by making a
speech. Then he proceeds to divide his accusers into two classes;
first, there is the nameless accuser— public opinion. All the world
from their earliest years had heard that he was a corrupter of
youth, and had seen him caricatured in the Clouds of Aristophanes.
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Secondly, there are the professed accusers, who are but the mouth-
piece of the others. The accusations of both might be summed up
in a formula. The first say, 'Socrates is an evil-doer and a curious
person, searching into things under the earth and above the heav-
en; and making the worse appear the better cause, and teaching all
this to others.’ The second, 'Socrates is an evil-doer and corrupter
of the youth, who does not receive the gods whom the state re-
ceives, but introduces other new divinities.' These last words ap-
pear to have been the actual indictment (compare Xen. Mem.); and
the previous formula, which is a summary of public opinion, as-
sumes the same legal style.
The answer begins by clearing up a confusion. In the representa-
tions of the Comic poets, and in the opinion of the multitude, he
had been identified with the teachers of physical science and with
the Sophists. But this was an error. For both of them he professes a
respect in the open court, which contrasts with his manner of
speaking about them in other places. (Compare for Anaxagoras,
Phaedo, Laws; for the Sophists, Meno, Republic, Tim., Theaet.,
Soph., etc.) But at the same time he shows that he is not one of
them. Of natural philosophy he knows nothing; not that he des-
pises such pursuits, but the fact is that he is ignorant of them, and
never says a word about them. Nor is he paid for giving instruc-
tion— that is another mistaken notion:— he has nothing to teach.
But he commends Evenus for teaching virtue at such a 'moderate'
rate as five minae. Something of the 'accustomed irony,’ which may
perhaps be expected to sleep in the ear of the multitude, is lurking
here.
He then goes on to explain the reason why he is in such an evil
name. That had arisen out of a peculiar mission which he had
taken upon himself. The enthusiastic Chaerephon (probably in an-
ticipation of the answer which he received) had gone to Delphi and
asked the oracle if there was any man wiser than Socrates; and the
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answer was, that there was no man wiser. What could be the mean-
ing of this— that he who knew nothing, and knew that he knew
nothing, should be declared by the oracle to be the wisest of men?
Reflecting upon the answer, he determined to refute it by finding 'a
wiser;' and first he went to the politicians, and then to the poets,
and then to the craftsmen, but always with the same result— he
found that they knew nothing, or hardly anything more than him-
self; and that the little advantage which in some cases they pos-
sessed was more than counter-balanced by their conceit of know-
ledge. He knew nothing, and knew that he knew nothing: they
knew little or nothing, and imagined that they knew all things.
Thus he had passed his life as a sort of missionary in detecting the
pretended wisdom of mankind; and this occupation had quite ab-
sorbed him and taken him away both from public and private af-
fairs. Young men of the richer sort had made a pastime of the same
pursuit, 'which was not unamusing.' And hence bitter enmities had
arisen; the professors of knowledge had revenged themselves by
calling him a villainous corrupter of youth, and by repeating the
commonplaces about atheism and materialism and sophistry,
which are the stock-accusations against all philosophers when
there is nothing else to be said of them.
The second accusation he meets by interrogating Meletus, who is
present and can be interrogated. 'If he is the corrupter, who is the
improver of the citizens?' (Compare Meno.) 'All men everywhere.'
But how absurd, how contrary to analogy is this! How inconceiv-
able too, that he should make the citizens worse when he has to live
with them. This surely cannot be intentional; and if unintentional,
he ought to have been instructed by Meletus, and not accused in
the court.
But there is another part of the indictment which says that he
teaches men not to receive the gods whom the city receives, and
has other new gods. 'Is that the way in which he is supposed to
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corrupt the youth?' 'Yes, it is.' 'Has he only new gods, or none at
all?' 'None at all.' 'What, not even the sun and moon?' 'No; why, he
says that the sun is a stone, and the moon earth.' That, replies So-
crates, is the old confusion about Anaxagoras; the Athenian people
are not so ignorant as to attribute to the influence of Socrates no-
tions which have found their way into the drama, and may be
learned at the theatre. Socrates undertakes to show that Meletus
(rather unjustifiably) has been compounding a riddle in this part of
the indictment: 'There are no gods, but Socrates believes in the ex-
istence of the sons of gods, which is absurd.'
Leaving Meletus, who has had enough words spent upon him, he
returns to the original accusation. The question may be asked, Why
will he persist in following a profession which leads him to death?
Why?— because he must remain at his post where the god has
placed him, as he remained at Potidaea, and Amphipolis, and Deli-
um, where the generals placed him. Besides, he is not so overwise
as to imagine that he knows whether death is a good or an evil; and
he is certain that desertion of his duty is an evil. Anytus is quite
right in saying that they should never have indicted him if they
meant to let him go. For he will certainly obey God rather than
man; and will continue to preach to all men of all ages the necessity
of virtue and improvement; and if they refuse to listen to him he
will still persevere and reprove them. This is his way of corrupting
the youth, which he will not cease to follow in obedience to the god,
even if a thousand deaths await him.
He is desirous that they should let him live— not for his own
sake, but for theirs; because he is their heaven-sent friend (and
they will never have such another), or, as he may be ludicrously de-
scribed, he is the gadfly who stirs the generous steed into motion.
Why then has he never taken part in public affairs? Because the fa-
miliar divine voice has hindered him; if he had been a public man,
and had fought for the right, as he would certainly have fought
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against the many, he would not have lived, and could therefore
have done no good. Twice in public matters he has risked his life
for the sake of justice— once at the trial of the generals; and again
in resistance to the tyrannical commands of the Thirty.
But, though not a public man, he has passed his days in instruct-
ing the citizens without fee or reward— this was his mission.
Whether his disciples have turned out well or ill, he cannot justly
be charged with the result, for he never promised to teach them
anything. They might come if they liked, and they might stay away
if they liked: and they did come, because they found an amusement
in hearing the pretenders to wisdom detected. If they have been
corrupted, their elder relatives (if not themselves) might surely
come into court and witness against him, and there is an opportun-
ity still for them to appear. But their fathers and brothers all ap-
pear in court (including 'this' Plato), to witness on his behalf; and if
their relatives are corrupted, at least they are uncorrupted; 'and
they are my witnesses. For they know that I am speaking the truth,
and that Meletus is lying.'
This is about all that he has to say. He will not entreat the judges
to spare his life; neither will he present a spectacle of weeping chil-
dren, although he, too, is not made of 'rock or oak.' Some of the
judges themselves may have complied with this practice on similar
occasions, and he trusts that they will not be angry with him for
not following their example. But he feels that such conduct brings
discredit on the name of Athens: he feels too, that the judge has
sworn not to give away justice; and he cannot be guilty of the impi-
ety of asking the judge to break his oath, when he is himself being
tried for impiety.
As he expected, and probably intended, he is convicted. And now
the tone of the speech, instead of being more conciliatory, becomes
more lofty and commanding. Anytus proposes death as the
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penalty: and what counter-proposition shall he make? He, the be-
nefactor of the Athenian people, whose whole life has been spent in
doing them good, should at least have the Olympic victor's reward
of maintenance in the Prytaneum. Or why should he propose any
counter-penalty when he does not know whether death, which
Anytus proposes, is a good or an evil? And he is certain that im-
prisonment is an evil, exile is an evil. Loss of money might be an
evil, but then he has none to give; perhaps he can make up a mina.
Let that be the penalty, or, if his friends wish, thirty minae; for
which they will be excellent securities.
(He is condemned to death.)
He is an old man already, and the Athenians will gain nothing
but disgrace by depriving him of a few years of life. Perhaps he
could have escaped, if he had chosen to throw down his arms and
entreat for his life. But he does not at all repent of the manner of
his defence; he would rather die in his own fashion than live in
theirs. For the penalty of unrighteousness is swifter than death;
that penalty has already overtaken his accusers as death will soon
overtake him.
And now, as one who is about to die, he will prophesy to them.
They have put him to death in order to escape the necessity of giv-
ing an account of their lives. But his death 'will be the seed’ of
many disciples who will convince them of their evil ways, and will
come forth to reprove them in harsher terms, because they are
younger and more inconsiderate.
