SOURCE: "The Character of Socrates," in Two Unpublished Essays, Lamson, Wolffe & Co., 1895, pp. 1-39.

[In the following excerpt, Emerson discusses the "uncommon and admirable" character of Socrates and acknowledges the debt owed by "modern improvement" to the wisdom of Socrates. Emerson explores the moral background of Socrates's age and discusses Socrates's moral philosophy, noting that the philosopher sought to reform the "abuses of morals and virtue which had become a national calamity." Because the date of composition of this essay is not known, Ernerson's death date has been used to date the essay.]

          Guide my way
Through fair Lyceum's walk, the green
 retreats
Of Academus, and the thymy vale
Where, oft enchanted with Socratic sounds,
Ilissus pure devolved his tuneful stream
In gentler murmurs. From the blooming store
Of these auspicious fields, may I unblamed
Transplant some living blossoms to adorn
My native clime.

The philosophy of the human mind has of late years commanded an unusual degree of attention from the curious and the learned. The increasing notice which it obtains is owing much to the genius of those men who have raised themselves with the science to general regard, but chiefly, as its patrons contend, to the uncontrolled progress of human improvement. The zeal of its advocates, however, in other respects commendable, has sinned in one particular,—they have laid a little too much self-complacent stress on the merit and success of their own unselfish exertions, and in their first contempt of the absurd and trifling speculations of former metaphysicians, appear to have confounded sophists and true philosophers, and to have been disdainful of some who have enlightened the world and marked out a path for future advancement.

Indeed, the giant strength of modern improvement is more indebted to the early wisdom of Thales and Socrates and Plato than is generally allowed, or perhaps than modern philosophers have been well aware.

This supposition is strongly confirmed by a consideration of the character of Socrates, which, in every view, is uncommon and admirable. To one who should read his life as recorded by Xenophon and Plato without previous knowledge of the man, the extraordinary character and circumstances of his biography would appear incredible. It would seem that antiquity had endeavored to fable forth a being clothed with all the perfection which the purest and brightest imagination could conceive or combine, bestowing upon the piece only so much of mortality as to make it tangible and imitable. Even in this imaginary view of the character, we have been inclined to wonder that men, without a revelation, by the light of reason only, should set forth a model of moral perfection which the wise of any age would do well to imitate. And, further, it might offer a subject of ingenious speculation, to mark the points of difference, should modern fancy, with all its superiority of philosophic and theological knowledge, endeavor to create a similar paragon. But this is foreign to our purpose.

It will be well, in reviewing the character of Socrates, to mark the age in which he lived, as the moral and political circumstances of the times would probably exert an important and immediate influence on his opinions and character. The dark ages of Greece, from the settlement of the colonies to the Trojan War, had long closed. The young republics had been growing in strength, population, and territory, digesting their constitutions and building up their name and importance. The Persian War, that hard but memorable controversy of rage and spite, conflicting with energetic and disciplined independence, had shed over their land an effulgence of glory which richly deserved all that applause which after ages have bestowed. It was a stern trial of human effort, and the Greeks might be pardoned if, in their intercourse with less glorious nations, they carried the record of their long triumph too far to conciliate national jealousies. The aggrandizement of Greece which followed this memorable war was the zenith of its powers and splendor, and ushered in the decay and fall of the political fabric.

The age of Pericles has caused Athens to be remembered in history. At no time during her existence were the arts so flourishing, popular taste and feeling so exalted and refined, or her political relations so extensive and respected. The Athenian people were happy at home, reverenced abroad,—and at the head of the Grecian confederacy. Their commerce was lucrative, and their wars few and honorable. In this mild period it was to be expected that literature and science would grow up vigorously under the fostering patronage of taste and power. The Olympian games awakened the emulation of genius and produced the dramatic efforts of Æschylus, Sophocles, Euripides, and Aristophanes, and philosophy came down from heaven to Anaxagoras, Archelaus, and Socrates.

Such was the external and obvious condition of Athens,—apparently prosperous, but a concealed evil began to display specific and disastrous consequences. The sophists had acquired the brightest popularity and influence, by the exhibition of those superficial accomplishments whose novelty captivated the minds of an ingenious people, among whom true learning was yet in its infancy. Learning was not yet loved for its own sake. It was prized as a saleable commodity. The sophists bargained their literature, such as it was, for a price; and this price, ever exorbitant, was yet regulated by the ability of the scholar.

