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 PLATO

REPUBUC 10
 Aris & Phillips Classical Texts

PLATO
Republic 10

with translation and commentary by

S. Halliwell
Aris & Phillips is an imprint of Oxbow Books

First published in the United Kingdom in 1988, reprinted in 2005 by

OXBOW BOOKS
10 Hythe Bridge Street, Oxford OX1 2EW

and in the United States by

OXBOW BOOKS
908 Darby Road, Havertown, PA 19083

© The author S. Halliwell

Paperback Edition: ISBN 978-0-85668-406-7

A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form
or by any means, electronic or mechanical including photocopying, recording or by any
information storage and retrieval system, without permission from the publisher in writing.

For a complete list of Aris & Phillips titles, please contact:

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Oxbow Books is part of the Casemate Group

 CONTENTS

Preface vii

Abbreviations & References viii

Note to 2005 Reprint ix

Introduction

§ 1.1 The Platonic Approach to Poetry 3

§ 1.2 Art and Reality 7

§ 1.3 Art and the Mind 11

§ 1.4 The Platonic Legacy to Aesthetics 13

§2.1 The Myth of Er 17

§2.2 Astronomy and Religion 19

§2.3 Reincarnation and Destiny 21

Bibliography 30

Note on the Text 32

Text and Translation 33

Commentary 105

Appendix: The Relative Date of Republic 10 194

Index 196
 PREFACE

The modern standing of Republic 10 is somewhat anomalous. Often

ignored or underrated by professional philosophers and Platonic specialists,
it is for many other people one of the best known and most intriguing
parts of Plato's oeuvre. This wider familiarity is due principally to the
fact that it contains the most provocative and notorious of Plato's
treatments of poetry and visual art. In addition, it includes perhaps the
most intricate and fascinating of his philosophical myths, the myth of Er
- another feature which has promoted the book's status more among
ordinary readers than among philosophers. It is a large part of the
interest of bk.l0 that it embraces such disparate kinds of Platonic writing
and material. I have tried in this edition to give roughly equal attention
to these two major components of the work, both of which involve
fundamental concerns of Plato's, and to do justice to the different types of
interpretative approach for which they call. I have also included in my
Introduction a sketch of the remarkable development by which Platonising
thinkers, in antiquity and later, managed to invert Plato's own view of art,
and to replace it with one whose influence and repercussions can be
observed up to the period of Romanticism.
Except for a few irreducibly linguistic points, Greek in the
commentary is given in transliterated form. For those who read Greek
this is a small inconvenience, while it will, I hope, make the book less
forbidding and more useful to the Greekless.
I must thank Catherine Osborne for allowing me to read her article
on bk.l0 (see Bibliography) in advance of publication, and Professor N.
Birdsall for advice on the possibly Semitic origin of the name Er. I
would also like to make special mention of my son, Luke, who gave me
valuable technical assistance in the preparation of the book.

University of Birmingham S. H.

vii
 ABBREVIATIONS & REFERENCES

CAF T. Kock (ed.) Comicorum Atticorum Fragmenta (Leipzig,

1880-88)
DK H. Diels & W. Kranz (edd.) Die Fragmente der Vorsokratiker 7
(Berlin, 1954)
FGrH F. Jacoby (ed.) Die Fragmente der griechischen Historiker
(Berlin, 1923-)
KRS G. S. Kirk, J. E. Raven, M. Schofield, The Presocratic
Philosophers 2 (Cambridge, 1983)
iSJ H. G. Liddell & R. Scott, A Greek-English Lexicon» (Oxford,
1940)
OCD2 N. G. L. Hammond & H. H. Scullard (edd.) The Oxford
Classical Dictionary 2 (Oxford, 1970)
PCG R. Kassel & C. Austin (edd.) Poetae Comici Graeci (Berlin,
1983-)
PMG D. L. Page (ed.) Poetae Melici Graeci (Oxford, 1962)
TrGF S. Radt (ed.) Tragicorum Graecorum Fragmenta 3 (Aeschylus)
& 4 (Sophocles), (Gottingen, 1985, 1977)

References to passages in the Republic are given, wherever possible,

without the title of the work. The book number is supplied in all cases
except for those in bk.l0 itself, though it is given only once for successive
citations from the same book.

All references to Proclus are to W. Kroll (ed.) Procli Diadochi in Platonis

Rem Publicam Commentarii (Leipzig, 1899-1901), by volume, page and
line numbers.