He would like to say a few words, while there is time, to those
who would have acquitted him. He wishes them to know that the
divine sign never interrupted him in the course of his defence; the
reason of which, as he conjectures, is that the death to which he is
going is a good and not an evil. For either death is a long sleep, the
best of sleeps, or a journey to another world in which the souls of
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the dead are gathered together, and in which there may be a hope
of seeing the heroes of old— in which, too, there are just judges;
and as all are immortal, there can be no fear of any one suffering
death for his opinions.
Nothing evil can happen to the good man either in life or death,
and his own death has been permitted by the gods, because it was
better for him to depart; and therefore he forgives his judges be-
cause they have done him no harm, although they never meant to
do him any good.
He has a last request to make to them— that they will trouble his
sons as he has troubled them, if they appear to prefer riches to vir-
tue, or to think themselves something when they are nothing.
'Few persons will be found to wish that Socrates should have de-
fended himself otherwise,'— if, as we must add, his defence was
that with which Plato has provided him. But leaving this question,
which does not admit of a precise solution, we may go on to ask
what was the impression which Plato in the Apology intended to
give of the character and conduct of his master in the last great
scene? Did he intend to represent him (l) as employing sophistries;
( 2 ) as designedly irritating the judges? Or are these sophistries to
be regarded as belonging to the age in which he lived and to his
personal character, and this apparent haughtiness as flowing from
the natural elevation of his position?
For example, when he says that it is absurd to suppose that one
man is the corrupter and all the rest of the world the improvers of
the youth; or, when he argues that he never could have corrupted
the men with whom he had to live; or, when he proves his belief in
the gods because he believes in the sons of gods, is he serious or
jesting? It may be observed that these sophisms all occur in his
cross-examination of Meletus, who is easily foiled and mastered in
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the hands of the great dialectician. Perhaps he regarded these an-
swers as good enough for his accuser, of whom he makes very light.
Also there is a touch of irony in them, which takes them out of the
category of sophistry. (Compare Euthyph.)
That the manner in which he defends himself about the lives of
his disciples is not satisfactory, can hardly be denied. Fresh in the
memory of the Athenians, and detestable as they deserved to be to
the newly restored democracy, were the names of Alcibiades, Cri-
tias, Charmides. It is obviously not a sufficient answer that So-
crates had never professed to teach them anything, and is therefore
not justly chargeable with their crimes. Yet the defence, when
taken out of this ironical form, is doubtless sound: that his teach-
ing had nothing to do with their evil lives. Here, then, the sophistry
is rather in form than in substance, though we might desire that to
such a serious charge Socrates had given a more serious answer.
Truly characteristic of Socrates is another point in his answer,
which may also be regarded as sophistical. He says that 'if he has
corrupted the youth, he must have corrupted them involuntarily.'
But if, as Socrates argues, all evil is involuntary, then all criminals
ought to be admonished and not punished. In these words the So-
cratic doctrine of the involuntariness of evil is clearly intended to
be conveyed. Here again, as in the former instance, the defence of
Socrates is untrue practically, but may be true in some ideal or
transcendental sense. The commonplace reply, that if he had been
guilty of corrupting the youth their relations would surely have wit-
nessed against him, with which he concludes this part of his de-
fence, is more satisfactory.
Again, when Socrates argues that he must believe in the gods be-
cause he believes in the sons of gods, we must remember that this
is a refutation not of the original indictment, which is consistent
enough— 'Socrates does not receive the gods whom the city
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receives, and has other new divinities'— but of the interpretation
put upon the words by Meletus, who has affirmed that he is a
downright atheist. To this Socrates fairly answers, in accordance
with the ideas of the time, that a downright atheist cannot believe
in the sons of gods or in divine things. The notion that demons or
lesser divinities are the sons of gods is not to be regarded as ironic-
al or sceptical. He is arguing 'ad hominem’ according to the notions
of mythology current in his age. Yet he abstains from saying that he
believed in the gods whom the State approved. He does not defend
himself, as Xenophon has defended him, by appealing to his prac-
tice of religion. Probably he neither wholly believed, nor disbe-
lieved, in the existence of the popular gods; he had no means of
knowing about them. According to Plato (compare Phaedo;
Symp.), as well as Xenophon (Memor.), he was punctual in the per-
formance of the least religious duties; and he must have believed in
his own oracular sign, of which he seemed to have an internal wit-
ness. But the existence of Apollo or Zeus, or the other gods whom
the State approves, would have appeared to him both uncertain
and unimportant in comparison of the duty of self-examination,
and of those principles of truth and right which he deemed to be
the foundation of religion. (Compare Phaedr.; Euthyph.; Republic.)
The second question, whether Plato meant to represent Socrates
as braving or irritating his judges, must also be answered in the
negative. His irony, his superiority, his audacity, 'regarding not the
person of man,' necessarily flow out of the loftiness of his situation.
He is not acting a part upon a great occasion, but he is what he has
been all his life long, 'a king of men.’ He would rather not appear
insolent, if he could avoid it (ouch os authadizomenos touto lego).
Neither is he desirous of hastening his own end, for life and death
are simply indifferent to him. But such a defence as would be ac-
ceptable to his judges and might procure an acquittal, it is not in
his nature to make. He will not say or do anything that might per-
vert the course of justice; he cannot have his tongue bound even 'in
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the throat of death.' With his accusers he will only fence and play,
as he had fenced with other 'improvers of youth,' answering the
Sophist according to his sophistry all his life long. He is serious
when he is speaking of his own mission, which seems to distin-
guish him from all other reformers of mankind, and originates in
an accident. The dedication of himself to the improvement of his
fellow-citizens is not so remarkable as the ironical spirit in which
he goes about doing good only in vindication of the credit of the or-
acle, and in the vain hope of finding a wiser man than himself. Yet
this singular and almost accidental character of his mission agrees
with the divine sign which, according to our notions, is equally ac-
cidental and irrational, and is nevertheless accepted by him as the
guiding principle of his life. Socrates is nowhere represented to us
as a freethinker or sceptic. There is no reason to doubt his sincerity
when he speculates on the possibility of seeing and knowing the
heroes of the Trojan war in another world. On the other hand, his
hope of immortality is uncertain;— he also conceives of death as a
long sleep (in this respect differing from the Phaedo), and at last
falls back on resignation to the divine will, and the certainty that
no evil can happen to the good man either in life or death. His ab-
solute truthfulness seems to hinder him from asserting positively
more than this; and he makes no attempt to veil his ignorance in
mythology and figures of speech. The gentleness of the first part of
the speech contrasts with the aggravated, almost threatening, tone
of the conclusion. He characteristically remarks that he will not
speak as a rhetorician, that is to say, he will not make a regular de-
fence such as Lysias or one of the orators might have composed for
him, or, according to some accounts, did compose for him. But he
first procures himself a hearing by conciliatory words. He does not
attack the Sophists; for they were open to the same charges as him-
self; they were equally ridiculed by the Comic poets, and almost
equally hateful to Anytus and Meletus. Yet incidentally the antag-
onism between Socrates and the Sophists is allowed to appear. He
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is poor and they are rich; his profession that he teaches nothing is
opposed to their readiness to teach all things; his talking in the
marketplace to their private instructions; his tarry-at-home life to
their wandering from city to city. The tone which he assumes to-
wards them is one of real friendliness, but also of concealed irony.
Towards Anaxagoras, who had disappointed him in his hopes of
learning about mind and nature, he shows a less kindly feeling,
which is also the feeling of Plato in other passages (Laws). But An-
axagoras had been dead thirty years, and was beyond the reach of
persecution.
It has been remarked that the prophecy of a new generation of
teachers who would rebuke and exhort the Athenian people in
harsher and more violent terms was, as far as we know, never ful-
filled. No inference can be drawn from this circumstance as to the
probability of the words attributed to him having been actually
uttered. They express the aspiration of the first martyr of philo-
sophy, that he would leave behind him many followers, accompan-
ied by the not unnatural feeling that they would be fiercer and
more inconsiderate in their words when emancipated from his
control.