That this singular order of men should possess so strong an influence over the Athenian public argues no strange or unnatural state of society, as has been sometimes represented; it is the proper and natural result of improvement in a money-making community. By the prosperity of their trading interests all the common wants of society were satisfied, and it was natural that the mind should next urge its claim to cultivation, and the surplus of property be expended for the gratification of the intellect. This has been found true in the growth of all nations,—that after successful trade, literature soon throve well,—provided the human mind was cramped by no disadvantages of climate or "skyey influences."

The Athenian sophists adapted their course of pursuits of knowledge, with admirable skill, to the taste of the people. They first approved themselves masters of athletic exercises, for the want of which no superiority of intellect, however consummate, would compensate in the Grecian republics. They then applied themselves to the cultivation of forensic eloquence, which enabled them to discourse volubly, if ignorantly, on any subject and on any occasion, however unexpected. To become perfect in this grand art, it was necessary to acquire, by habit and diligence, an imperturbable self-possession which could confront, unabashed, the rudest accident; and moreover, a flood of respondent and exclamatory phrases, skilfully constructed to meet the emergencies of a difficult conversation. After this laudable education had thus far accomplished its aim, the young sophist became partially conversant with the limited learning of the age in all its subjects. The poets, the historians, the sages, the writers on the useful arts, each and all occupied by turns his glancing observation. And when the motley composition of his mind was full, it only remained to stamp upon his character some few peculiarities,—to make him what the moderns have called a "mannerist,"—and his professional education was considered complete.

When the sophists made themselves known, they assumed a sanctity of manners, which awed familiarity and very conveniently cloaked their sinister designs. Pythagoras, after his persevering exertions for the attainment of knowledge, after his varied and laborious travels, had established a romantic school at Crotona with institutions resembling free masonry, which had planted in Greece prepossessions favorable to philosophy.

The sophists availed themselves of their prejudices, and amused the crowds who gathered at the rumor of novelty, with riddles and definitions, with gorgeous theories of existence,—splendid fables and presumptuous professions. They laid claim to all knowledge, and craftily continued to steal the respect of a credulous populace, and to enrich themselves by pretending to instruct the children of the opulent. When they had thus fatally secured their own emolument, they rapidly threw off the assumed rigidity of their morals, and, under covert of a sort of perfumed morality, indulged themselves and their followers in abominable excesses, degrading the mind and debauching virtue. Unhappily for Greece, the contaminating vices of Asiatic luxury, the sumptuous heritage of Persian War, had but too naturally seconded the growing depravity.

The youth of great men is seldom marked by any peculiarities which arrest observation. Their minds have secret workings; and, though they feel and enjoy the consciousness of genius, they seldom betray prognostics of greatness. Many who were cradled by misfortune and want have reproached the sun as he rose and went down, for amidst the baseness of circumstances their large minds were unsatisfied, unfed; many have bowed lowly to those whose names their own were destined to outlive; many have gone down to their graves in obscurity, for fortune withheld them from eminence, and to beg they were ashamed.

Of the son of the sculptor and midwife we only know that he became eminent as a sculptor, but displaying genius for higher pursuits, Crito, who afterward became his disciple, procured for him admission to the schools and to such education as the times furnished. But the rudiments of his character and his homely virtues were formed in the workshop, secluded from temptation; and those inward operations of his strong mind were begun which were afterwards mature in the ripeness of life.

We shall proceed to examine the character of the philosopher, after premising that we do not intend to give the detail of his life, but shall occasionally adduce facts of biography as illustrative of the opinions we have formed. With regard to the method pursued in the arrangement of our remarks, we must observe that sketches of the character of an individual can admit of little definiteness of plan, but we shall direct our attention to a consideration of the leading features of his mind, and to a few of his moral excellences which went to make up the great aggregate of his character.

The chief advantage which he owed to nature, the source of his philosophy and the foundation of his character, was a large share of plain good sense,—a shrewdness which would not suffer itself to be duped, and withal, concealed under a semblance of the frankest simplicity, which beguiled the objects of his pursuit into conversation and confidence which met his wishes. This was the faculty which enabled him to investigate his own character, to learn the natural tendency and bias of his own genius, and thus to perfectly control his mental energies.

