Public opinion being now against him, on various grounds he is brought to trial before the Dikastery,—­a board of some five hundred judges, leading citizens of Athens.  One of his chief accusers was Anytus,—­a rich tradesman, of very narrow mind, personally hostile to Socrates because of the influence the philosopher had exerted over his son, yet who then had considerable influence from the active part he had taken in the expulsion of the Thirty Tyrants.  The more formidable accuser was Meletus,—­a poet and a rhetorician, who had been irritated by Socrates’ terrible cross-examinations.  The principal charges against him were, that he did not admit the gods acknowledged by the republic, and that he corrupted the youth of Athens.

In regard to the first charge, it could not be technically proved that he had assailed the gods, for he was exact in his legal worship; but really and virtually there was some foundation for the accusation, since Socrates was a religious innovator if ever there was one.  His lofty realism was subversive of popular superstitions, when logically carried out.  As to the second charge, of corrupting youth, this was utterly groundless; for he had uniformly enjoined courage, and temperance, and obedience to the laws, and patriotism, and the control of the passions, and all the higher sentiments of the soul But the tendency of his teachings was to create in young men contempt for all institutions based on falsehood or superstition or tyranny, and he openly disapproved some of the existing laws,—­such as choosing magistrates by lot,—­and freely expressed his opinions.  In a narrow and technical sense there was some reason for this charge; for if a young man came to combat his father’s business or habits of life or general opinions, in consequence of his own superior enlightenment, it might be made out that he had not sufficient respect for his father, and thus was failing in the virtues of reverence and filial obedience.

Considering the genius and innocence of the accused, he did not make an able defence; he might have done better.  It appeared as if he did not wish to be acquitted.  He took no thought of what he should say; he made no preparation for so great an occasion.  He made no appeal to the passions and feelings of his judges.  He refused the assistance of Lysias, the greatest orator of the day.  He brought neither his wife nor children to incline the judges in his favor by their sighs and tears.  His discourse was manly, bold, noble, dignified, but without passion and without art.  His unpremeditated replies seemed to scorn an elaborate defence.  He even seemed to rebuke his judges, rather than to conciliate them.  On the culprit’s bench he assumed the manners of a teacher.  He might easily have saved himself, for there was but a small majority (only five or six at the first vote) for his condemnation.  And then he irritated his judges unnecessarily.  According to the laws he had the privilege of proposing a substitution for his punishment, which would have been accepted,—­exile for instance; but, with a provoking and yet amusing irony, he asked to be supported at the public expense in the Prytaneum:  that is, he asked for the highest honor of the republic.  For a condemned criminal to ask this was audacity and defiance.