The above remarks must be understood as applying with any de-
gree of certainty to the Platonic Socrates only. For, although these
or similar words may have been spoken by Socrates himself, we
cannot exclude the possibility, that like so much else, e.g. the wis-
dom of Critias, the poem of Solon, the virtues of Charmides, they
may have been due only to the imagination of Plato. The argu-
ments of those who maintain that the Apology was composed dur-
ing the process, resting on no evidence, do not require a serious re-
futation. Nor are the reasonings of Schleiermacher, who argues
that the Platonic defence is an exact or nearly exact reproduction of
the words of Socrates, partly because Plato would not have been
guilty of the impiety of altering them, and also because many
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points of the defence might have been improved and strengthened,
at all more conclusive. (See English Translation.) What effect the
death of Socrates produced on the mind of Plato, we cannot cer-
tainly determine; nor can we say how he would or must have writ-
ten under the circumstances. We observe that the enmity of Aristo-
phanes to Socrates does not prevent Plato from introducing them
together in the Symposium engaged in friendly intercourse. Nor is
there any trace in the Dialogues of an attempt to make Anytus or
Meletus personally odious in the eyes of the Athenian public.
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APOLOGY
How you, O Athenians, have been affected by my accusers, I can-
not tell; but I know that they almost made me forget who I was— so
persuasively did they speak; and yet they have hardly uttered a
word of truth. But of the many falsehoods told by them, there was
one which quite amazed me;— I mean when they said that you
should be upon your guard and not allow yourselves to be deceived
by the force of my eloquence. To say this, when they were certain to
be detected as soon as I opened my lips and proved myself to be
anything but a great speaker, did indeed appear to me most shame-
less— unless by the force of eloquence they mean the force of truth;
for is such is their meaning, I admit that I am eloquent. But in how
different a way from theirs! Well, as I was saying, they have
scarcely spoken the truth at all; but from me you shall hear the
whole truth: not, however, delivered after their manner in a set
oration duly ornamented with words and phrases. No, by heaven!
but I shall use the words and arguments which occur to me at the
moment; for I am confident in the justice of my cause (Or, I am
certain that I am right in taking this course.): at my time of life I
ought not to be appearing before you, O men of Athens, in the
character of a juvenile orator— let no one expect it of me. And I
must beg of you to grant me a favour:— If I defend myself in my ac-
customed manner, and you hear me using the words which I have
been in the habit of using in the agora, at the tables of the money-
changers, or anywhere else, I would ask you not to be surprised,
and not to interrupt me on this account. For I am more than sev-
enty years of age, and appearing now for the first time in a court of
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law, I am quite a stranger to the language of the place; and there-
fore I would have you regard me as if I were really a stranger,
whom you would excuse if he spoke in his native tongue, and after
the fashion of his country:— Am I making an unfair request of you?
Never mind the manner, which may or may not be good; but think
only of the truth of my words, and give heed to that: let the speaker
speak truly and the judge decide justly.
And first, I have to reply to the older charges and to my first ac-
cusers, and then I will go on to the later ones. For of old I have had
many accusers, who have accused me falsely to you during many
years; and I am more afraid of them than of Anytus and his associ-
ates, who are dangerous, too, in their own way. But far more dan-
gerous are the others, who began when you were children, and took
possession of your minds with their falsehoods, telling of one So-
crates, a wise man, who speculated about the heaven above, and
searched into the earth beneath, and made the worse appear the
better cause. The disseminators of this tale are the accusers whom
I dread; for their hearers are apt to fancy that such enquirers do
not believe in the existence of the gods. And they are many, and
their charges against me are of ancient date, and they were made
by them in the days when you were more impressible than you are
now— in childhood, or it may have been in youth— and the cause
when heard went by default, for there was none to answer. And
hardest of all, I do not know and cannot tell the names of my ac-
cusers; unless in the chance case of a Comic poet. All who from
envy and malice have persuaded you— some of them having first
convinced themselves— all this class of men are most difficult to
deal with; for I cannot have them up here, and cross-examine
them, and therefore I must simply fight with shadows in my own
defence, and argue when there is no one who answers. I will ask
you then to assume with me, as I was saying, that my opponents
are of two kinds; one recent, the other ancient: and I hope that you
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will see the propriety of my answering the latter first, for these ac-
cusations you heard long before the others, and much oftener.
Well, then, I must make my defence, and endeavour to clear
away in a short time, a slander which has lasted a long time. May I
succeed, if to succeed be for my good and yours, or likely to avail
me in my cause! The task is not an easy one; I quite understand the
nature of it. And so leaving the event with God, in obedience to the
law I will now make my defence.
I will begin at the beginning, and ask what is the accusation
which has given rise to the slander of me, and in fact has encour-
aged Meletus to proof this charge against me. Well, what do the
slanderers say? They shall be my prosecutors, and I will sum up
their words in an affidavit: 'Socrates is an evil-doer, and a curious
person, who searches into things under the earth and in heaven,
and he makes the worse appear the better cause; and he teaches
the aforesaid doctrines to others.' Such is the nature of the accusa-
tion: it is just what you have yourselves seen in the comedy of Aris-
tophanes (Aristoph., Clouds.), who has introduced a man whom he
calls Socrates, going about and saying that he walks in air, and
talking a deal of nonsense concerning matters of which I do not
pretend to know either much or little— not that I mean to speak
disparagingly of any one who is a student of natural philosophy. I
should be very sorry if Meletus could bring so grave a charge
against me. But the simple truth is, O Athenians, that I have noth-
ing to do with physical speculations. Very many of those here
present are witnesses to the truth of this, and to them I appeal.
Speak then, you who have heard me, and tell your neighbours
whether any of you have ever known me hold forth in few words or
in many upon such matters.. .You hear their answer. And from
what they say of this part of the charge you will be able to judge of
the truth of the rest.
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As little foundation is there for the report that I am a teacher,
and take money; this accusation has no more truth in it than the
other. Although, if a man were really able to instruct mankind, to
receive money for giving instruction would, in my opinion, be an
honour to him. There is Gorgias of Leontium, and Prodicus of
Ceos, and Hippias of Elis, who go the round of the cities, and are
able to persuade the young men to leave their own citizens by
whom they might be taught for nothing, and come to them whom
they not only pay, but are thankful if they may be allowed to pay
them. There is at this time a Parian philosopher residing in Athens,
of whom I have heard; and I came to hear of him in this way:— I
came across a man who has spent a world of money on the Soph-
ists, Callias, the son of Hipponicus, and knowing that he had sons,
I asked him: 'Callias,' I said, 'if your two sons were foals or calves,
there would be no difficulty in finding some one to put over them;
we should hire a trainer of horses, or a farmer probably, who would
improve and perfect them in their own proper virtue and excel-
lence; but as they are human beings, whom are you thinking of pla-
cing over them? Is there any one who understands human and
political virtue? You must have thought about the matter, for you
have sons; is there any one?' 'There is,' he said. 'Who is he?' said I;
'and of what country? and what does he charge?’ 'Evenus the Pari-
an,' he replied; 'he is the man, and his charge is five minae.' Happy
is Evenus, I said to myself, if he really has this wisdom, and teaches
at such a moderate charge. Had I the same, I should have been very
proud and conceited; but the truth is that I have no knowledge of
the kind.
I dare say, Athenians, that some one among you will reply, 'Yes,
Socrates, but what is the origin of these accusations which are
brought against you; there must have been something strange
which you have been doing? All these rumours and this talk about
you would never have arisen if you had been like other men: tell us,
then, what is the cause of them, for we should be sorry to judge
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hastily of you.' Now I regard this as a fair challenge, and I will en-
deavour to explain to you the reason why I am called wise and have
such an evil fame. Please to attend then. And although some of you
may think that I am joking, I declare that I will tell you the entire
truth. Men of Athens, this reputation of mine has come of a certain
sort of wisdom which I possess. If you ask me what kind of wis-
dom, I reply, wisdom such as may perhaps be attained by man, for
to that extent I am inclined to believe that I am wise; whereas the
persons of whom I was speaking have a superhuman wisdom
which I may fail to describe, because I have it not myself; and he
who says that I have, speaks falsely, and is taking away my charac-
ter. And here, O men of Athens, I must beg you not to interrupt
me, even if I seem to say something extravagant. For the word
which I will speak is not mine. I will refer you to a witness who is
worthy of credit; that witness shall be the God of Delphi— he will
tell you about my wisdom, if I have any, and of what sort it is. You
must have known Chaerephon; he was early a friend of mine, and
also a friend of yours, for he shared in the recent exile of the
people, and returned with you. Well, Chaerephon, as you know,
was very impetuous in all his doings, and he went to Delphi and
boldly asked the oracle to tell him whether— as I was saying, I must
beg you not to interrupt— he asked the oracle to tell him whether
anyone was wiser than I was, and the Pythian prophetess
answered, that there was no man wiser. Chaerephon is dead him-
self; but his brother, who is in court, will confirm the truth of what
I am saying.