There is a story of Socrates, related by Cicero, which militates somewhat with the opinion we have formed of his mind,—that when a physiognomist, after having examined his features, had pronounced him a man of bad passions and depraved character, Socrates reproved the indignation of his disciples by acknowledging the truth of the assertion so far as nature was concerned, saying that it had been the object of his life to eradicate these violent passions. This might have been merely a trick of art, and as such is consistent with his character. We cannot view it in any other light; for although it is very probable that natural malignity might have darkened his early life, yet no assertion of his own would convince us, in contradiction with his whole life and instruction, that he was ever subject to the fiercer passions. Such, too, was the order of his intellect. He was a man of strong and vivid conceptions, but utterly destitute of fancy. Still, he possessed originality and sometimes sublimity of thought. His powerful mind had surmounted the unavoidable errors of education, and had retained those acquirements which are found applicable to the uses of common life, whilst he had discarded whatever was absurd or unprofitable.

He studied the nature and explored the destinies of men with a chastised enthusiasm. Notwithstanding the sober, dispassionate turn of mind which we have mentioned, he is not unmoved at all times; when he enters into the discussion upon the immortality of the soul and the nature and attributes of Deity, he forgets his quibbles upon terms, and his celebrated irony, and sensibly warms and expands with his theme. This was aided by the constant activity of his mind, which endowed him with energy of thought and language, and its discipline never suffered him to obtrude an unguarded emotion.

In perfect accordance with this view of his mind is his conduct under circumstances related by Plato. In prison, whilst under condemnation, he was directed in vision to seek the favor of the Muses. This new discipline enjoined upon him was utterly incongruous with the temper and habits of feeling usual to the philosopher. His plain sense and logical mind, which would reduce everything, however impressive, to mathematical measurement, were little conversant, we may suppose, with poetical visions. In fact, we could not suppose a character more diametrically opposite to the soul of the poet, in all the gradations of cultivated mind, than the soul of Socrates.

The food and occupation of the former has to do with golden dreams,—airy nothings, bright personifications of glory and joy and evil,—and we imagine him sitting apart, like Brahma, moulding magnificent forms, clothing them with beauty and grandeur. The latter dwells on earth, dealing plainly and bluntly with men and men's actions, instructing them what to do and to forbear; and even when he desires to lift his tone, it is only to mingle with higher reality, but never forsaking safe, but tedious, paths of certainty.

All this we know, and the manner which Socrates selected to perform the task assigned him creates neither disappointment nor surprise; for perhaps in the biographical annals of his country there was no intellect whose leading feature more nearly resembled his own than Æsop, whose fables he undertook to versify.

It may well be supposed that a mind thus cast was eminently calculated to instruct, and his didactic disposition always rendered him rather the teacher than the companion of his friends. Add to all this an unrivalled keenness of penetration into the character of others, and hence arose his ruling motive in all his intercourse with men; it was not to impart literary knowledge or information in science or art, but to lay open to his own view the human mind, and all its unacknowledged propensities, its weak and fortified positions, and the springs of human action. All this was achieved by the power of his art, and it enabled him easily to grasp the mind, and mould it at will, and to unite and direct the wandering energies of the human soul.

His mind was cultivated, though his learning was little. He was acquainted with the works of the most eminent poets of his country, but as he seems never to have made literature his study, the limited erudition he possessed was probably gleaned from the declamations of the sophists, whose pride never scrupled to borrow abundantly from the superfluous light which departed genius afforded. His own acquisitions had been made in the workshops of the Athenian artisans, in the society of Aspasia and Theombrota, and by intelligent, experienced observation.

Though living in Athens, he acquired little taste for the elegance or pride of life; surrounded as he was by the living marbles which all succeeding ages have consented to admire, and then just breathing from the hand of the artist, he appeared utterly dead to their beauties, and used them only as casual illustrations of an argument. In the gratification of his desire to learn and know mankind, he visited the poor and the rich, the virtuous and the degraded, and set himself to explore all the varieties of circumstances occurring in a great city, that he might discover what were "the elements which furnish forth creation."

We may judge from the acquaintances of the philosopher what were the minds most congenial to his own. Of his great contemporaries,—Sophocles, Euripides, Aristophanes,—Euripides alone was his pupil and friend. He never attended the theatre only as his tragedies were to be performed. This warmth of feeling for the chaste and tender dramatist should defend his mind from the imputation of utter deafness to taste and beauty. The majestic and sublime genius of Sophocles was not so intimately allied to the every-day morals of Socrates; Euripides knew and taught more human nature in its common aspects.…

We have attempted to draw the outline of one of the most remarkable minds which human history has recorded, and which was rendered extraordinary by its wonderful adaptation to the times in which he lived. We must now hasten to our great task of developing the moral superiority of the philosopher.