Why do I mention this? Because I am going to explain to you
why I have such an evil name. When I heard the answer, I said to
myself, What can the god mean? and what is the interpretation of
his riddle? for I know that I have no wisdom, small or great. What
then can he mean when he says that I am the wisest of men? And
yet he is a god, and cannot lie; that would be against his nature.
After long consideration, I thought of a method of trying the
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question. I reflected that if I could only find a man wiser than my-
self, then I might go to the god with a refutation in my hand. I
should say to him, 'Here is a man who is wiser than I am; but you
said that I was the wisest.’ Accordingly I went to one who had the
reputation of wisdom, and observed him— his name I need not
mention; he was a politician whom I selected for examination— and
the result was as follows: When I began to talk with him, I could
not help thinking that he was not really wise, although he was
thought wise by many, and still wiser by himself; and thereupon I
tried to explain to him that he thought himself wise, but was not
really wise; and the consequence was that he hated me, and his
enmity was shared by several who were present and heard me. So I
left him, saying to myself, as I went away: Well, although I do not
suppose that either of us knows anything really beautiful and good,
I am better off than he is,— for he knows nothing, and thinks that
he knows; I neither know nor think that I know. In this latter par-
ticular, then, I seem to have slightly the advantage of him. Then I
went to another who had still higher pretensions to wisdom, and
my conclusion was exactly the same. Whereupon I made another
enemy of him, and of many others besides him.
Then I went to one man after another, being not unconscious of
the enmity which I provoked, and I lamented and feared this: but
necessity was laid upon me,— the word of God, I thought, ought to
be considered first. And I said to myself, Go I must to all who ap-
pear to know, and find out the meaning of the oracle. And I swear
to you, Athenians, by the dog I swear!— for I must tell you the
truth— the result of my mission was just this: I found that the men
most in repute were all but the most foolish; and that others less
esteemed were really wiser and better. I will tell you the tale of my
wanderings and of the 'Herculean' labours, as I may call them,
which I endured only to find at last the oracle irrefutable. After the
politicians, I went to the poets; tragic, dithyrambic, and all sorts.
And there, I said to myself, you will be instantly detected; now you
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will find out that you are more ignorant than they are. Accordingly,
I took them some of the most elaborate passages in their own writ-
ings, and asked what was the meaning of them— thinking that they
would teach me something. Will you believe me? I am almost
ashamed to confess the truth, but I must say that there is hardly a
person present who would not have talked better about their po-
etry than they did themselves. Then I knew that not by wisdom do
poets write poetry, but by a sort of genius and inspiration; they are
like diviners or soothsayers who also say many fine things, but do
not understand the meaning of them. The poets appeared to me to
be much in the same case; and I further observed that upon the
strength of their poetry they believed themselves to be the wisest of
men in other things in which they were not wise. So I departed,
conceiving myself to be superior to them for the same reason that I
was superior to the politicians.
At last I went to the artisans. I was conscious that I knew nothing
at all, as I may say, and I was sure that they knew many fine things;
and here I was not mistaken, for they did know many things of
which I was ignorant, and in this they certainly were wiser than I
was. But I observed that even the good artisans fell into the same
error as the poets;— because they were good workmen they thought
that they also knew all sorts of high matters, and this defect in
them overshadowed their wisdom; and therefore I asked myself on
behalf of the oracle, whether I would like to be as I was, neither
having their knowledge nor their ignorance, or like them in both;
and I made answer to myself and to the oracle that I was better off
as I was.
This inquisition has led to my having many enemies of the worst
and most dangerous kind, and has given occasion also to many
calumnies. And I am called wise, for my hearers always imagine
that I myself possess the wisdom which I find wanting in others:
but the truth is, O men of Athens, that God only is wise; and by his
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answer he intends to show that the wisdom of men is worth little or
nothing; he is not speaking of Socrates, he is only using my name
by way of illustration, as if he said, He, O men, is the wisest, who,
like Socrates, knows that his wisdom is in truth worth nothing. And
so I go about the world, obedient to the god, and search and make
enquiry into the wisdom of any one, whether citizen or stranger,
who appears to be wise; and if he is not wise, then in vindication of
the oracle I show him that he is not wise; and my occupation quite
absorbs me, and I have no time to give either to any public matter
of interest or to any concern of my own, but I am in utter poverty
by reason of my devotion to the god.
There is another thing:— young men of the richer classes, who
have not much to do, come about me of their own accord; they like
to hear the pretenders examined, and they often imitate me, and
proceed to examine others; there are plenty of persons, as they
quickly discover, who think that they know something, but really
know little or nothing; and then those who are examined by them
instead of being angry with themselves are angry with me: This
confounded Socrates, they say; this villainous misleader of
youth!— and then if somebody asks them, Why, what evil does he
practise or teach? they do not know, and cannot tell; but in order
that they may not appear to be at a loss, they repeat the ready-
made charges which are used against all philosophers about teach-
ing things up in the clouds and under the earth, and having no
gods, and making the worse appear the better cause; for they do
not like to confess that their pretence of knowledge has been detec-
ted— which is the truth; and as they are numerous and ambitious
and energetic, and are drawn up in battle array and have persuas-
ive tongues, they have filled your ears with their loud and inveter-
ate calumnies. And this is the reason why my three accusers, Mele-
tus and Anytus and Lycon, have set upon me; Meletus, who has a
quarrel with me on behalf of the poets; Anytus, on behalf of the
craftsmen and politicians; Lycon, on behalf of the rhetoricians: and
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as I said at the beginning, I cannot expect to get rid of such a mass
of calumny all in a moment. And this, O men of Athens, is the truth
and the whole truth; I have concealed nothing, I have dissembled
nothing. And yet, I know that my plainness of speech makes them
hate me, and what is their hatred but a proof that I am speaking
the truth?— Hence has arisen the prejudice against me; and this is
the reason of it, as you will find out either in this or in any future
enquiry.
I have said enough in my defence against the first class of my ac-
cusers; I turn to the second class. They are headed by Meletus, that
good man and true lover of his country, as he calls himself. Against
these, too, I must try to make a defence:— Let their affidavit be
read: it contains something of this kind: It says that Socrates is a
doer of evil, who corrupts the youth; and who does not believe in
the gods of the state, but has other new divinities of his own. Such
is the charge; and now let us examine the particular counts. He
says that I am a doer of evil, and corrupt the youth; but I say, O
men of Athens, that Meletus is a doer of evil, in that he pretends to
be in earnest when he is only in jest, and is so eager to bring men to
trial from a pretended zeal and interest about matters in which he
really never had the smallest interest. And the truth of this I will
endeavour to prove to you.
Come hither, Meletus, and let me ask a question of you. You
think a great deal about the improvement of youth?
Yes, I do.
Tell the judges, then, who is their improver; for you must know,
as you have taken the pains to discover their corrupter, and are cit-
ing and accusing me before them. Speak, then, and tell the judges
who their improver is.— Observe, Meletus, that you are silent, and
have nothing to say. But is not this rather disgraceful, and a very
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considerable proof of what I was saying, that you have no interest
in the matter? Speak up, friend, and tell us who their improver is.
The laws.
But that, my good sir, is not my meaning. I want to know who
the person is, who, in the first place, knows the laws.
The judges, Socrates, who are present in court.
What, do you mean to say, Meletus, that they are able to instruct
and improve youth?
Certainly they are.
What, all of them, or some only and not others?
All of them.
By the goddess Here, that is good news! There are plenty of im-
provers, then. And what do you say of the audience,— do they im-
prove them?
Yes, they do.
And the senators?
Yes, the senators improve them.
But perhaps the members of the assembly corrupt them?— or do
they too improve them?
They improve them.
Then every Athenian improves and elevates them; all with the
exception of myself; and I alone am their corrupter? Is that what
you affirm?
That is what I stoutly affirm.
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I am very unfortunate if you are right. But suppose I ask you a
question: How about horses? Does one man do them harm and all
the world good? Is not the exact opposite the truth? One man is
able to do them good, or at least not many;— the trainer of horses,
that is to say, does them good, and others who have to do with
them rather injure them? Is not that true, Meletus, of horses, or of
any other animals? Most assuredly it is; whether you and Anytus
say yes or no. Happy indeed would be the condition of youth if they
had one corrupter only, and all the rest of the world were their im-
provers. But you, Meletus, have sufficiently shown that you never
had a thought about the young: your carelessness is seen in your
not caring about the very things which you bring against me.
And now, Meletus, I will ask you another question— by Zeus I
will: Which is better, to live among bad citizens, or among good
ones? Answer, friend, I say; the question is one which may be eas-
ily answered. Do not the good do their neighbours good, and the
bad do them evil?
Certainly.
And is there anyone who would rather be injured than benefited
by those who live with him? Answer, my good friend, the law re-
quires you to answer— does any one like to be injured?
Certainly not.
And when you accuse me of corrupting and deteriorating the
youth, do you allege that I corrupt them intentionally or
unintentionally?
Intentionally, I say.
But you have just admitted that the good do their neighbours
good, and the evil do them evil. Now, is that a truth which your su-
perior wisdom has recognized thus early in life, and am I, at my
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age, in such darkness and ignorance as not to know that if a man
with whom I have to live is corrupted by me, I am very likely to be
harmed by him; and yet I corrupt him, and intentionally, too— so
you say, although neither I nor any other human being is ever
likely to be convinced by you. But either I do not corrupt them, or I
corrupt them unintentionally; and on either view of the case you
lie. If my offence is unintentional, the law has no cognizance of un-
intentional offences: you ought to have taken me privately, and
warned and admonished me; for if I had been better advised, I
should have left off doing what I only did unintentionally— no
doubt I should; but you would have nothing to say to me and re-
fused to teach me. And now you bring me up in this court, which is
a place not of instruction, but of punishment.
It will be very clear to you, Athenians, as I was saying, that Mele-
tus has no care at all, great or small, about the matter. But still I
should like to know, Meletus, in what I am affirmed to corrupt the
young. I suppose you mean, as I infer from your indictment, that I
teach them not to acknowledge the gods which the state acknow-
ledges, but some other new divinities or spiritual agencies in their
stead. These are the lessons by which I corrupt the youth, as you
say.
Yes, that I say emphatically.
Then, by the gods, Meletus, of whom we are speaking, tell me
and the court, in somewhat plainer terms, what you mean! for I do
not as yet understand whether you affirm that I teach other men to
acknowledge some gods, and therefore that I do believe in gods,
and am not an entire atheist— this you do not lay to my
charge,— but only you say that they are not the same gods which
the city recognizes— the charge is that they are different gods. Or,
do you mean that I am an atheist simply, and a teacher of atheism?
I mean the latter— that you are a complete atheist.
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What an extraordinary statement! Why do you think so, Mele-
tus? Do you mean that I do not believe in the godhead of the sun or
moon, like other men?
I assure you, judges, that he does not: for he says that the sun is
stone, and the moon earth.
Friend Meletus, you think that you are accusing Anaxagoras: and
you have but a bad opinion of the judges, if you fancy them illiter-
ate to such a degree as not to know that these doctrines are found
in the books of Anaxagoras the Clazomenian, which are full of
them. And so, forsooth, the youth are said to be taught them by So-
crates, when there are not unfrequently exhibitions of them at the
theatre (Probably in allusion to Aristophanes who caricatured, and
to Euripides who borrowed the notions of Anaxagoras, as well as to
other dramatic poets.) (price of admission one drachma at the
most); and they might pay their money, and laugh at Socrates if he
pretends to father these extraordinary views. And so, Meletus, you
really think that I do not believe in any god?
I swear by Zeus that you believe absolutely in none at all.
Nobody will believe you, Meletus, and I am pretty sure that you
do not believe yourself. I cannot help thinking, men of Athens, that
Meletus is reckless and impudent, and that he has written this in-
dictment in a spirit of mere wantonness and youthful bravado. Has
he not compounded a riddle, thinking to try me? He said to him-
self:— I shall see whether the wise Socrates will discover my fa-
cetious contradiction, or whether I shall be able to deceive him and
the rest of them. For he certainly does appear to me to contradict
himself in the indictment as much as if he said that Socrates is
guilty of not believing in the gods, and yet of believing in
them— but this is not like a person who is in earnest.
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I should like you, O men of Athens, to join me in examining what
I conceive to be his inconsistency; and do you, Meletus, answer.
And I must remind the audience of my request that they would not
make a disturbance if I speak in my accustomed manner:
Did ever man, Meletus, believe in the existence of human things,
and not of human beings?. ..I wish, men of Athens, that he would
answer, and not be always trying to get up an interruption. Did
ever any man believe in horsemanship, and not in horses? or in
flute-playing, and not in flute-players? No, my friend; I will answer
to you and to the court, as you refuse to answer for yourself. There
is no man who ever did. But now please to answer the next ques-
tion: Can a man believe in spiritual and divine agencies, and not in
spirits or demigods?
He cannot.
How lucky I am to have extracted that answer, by the assistance
of the court! But then you swear in the indictment that I teach and
believe in divine or spiritual agencies (new or old, no matter for
that); at any rate, I believe in spiritual agencies,— so you say and
swear in the affidavit; and yet if I believe in divine beings, how can
I help believing in spirits or demigods;— must I not? To be sure I
must; and therefore I may assume that your silence gives consent.
Now what are spirits or demigods? Are they not either gods or the
sons of gods?
Certainly they are.
But this is what I call the facetious riddle invented by you: the
demigods or spirits are gods, and you say first that I do not believe
in gods, and then again that I do believe in gods; that is, if I believe
in demigods. For if the demigods are the illegitimate sons of gods,
whether by the nymphs or by any other mothers, of whom they are
said to be the sons— what human being will ever believe that there
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are no gods if they are the sons of gods? You might as well affirm
the existence of mules, and deny that of horses and asses. Such
nonsense, Meletus, could only have been intended by you to make
trial of me. You have put this into the indictment because you had
nothing real of which to accuse me. But no one who has a particle
of understanding will ever be convinced by you that the same men
can believe in divine and superhuman things, and yet not believe
that there are gods and demigods and heroes.
I have said enough in answer to the charge of Meletus: any elab-
orate defence is unnecessary, but I know only too well how many
are the enmities which I have incurred, and this is what will be my
destruction if I am destroyed;— not Meletus, nor yet Anytus, but
the envy and detraction of the world, which has been the death of
many good men, and will probably be the death of many more;
there is no danger of my being the last of them.
Some one will say: And are you not ashamed, Socrates, of a
course of life which is likely to bring you to an untimely end? To
him I may fairly answer: There you are mistaken: a man who is
good for anything ought not to calculate the chance of living or dy-
ing; he ought only to consider whether in doing anything he is do-
ing right or wrong— acting the part of a good man or of a bad.
Whereas, upon your view, the heroes who fell at Troy were not
good for much, and the son of Thetis above all, who altogether des-
pised danger in comparison with disgrace; and when he was so
eager to slay Hector, his goddess mother said to him, that if he
avenged his companion Patroclus, and slew Hector, he would die
himself— 'Fate,' she said, in these or the like words, 'waits for you
next after Hector;' he, receiving this warning, utterly despised
danger and death, and instead of fearing them, feared rather to live
in dishonour, and not to avenge his friend. 'Let me die forthwith,'
he replies, 'and be avenged of my enemy, rather than abide here by
the beaked ships, a laughing-stock and a burden of the earth.' Had
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Achilles any thought of death and danger? For wherever a man's
place is, whether the place which he has chosen or that in which he
has been placed by a commander, there he ought to remain in the
hour of danger; he should not think of death or of anything but of
disgrace. And this, O men of Athens, is a true saying.