A manly philosophy has named fortitude, temperance, and prudence its prime virtues. All belonged, in a high degree of perfection, to the son of Sophroniscus, but fortitude more particularly. Perhaps it was not a natural virtue, but the first-fruits of his philosophy. A mind whose constitution was built up like his—the will of the philosopher moulding the roughest materials into form and order—might create its own virtues, and set them in array to compose the aggregate of character. He was not like other men, the sport of circumstances, but by the persevering habits of forbearance and self-denial he had acquired that control over his whole being which enabled him to hold the same even, unchangeable temperament in all the extremes of his fortunes. This exemption from the influences of circumstances in the moral world is almost like exemption from the law of gravitation in the natural economy. The exemplifications of this fortitude are familiar. When all the judges of the senate, betraying an unworthy pusillanimity, gave way to an iniquitous demand of the populace, Socrates alone disdained to sacrifice justice to the fear of the people.

On another occasion, in the forefront of a broken battle, Alcibiades owed his life to the firmness of his master. Patriotic steadfastness in resistance to the oppression of the Thirty Tyrants is recorded to his honor. Although we are unwilling to multiply these familiar instances, we would not be supposed to undervalue that milder fortitude which Diogenes Laertius has lauded, and which clouded his domestic joys. The victory over human habits and passions which shall bring them into such subjection as to be subservient to the real advantage of the possessor is that necessary virtue which philosophers denominate temperance. We are led to speak of this particularly because its existence in the character of Socrates has been questioned.

The impurity of public morals and the prevalence of a debasing vice has left a festering reproach on the name of Athens, which deepens as the manners of civilized nations have altered and improved. Certain equivocal expressions and paragraphs in the Dialogues of Plato have formerly led many to fasten the stigma on Socrates. This abomination has likewise been laid to the charge of Virgil, and probably with as little justice. Socrates taught that every soul was an eternal, immutable form of beauty in the divine mind, and that the most beautiful mortals approached nearest to that celestial mould; that it was the honor and delight of human intellect to contemplate this beau ideal, and that this was better done through the medium of earthly perfection. For this reason this sober enthusiast associated with such companions as Alcibiades, Critias, and other beautiful Athenians.

A late article in the Quarterly Review, the better to vindicate the character of Aristophanes from the reproach attached to him as the author of "The Clouds," has taken some pains to attack the unfortunate butt of the comedian's buffoonery. It is unpleasant at this day to find facts misrepresented in order to conform to a system, and unwarranted insinuations wantonly thrown out to vilify the most pure philosopher of antiquity, for no other purpose than to add the interest of novelty to a transient publication. It is a strong, and one would think an unanswerable, argument against the allegation, that his unsparing calumniator, the bitter Aristophanes, should have utterly omitted this grand reproach, while he wearies his sarcasm on more insignificant follies. Nor did he pass it by because it was not accounted a crime, as if the fashion of the age justifies the enormity; for in this identical play he introduces his Just Orator, declaiming against this vice in particular and remembering with regret the better manners of better times, when lascivious gestures were unstudied and avoided and the cultivated strength of manhood was devoted to austere, laborious virtue. The whole character and public instructions of Socrates ought to have shielded him from this imputation, while they manifest its utter improbability. When the malignity of an early historian had given birth to the suspicion, the fathers, who often bore no good-will to Socrates (whose acquired greatness eclipsed their natural parts), often employed their pens to confirm and diffuse it, and it owes its old currency chiefly to their exertions.

We shall not speak particularly of the prudence of Socrates. He possessed it abundantly, in the philosophical signification of the term,—but none of that timorous caution which might interfere with the impulses of patriotism, duty, or courage.

It seems to have been a grand aim of his life to become a patriot,—a reformer of the abuses of morals and virtue which had become a national calamity. He saw his country embarrassed, and plunging without help in the abyss of moral degradation. Dissipation and excess made Athens their home and revelled with impunity. "Give us a song of Anacreon or Alcaus!" was the common cry. A frightful voluptuousness had entwined itself about the devoted city, and its ultimate baneful consequences had begun their work. In these circumstances, when all eyes appeared to be blinded to the jeopardy by the fatal incantations of vagrant vine-clad Muses, this high-toned moralist saw the havoc that was in operation. He desired to restore his countrymen; he would not treacherously descend to flatter them.