Strange, indeed, would be my conduct, O men of Athens, if I
who, when I was ordered by the generals whom you chose to com-
mand me at Potidaea and Amphipolis and Delium, remained
where they placed me, like any other man, facing death— if now,
when, as I conceive and imagine, God orders me to fulfil the
philosopher's mission of searching into myself and other men, I
were to desert my post through fear of death, or any other fear;
that would indeed be strange, and I might justly be arraigned in
court for denying the existence of the gods, if I disobeyed the oracle
because I was afraid of death, fancying that I was wise when I was
not wise. For the fear of death is indeed the pretence of wisdom,
and not real wisdom, being a pretence of knowing the unknown;
and no one knows whether death, which men in their fear appre-
hend to be the greatest evil, may not be the greatest good. Is not
this ignorance of a disgraceful sort, the ignorance which is the con-
ceit that a man knows what he does not know? And in this respect
only I believe myself to differ from men in general, and may per-
haps claim to be wiser than they are:— that whereas I know but
little of the world below, I do not suppose that I know: but I do
know that injustice and disobedience to a better, whether God or
man, is evil and dishonourable, and I will never fear or avoid a pos-
sible good rather than a certain evil. And therefore if you let me go
now, and are not convinced by Anytus, who said that since I had
been prosecuted I must be put to death; (or if not that I ought nev-
er to have been prosecuted at all); and that if I escape now, your
sons will all be utterly ruined by listening to my words— if you say
to me, Socrates, this time we will not mind Anytus, and you shall
be let off, but upon one condition, that you are not to enquire and
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speculate in this way any more, and that if you are caught doing so
again you shall die;— if this was the condition on which you let me
go, I should reply: Men of Athens, I honour and love you; but I
shall obey God rather than you, and while I have life and strength I
shall never cease from the practice and teaching of philosophy, ex-
horting any one whom I meet and saying to him after my manner:
You, my friend,— a citizen of the great and mighty and wise city of
Athens,— are you not ashamed of heaping up the greatest amount
of money and honour and reputation, and caring so little about
wisdom and truth and the greatest improvement of the soul, which
you never regard or heed at all? And if the person with whom I am
arguing, says: Yes, but I do care; then I do not leave him or let him
go at once; but I proceed to interrogate and examine and cross-ex-
amine him, and if I think that he has no virtue in him, but only says
that he has, I reproach him with undervaluing the greater, and
overvaluing the less. And I shall repeat the same words to every
one whom I meet, young and old, citizen and alien, but especially
to the citizens, inasmuch as they are my brethren. For know that
this is the command of God; and I believe that no greater good has
ever happened in the state than my service to the God. For I do
nothing but go about persuading you all, old and young alike, not
to take thought for your persons or your properties, but first and
chiefly to care about the greatest improvement of the soul. I tell
you that virtue is not given by money, but that from virtue comes
money and every other good of man, public as well as private. This
is my teaching, and if this is the doctrine which corrupts the youth,
I am a mischievous person. But if any one says that this is not my
teaching, he is speaking an untruth. Wherefore, O men of Athens, I
say to you, do as Anytus bids or not as Anytus bids, and either ac-
quit me or not; but whichever you do, understand that I shall never
alter my ways, not even if I have to die many times.
Men of Athens, do not interrupt, but hear me; there was an un-
derstanding between us that you should hear me to the end: I have
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something more to say, at which you may be inclined to cry out;
but I believe that to hear me will be good for you, and therefore I
beg that you will not cry out. I would have you know, that if you kill
such an one as I am, you will injure yourselves more than you will
injure me. Nothing will injure me, not Meletus nor yet
Anytus— they cannot, for a bad man is not permitted to injure a
better than himself. I do not deny that Anytus may, perhaps, kill
him, or drive him into exile, or deprive him of civil rights; and he
may imagine, and others may imagine, that he is inflicting a great
injury upon him: but there I do not agree. For the evil of doing as
he is doing— the evil of unjustly taking away the life of another— is
greater far.
And now, Athenians, I am not going to argue for my own sake, as
you may think, but for yours, that you may not sin against the God
by condemning me, who am his gift to you. For if you kill me you
will not easily find a successor to me, who, if I may use such a
ludicrous figure of speech, am a sort of gadfly, given to the state by
God; and the state is a great and noble steed who is tardy in his
motions owing to his very size, and requires to be stirred into life. I
am that gadfly which God has attached to the state, and all day
long and in all places am always fastening upon you, arousing and
persuading and reproaching you. You will not easily find another
like me, and therefore I would advise you to spare me. I dare say
that you may feel out of temper (like a person who is suddenly
awakened from sleep), and you think that you might easily strike
me dead as Anytus advises, and then you would sleep on for the re-
mainder of your lives, unless God in his care of you sent you anoth-
er gadfly. When I say that I am given to you by God, the proof of
my mission is this:— if I had been like other men, I should not have
neglected all my own concerns or patiently seen the neglect of
them during all these years, and have been doing yours, coming to
you individually like a father or elder brother, exhorting you to re-
gard virtue; such conduct, I say, would be unlike human nature. If I
37/66
had gained anything, or if my exhortations had been paid, there
would have been some sense in my doing so; but now, as you will
perceive, not even the impudence of my accusers dares to say that I
have ever exacted or sought pay of any one; of that they have no
witness. And I have a sufficient witness to the truth of what I
say— my poverty.
Some one may wonder why I go about in private giving advice
and busying myself with the concerns of others, but do not venture
to come forward in public and advise the state. I will tell you why.
You have heard me speak at sundry times and in divers places of an
oracle or sign which comes to me, and is the divinity which Meletus
ridicules in the indictment. This sign, which is a kind of voice, first
began to come to me when I was a child; it always forbids but never
commands me to do anything which I am going to do. This is what
deters me from being a politician. And rightly, as I think. For I am
certain, O men of Athens, that if I had engaged in politics, I should
have perished long ago, and done no good either to you or to my-
self. And do not be offended at my telling you the truth: for the
truth is, that no man who goes to war with you or any other multi-
tude, honestly striving against the many lawless and unrighteous
deeds which are done in a state, will save his life; he who will fight
for the right, if he would live even for a brief space, must have a
private station and not a public one.
I can give you convincing evidence of what I say, not words only,
but what you value far more— actions. Let me relate to you a pas-
sage of my own life which will prove to you that I should never
have yielded to injustice from any fear of death, and that 'as I
should have refused to yield' I must have died at once. I will tell
you a tale of the courts, not very interesting perhaps, but neverthe-
less true. The only office of state which I ever held, O men of
Athens, was that of senator: the tribe Antiochis, which is my tribe,
had the presidency at the trial of the generals who had not taken up
38/66
the bodies of the slain after the battle of Arginusae; and you pro-
posed to try them in a body, contrary to law, as you all thought af-
terwards; but at the time I was the only one of the Prytanes who
was opposed to the illegality, and I gave my vote against you; and
when the orators threatened to impeach and arrest me, and you
called and shouted, I made up my mind that I would run the risk,
having law and justice with me, rather than take part in your in-
justice because I feared imprisonment and death. This happened in
the days of the democracy. But when the oligarchy of the Thirty
was in power, they sent for me and four others into the rotunda,
and bade us bring Leon the Salaminian from Salamis, as they
wanted to put him to death. This was a specimen of the sort of
commands which they were always giving with the view of implic-
ating as many as possible in their crimes; and then I showed, not in
word only but in deed, that, if I may be allowed to use such an ex-
pression, I cared not a straw for death, and that my great and only
care was lest I should do an unrighteous or unholy thing. For the
strong arm of that oppressive power did not frighten me into doing
wrong; and when we came out of the rotunda the other four went
to Salamis and fetched Leon, but I went quietly home. For which I
might have lost my life, had not the power of the Thirty shortly af-
terwards come to an end. And many will witness to my words.
Now do you really imagine that I could have survived all these
years, if I had led a public life, supposing that like a good man I
had always maintained the right and had made justice, as I ought,
the first thing? No indeed, men of Athens, neither I nor any other
man. But I have been always the same in all my actions, public as
well as private, and never have I yielded any base compliance to
those who are slanderously termed my disciples, or to any other.