To accomplish this, he selected a different course from the ordinary plans of young men. To an Athenian entering on life and aspiring after eminence, the inducements to virtue were weak and few, but to vice numberless and strong. Popularity was to be acquired among these degenerate republicans; not as formerly among their great ancestors, by toilsome struggles for pre-eminence in purity, by discipline and austere virtue, but by squandered wealth, profligacy, and flattery of the corrupt populace. What, then, had an obscure young man, poor and friendless, to expect, sternly binding himself to virtue, and attacking the prevalent vices and prejudices of a great nation? This was certainly no unworthy prototype of the circumstances of the founders of the Christian religion. He devoted himself entirely to the instruction of the young, astonishing them with a strange system of doctrines which inculcated the love of poverty, the forgiveness of injuries, with other virtues equally unknown and unpractised.

His philosophy was a source of good sense and of sublime and practical morality. He directs his disciples to know and practise the purest principles of virtue; to be upright, benevolent, and brave; to shun vice … the dreadful monster which was roaring through earth for his prey. The motives which he presented for their encouragement were as pure as the life they recommended. Such inducements were held up as advancement in the gradations of moral and intellectual perfection,—the proud delight of becoming more acceptable in the eyes of Divinity, and the promise to virtue of communications from other and higher spheres of existence. The notions of the nature of God which Socrates entertained were infinitely more correct and adequate than those of any other philosopher before him whose opinions have come down to us.

Additional praise is due to him, since he alone dared to express his sentiments on the subject and his infidelity to the popular religion. "What is God?" said the disciples to Plato. "It is hard," answered the philosopher, "to know, and impossible to divulge." Here is that reluctance which timorous believers were obliged to display. "What is God?" said they to Socrates, and he replied, "The great God himself, who has formed the universe and sustains the stupendous work whose every part is finished with the utmost goodness and harmony; he who preserves them perfect in immortal vigor and causes them to obey him with unfailing punctuality and a rapidity not to be followed by the imagination—this God makes himself sufficiently visible by the endless wonders of which he is the author, but continues always invisible in himself." This is explicit and noble. He continues, "Let us not, then, refuse to believe even what we do not behold, and let us supply the defect of our corporeal eyes by using those of the soul; but especially let us learn to render the just homage of respect and veneration to that Divinity whose will it seems to be that we should have no other perception of him but by his effects in our favor. Now this adoration, this homage, consists in pleasing him, and we can only please him by doing his will."

These are the exalted sentiments and motives which Socrates enforced upon men, not in insulated or extraordinary portions of his system but through the whole compass of his instructions. Convinced that the soul is endowed with energies and powers, by which, if well directed, she strives and climbs continually towards perfection, it was his object to stimulate and guide her; to quicken her aspirations with new motives, to discover and apply whatever might spur on conscientious endeavor or back its efforts with omnipotent strength. He wished the care and improvement of the soul to be of chief concern, that of the body comparatively trifling. The natural effect of his philosophy was to form an accomplished pagan,—so perfect a man as was compatible with the state of society; and this state should not be underrated. A nation of disciples of Socrates would suppose a state of human advancement which modern ambition and zeal, with all its superiority of knowledge and religion, might never hope to attain. And, could Athens have expelled her sophists and corruptors, and by exhibiting respect for his instructions have extended the influence of her most mighty mind until the chastity of her manners was restored and the infirmities of her dotage displaced by active virtues,—had her citizens then become the converts and advocates of Socratic sentiments,—she might have flourished and triumphed on till this day, a free and admirable commonwealth of philosophers, and looked with enviable unconcern on all the revolutions about her that have agitated and swallowed up nations; and Philip of Macedon and Mummius of Rome might have slept in obscurity. But this is digression, and we can offer no apology except the pleasure which such revision affords. We must now proceed to say something of his ambiguous genius.

The daìmōn of Socrates partakes so much of the marvellous that there is no cause for wonder arising from the difference of opinion manifested in its discussion. Those who love to ascribe the most to inspiration in the prophets of God's revealed religion claim this mysterious personage as akin to the ministering spirits of the Hebrew faith. Those who, with Xenophon, know not of this similarity, or who do not find foundation for this belief, look upon the daìmōn only as a personification of natural sagacity; some have charitably supposed that the philosopher himself was deluded into a false conviction that he enjoyed a peculiar communication with the gods by the intervention of a supernatural being,—learned their will and accomplished their ends. These supposed claims which Socrates laid to divine inspiration have induced many to carry their veneration to a more marvellous extent than we can safely follow.

We are willing to allow that they have plausible arguments who have considered the philosopher in the more imposing view, as an especial light of the world commissioned from heaven and as a distant forerunner of the Savior himself. Dr. Priestley, with a bolder hand, has instituted a comparison between Socrates and the Saviour himself. We are not disposed to enter upon these discussions, as they do not lead to truth and serve only to bewilder.