Not that I have any regular disciples. But if any one likes to come
and hear me while I am pursuing my mission, whether he be young
or old, he is not excluded. Nor do I converse only with those who
pay; but any one, whether he be rich or poor, may ask and answer
39/66
me and listen to my words; and whether he turns out to be a bad
man or a good one, neither result can be justly imputed to me; for I
never taught or professed to teach him anything. And if any one
says that he has ever learned or heard anything from me in private
which all the world has not heard, let me tell you that he is lying.
But I shall be asked, Why do people delight in continually con-
versing with you? I have told you already, Athenians, the whole
truth about this matter: they like to hear the cross-examination of
the pretenders to wisdom; there is amusement in it. Now this duty
of cross-examining other men has been imposed upon me by God;
and has been signified to me by oracles, visions, and in every way
in which the will of divine power was ever intimated to any one.
This is true, O Athenians, or, if not true, would be soon refuted. If I
am or have been corrupting the youth, those of them who are now
grown up and have become sensible that I gave them bad advice in
the days of their youth should come forward as accusers, and take
their revenge; or if they do not like to come themselves, some of
their relatives, fathers, brothers, or other kinsmen, should say what
evil their families have suffered at my hands. Now is their time.
Many of them I see in the court. There is Crito, who is of the same
age and of the same deme with myself, and there is Critobulus his
son, whom I also see. Then again there is Lysanias of Sphettus,
who is the father of Aeschines— he is present; and also there is An-
tiphon of Cephisus, who is the father of Epigenes; and there are the
brothers of several who have associated with me. There is
Nicostratus the son of Theosdotides, and the brother of Theodotus
(now Theodotus himself is dead, and therefore he, at any rate, will
not seek to stop him); and there is Paralus the son of Demodocus,
who had a brother Theages; and Adeimantus the son of Ariston,
whose brother Plato is present; and Aeantodorus, who is the broth-
er of Apollodorus, whom I also see. I might mention a great many
others, some of whom Meletus should have produced as witnesses
in the course of his speech; and let him still produce them, if he has
40/66
forgotten— I will make way for him. And let him say, if he has any
testimony of the sort which he can produce. Nay, Athenians, the
very opposite is the truth. For all these are ready to witness on be-
half of the corrupter, of the injurer of their kindred, as Meletus and
Anytus call me; not the corrupted youth only— there might have
been a motive for that— but their uncorrupted elder relatives. Why
should they too support me with their testimony? Why, indeed, ex-
cept for the sake of truth and justice, and because they know that I
am speaking the truth, and that Meletus is a liar.
Well, Athenians, this and the like of this is all the defence which
I have to offer. Yet a word more. Perhaps there may be some one
who is offended at me, when he calls to mind how he himself on a
similar, or even a less serious occasion, prayed and entreated the
judges with many tears, and how he produced his children in court,
which was a moving spectacle, together with a host of relations and
friends; whereas I, who am probably in danger of my life, will do
none of these things. The contrast may occur to his mind, and he
may be set against me, and vote in anger because he is displeased
at me on this account. Now if there be such a person among
you,— mind, I do not say that there is,— to him I may fairly reply:
My friend, I am a man, and like other men, a creature of flesh and
blood, and not 'of wood or stone,’ as Homer says; and I have a fam-
ily, yes, and sons, O Athenians, three in number, one almost a man,
and two others who are still young; and yet I will not bring any of
them hither in order to petition you for an acquittal. And why not?
Not from any self-assertion or want of respect for you. Whether I
am or am not afraid of death is another question, of which I will
not now speak. But, having regard to public opinion, I feel that
such conduct would be discreditable to myself, and to you, and to
the whole state. One who has reached my years, and who has a
name for wisdom, ought not to demean himself. Whether this
opinion of me be deserved or not, at any rate the world has decided
that Socrates is in some way superior to other men. And if those
41/66
among you who are said to be superior in wisdom and courage, and
any other virtue, demean themselves in this way, how shameful is
their conduct! I have seen men of reputation, when they have been
condemned, behaving in the strangest manner: they seemed to
fancy that they were going to suffer something dreadful if they
died, and that they could be immortal if you only allowed them to
live; and I think that such are a dishonour to the state, and that any
stranger coming in would have said of them that the most eminent
men of Athens, to whom the Athenians themselves give honour
and command, are no better than women. And I say that these
things ought not to be done by those of us who have a reputation;
and if they are done, you ought not to permit them; you ought
rather to show that you are far more disposed to condemn the man
who gets up a doleful scene and makes the city ridiculous, than him
who holds his peace.
But, setting aside the question of public opinion, there seems to
be something wrong in asking a favour of a judge, and thus procur-
ing an acquittal, instead of informing and convincing him. For his
duty is, not to make a present of justice, but to give judgment; and
he has sworn that he will judge according to the laws, and not ac-
cording to his own good pleasure; and we ought not to encourage
you, nor should you allow yourselves to be encouraged, in this
habit of perjury— there can be no piety in that. Do not then require
me to do what I consider dishonourable and impious and wrong,
especially now, when I am being tried for impiety on the indict-
ment of Meletus. For if, O men of Athens, by force of persuasion
and entreaty I could overpower your oaths, then I should be teach-
ing you to believe that there are no gods, and in defending should
simply convict myself of the charge of not believing in them. But
that is not so— far otherwise. For I do believe that there are gods,
and in a sense higher than that in which any of my accusers believe
in them. And to you and to God I commit my cause, to be determ-
ined by you as is best for you and me.
42/66
There are many reasons why I am not grieved, 0 men of Athens,
at the vote of condemnation. I expected it, and am only surprised
that the votes are so nearly equal; for I had thought that the major-
ity against me would have been far larger; but now, had thirty votes
gone over to the other side, I should have been acquitted. And I
may say, I think, that I have escaped Meletus. I may say more; for
without the assistance of Anytus and Lycon, any one may see that
he would not have had a fifth part of the votes, as the law requires,
in which case he would have incurred a fine of a thousand
drachmae.
And so he proposes death as the penalty. And what shall I pro-
pose on my part, O men of Athens? Clearly that which is my due.
And what is my due? What return shall be made to the man who
has never had the wit to be idle during his whole life; but has been
careless of what the many care for— wealth, and family interests,
and military offices, and speaking in the assembly, and magistra-
cies, and plots, and parties. Reflecting that I was really too honest a
man to be a politician and live, I did not go where I could do no
good to you or to myself; but where I could do the greatest good
privately to every one of you, thither I went, and sought to per-
suade every man among you that he must look to himself, and seek
virtue and wisdom before he looks to his private interests, and look
to the state before he looks to the interests of the state; and that
this should be the order which he observes in all his actions. What
shall be done to such an one? Doubtless some good thing, O men of
Athens, if he has his reward; and the good should be of a kind suit-
able to him. What would be a reward suitable to a poor man who is
your benefactor, and who desires leisure that he may instruct you?
There can be no reward so fitting as maintenance in the
Prytaneum, O men of Athens, a reward which he deserves far more
than the citizen who has won the prize at Olympia in the horse or
chariot race, whether the chariots were drawn by two horses or by
43/66
many. For I am in want, and he has enough; and he only gives you
the appearance of happiness, and I give you the reality. And if I am
to estimate the penalty fairly, I should say that maintenance in the
Prytaneum is the just return.
Perhaps you think that I am braving you in what I am saying
now, as in what I said before about the tears and prayers. But this
is not so. I speak rather because I am convinced that I never inten-
tionally wronged any one, although I cannot convince you— the
time has been too short; if there were a law at Athens, as there is in
other cities, that a capital cause should not be decided in one day,
then I believe that I should have convinced you. But I cannot in a
moment refute great slanders; and, as I am convinced that I never
wronged another, I will assuredly not wrong myself. I will not say
of myself that I deserve any evil, or propose any penalty. Why
should I? because I am afraid of the penalty of death which Mele-
tus proposes? When I do not know whether death is a good or an
evil, why should I propose a penalty which would certainly be an
evil? Shall I say imprisonment? And why should I live in prison,
and be the slave of the magistrates of the year— of the Eleven? Or
shall the penalty be a fine, and imprisonment until the fine is paid?
There is the same objection. I should have to lie in prison, for
money I have none, and cannot pay. And if I say exile (and this
may possibly be the penalty which you will affix), I must indeed be
blinded by the love of life, if I am so irrational as to expect that
when you, who are my own citizens, cannot endure my discourses
and words, and have found them so grievous and odious that you
will have no more of them, others are likely to endure me. No in-
deed, men of Athens, that is not very likely. And what a life should
I lead, at my age, wandering from city to city, ever changing my
place of exile, and always being driven out! For I am quite sure that
wherever I go, there, as here, the young men will flock to me; and if
I drive them away, their elders will drive me out at their request;
44/66
and if I let them come, their fathers and friends will drive me out
for their sakes.
Some one will say: Yes, Socrates, but cannot you hold your
tongue, and then you may go into a foreign city, and no one will in-
terfere with you? Now I have great difficulty in making you under-
stand my answer to this. For if I tell you that to do as you say would
be a disobedience to the God, and therefore that I cannot hold my
tongue, you will not believe that I am serious; and if I say again
that daily to discourse about virtue, and of those other things about
which you hear me examining myself and others, is the greatest
good of man, and that the unexamined life is not worth living, you
are still less likely to believe me. Yet I say what is true, although a
thing of which it is hard for me to persuade you. Also, I have never
been accustomed to think that I deserve to suffer any harm. Had I
money I might have estimated the offence at what I was able to
pay, and not have been much the worse. But I have none, and
therefore I must ask you to proportion the fine to my means. Well,
perhaps I could afford a mina, and therefore I propose that pen-
alty: Plato, Crito, Critobulus, and Apollodorus, my friends here, bid
me say thirty minae, and they will be the sureties. Let thirty minae
be the penalty; for which sum they will be ample security to you.
Not much time will be gained, O Athenians, in return for the evil
name which you will get from the detractors of the city, who will
say that you killed Socrates, a wise man; for they will call me wise,
even although I am not wise, when they want to reproach you. If
you had waited a little while, your desire would have been fulfilled
in the course of nature. For I am far advanced in years, as you may
perceive, and not far from death. I am speaking now not to all of
you, but only to those who have condemned me to death. And I
have another thing to say to them: you think that I was convicted
because I had no words of the sort which would have procured my
45/66
acquittal— I mean, if I had thought fit to leave nothing undone or
unsaid. Not so; the deficiency which led to my conviction was not
of words— certainly not. But I had not the boldness or impudence
or inclination to address you as you would have liked me to do,
weeping and wailing and lamenting, and saying and doing many
things which you have been accustomed to hear from others, and
which, as I maintain, are unworthy of me. I thought at the time
that I ought not to do anything common or mean when in danger:
nor do I now repent of the style of my defence; I would rather die
having spoken after my manner, than speak in your manner and
live. For neither in war nor yet at law ought I or any man to use
every way of escaping death. Often in battle there can be no doubt
that if a man will throw away his arms, and fall on his knees before
his pursuers, he may escape death; and in other dangers there are
other ways of escaping death, if a man is willing to say and do any-
thing. The difficulty, my friends, is not to avoid death, but to avoid
unrighteousness; for that runs faster than death. I am old and
move slowly, and the slower runner has overtaken me, and my ac-
cusers are keen and quick, and the faster runner, who is unright-
eousness, has overtaken them. And now I depart hence condemned
by you to suffer the penalty of death,— they too go their ways con-
demned by the truth to suffer the penalty of villainy and wrong;
and I must abide by my award— let them abide by theirs. I suppose
that these things may be regarded as fated,— and I think that they
are well.
And now, O men who have condemned me, I would fain proph-
esy to you; for I am about to die, and in the hour of death men are
gifted with prophetic power. And I prophesy to you who are my
murderers, that immediately after my departure punishment far
heavier than you have inflicted on me will surely await you. Me you
have killed because you wanted to escape the accuser, and not to
give an account of your lives. But that will not be as you suppose:
far otherwise. For I say that there will be more accusers of you than
46/66
there are now; accusers whom hitherto I have restrained: and as
they are younger they will be more inconsiderate with you, and you
will be more offended at them. If you think that by killing men you
can prevent some one from censuring your evil lives, you are mis-
taken; that is not a way of escape which is either possible or hon-
ourable; the easiest and the noblest way is not to be disabling oth-
ers, but to be improving yourselves. This is the prophecy which I
utter before my departure to the judges who have condemned me.
Friends, who would have acquitted me, I would like also to talk
with you about the thing which has come to pass, while the magis-
trates are busy, and before I go to the place at which I must die.
Stay then a little, for we may as well talk with one another while
there is time. You are my friends, and I should like to show you the
meaning of this event which has happened to me. O my judges— for
you I may truly call judges— I should like to tell you of a wonderful
circumstance. Hitherto the divine faculty of which the internal or-
acle is the source has constantly been in the habit of opposing me
even about trifles, if I was going to make a slip or error in any mat-
ter; and now as you see there has come upon me that which may be
thought, and is generally believed to be, the last and worst evil. But
the oracle made no sign of opposition, either when I was leaving
my house in the morning, or when I was on my way to the court, or
while I was speaking, at anything which I was going to say; and yet
I have often been stopped in the middle of a speech, but now in
nothing I either said or did touching the matter in hand has the or-
acle opposed me. What do I take to be the explanation of this si-
lence? I will tell you. It is an intimation that what has happened to
me is a good, and that those of us who think that death is an evil
are in error. For the customary sign would surely have opposed me
had I been going to evil and not to good.
Let us reflect in another way, and we shall see that there is great
reason to hope that death is a good; for one of two things— either
47/66
death is a state of nothingness and utter unconsciousness, or, as
men say, there is a change and migration of the soul from this
world to another. Now if you suppose that there is no conscious-
ness, but a sleep like the sleep of him who is undisturbed even by
dreams, death will be an unspeakable gain. For if a person were to
select the night in which his sleep was undisturbed even by
dreams, and were to compare with this the other days and nights of
his life, and then were to tell us how many days and nights he had
passed in the course of his life better and more pleasantly than this
one, I think that any man, I will not say a private man, but even the
great king will not find many such days or nights, when compared
with the others. Now if death be of such a nature, I say that to die is
gain; for eternity is then only a single night. But if death is the jour-
ney to another place, and there, as men say, all the dead abide,
what good, O my friends and judges, can be greater than this? If in-
deed when the pilgrim arrives in the world below, he is delivered
from the professors of justice in this world, and finds the true
judges who are said to give judgment there, Minos and Rhadam-
anthus and Aeacus and Triptolemus, and other sons of God who
were righteous in their own life, that pilgrimage will be worth mak-
ing. What would not a man give if he might converse with Orpheus
and Musaeus and Hesiod and Homer? Nay, if this be true, let me
die again and again. I myself, too, shall have a wonderful interest
in there meeting and conversing with Palamedes, and Ajax the son
of Telamon, and any other ancient hero who has suffered death
through an unjust judgment; and there will be no small pleasure,
as I think, in comparing my own sufferings with theirs. Above all, I
shall then be able to continue my search into true and false know-
ledge; as in this world, so also in the next; and I shall find out who
is wise, and who pretends to be wise, and is not. What would not a
man give, O judges, to be able to examine the leader of the great
Trojan expedition; or Odysseus or Sisyphus, or numberless others,
men and women too! What infinite delight would there be in
48/66
conversing with them and asking them questions! In another world
they do not put a man to death for asking questions: assuredly not.
For besides being happier than we are, they will be immortal, if
what is said is true.
Wherefore, O judges, be of good cheer about death, and know of
a certainty, that no evil can happen to a good man, either in life or
after death. He and his are not neglected by the gods; nor has my
own approaching end happened by mere chance. But I see clearly
that the time had arrived when it was better for me to die and be
released from trouble; wherefore the oracle gave no sign. For
which reason, also, I am not angry with my condemners, or with
my accusers; they have done me no harm, although they did not
mean to do me any good; and for this I may gently blame them.
Still I have a favour to ask of them. When my sons are grown up,
I would ask you, O my friends, to punish them; and I would have
you trouble them, as I have troubled you, if they seem to care about
riches, or anything, more than about virtue; or if they pretend to be
something when they are really nothing,— then reprove them, as I
have reproved you, for not caring about that for which they ought
to care, and thinking that they are something when they are really
nothing. And if you do this, both I and my sons will have received
justice at your hands.
The hour of departure has arrived, and we go our ways— I to die,
and you to live. Which is better God only knows.
49/66
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