Note that throughout the translation (excepting the narrative of the myth
of Er) the phrases 'he said' and 'I said' have been omitted, and replaced
by the initials of the two interlocutors, Socrates and Glaucon.

viii
 NOTE TO 2005 REPRINT

Since 1987 I have regularly returned to Republic 10and its issues. If! were to rewrite the
introduction and commentary now, I would modify a number of details as well as incorporating
new thoughts and suggestions. Equally importantly,I would offer a somewhat more dialectical,
non-doctrinal reading of the first half of the book, avoiding the ascription of clear-cut beliefs
to Plato on the basis of the text, and pushing further the idea that the arguments about
poetry (and mimesis more generally) are deliberately, sometimes rhetorically, provocative
(see p. 6). I limit myself here to providing references to the following publications in which
I have more recently discussed material from book 10 (and in which my interpretations may
be seen evolving):

'The Importance of Plato and Aristotle for Aesthetics', in J. J. Cleary (ed.), Proceedings of
the Boston Area Colloquium in Ancient Philosophy V [1989]
(Lanham, 1991) 321-48 [rpr. in L.P. Gerson (ed.) Aristotle: Critical Assessments,
vo!. 4 (London, 1999) 289-312]
'Plato and the Psychology of Drama' in B. Zimmermann (ed.) Antike Dramentheorien und
ihre Rezeption (Stuttgart, 1992) 55-73 [revised version forms part of The Aesthetics
of Mimesis (below), eh. 2]
'Plato, Imagination and Romanticism' in L. Ayres (ed.) The Passionate Intellect (New
Brunswick, 1995) 23-37 [revised version forms part of The Aesthetics of Mimesis
(below), eh. 2]
'Plato's Repudiation of the Tragic' in M. S. Silk (ed.) Tragedy and the Tragic (Oxford,
1996) 332-49 [revised version in The Aesthetics of Mimesis (below), eh. 3]
'The Republics Two Critiques of Poetry' in O. Hoffe (ed.) Platon Politeia (Berlin, 1997)
313-32 [some parts adapted in The Aesthetics of Mimesis (below), eh, 1]
'Plato and Painting', in K. Rutter & B. Sparkes (edd.) Word and Image (Edinburgh, 2000)
99-116 [revised version in The Aesthetics of Mimesis (below), eh. 4]
'From Mythos to Logos: Plato's Citations of the Poets', Classical Quarterly 50 (2000)
94-112
The Aesthetics of Mimesis: Ancient Texts and Modern Problems (Princeton, 2002)
'Plato', revised version, in M. Groden, M. Kreiswirth, 1. Szeman (edd.) Johns Hopkins
Guide to Literary Criticsim, 2nd edn. (Baltimore, 2004, plus online version).

Note, also, that my 1984 article, 'Plato and Aristotle on the Denial of Tragedy', cited in the
Bibliography is reprinted, with revisions, in A. Laird (ed.) Oxford Readings in Ancient
Literary Criticism (Oxford, 2005).

ix
The following is a small selection of further writings of interest to those studying Republic
10; I include foreign-language publications for advanced students (among them two items
predating 1987 which I omitted to cite the first time round):

Albinus. L., 'The katabasis of Er', in E. N. Ostenfeld (ed.) Essays on Plato's Republic
(Aarhus, 1998) 91-105.
Babut, D., 'Paradoxes et cnigmes dans largumcntation de Platon au livre X de la
Republique', in 1. Brunschwig et al. (edd.) Histoire et Structure (Paris. 1985).
123-45 [rpr. in D. Babut, Parerga (Lyon, 1994) 259-81].
Bouvicr, D., 'Ulysse et la personnage du lecteur dans le Republique: reflexions sur
limportance du mythe d'Er pour la theorie de la mimesis', in M. Fattal (ed.) La
Philosophie de Platon (Paris, 2001) 19-53.
Brown, E., 'A Defense of Plato's Argument for the Immortality of the Soul at Republic X
608c-611 a', Apeiron 30 (1997) 211-238 [rpr. in E Wagner (ed.) Essays on Plato's
Psychology (Lanham, MD, 200 I).
Burnyeat, M., 'Culture and Society in Plato's Republic', Tanner Lectures on Human Values
20 (1999) 217-324.
Buttner, S., Die Literaturtheorie bei Platon (Tubingen, 2000).
Ferrari, G. R. F., 'Plato and Poetry', in G Kennedy (ed.) The Cambridge History of Literary
Criticsim, vol. 1 (Cambridge, 1989) 92-148.
Fine, G., On Ideas: Aristotle's Criticism of Plato's Theory of Forms (Oxford, 1995)
818, 110-19.
Murray, P, Plato on Poetry (Cambridge, 1996).
Nehamas, A., 'Plato and the Mass Media', The Monist 71 (1988) 214-24 [rpr. in A.
Nehamas, Virtues of Authenticity (Princeton, 1999) 279-99].
Rutherford, R. B., The Art of Plato (Cambridge Mass., 1995).
Schills, G., 'Plato's Myth of Er: the Light and the Spindle', Antiquite Classique 62 (1993)
101-14.
Skillen. A., 'Fiction Year Zero: Plato's Republic', British Journal of Aesthetics 32 (1992)
201-8.
Slings, S. R., (ed.) Platonis Respublica (Oxford, 2003).
Thayer, H. S.. 'The Myth of Er', History of Philosophy Quarterly 5 (l988)m 369-84
Untersteiner, M., Platone Repubblica Libro X (Naples, 1966).

S.H.

x
 INTRODUCTION

The Republic is the largest and greatest work written by Plato (427 - 347)
in what is now generally known as his 'middle period'; it was probably
composed over a number of years in the course of the 380s and, perhaps,
early 370s BC. It belongs to the stage in Plato's output by which the
Socratic dialogue form, originally invented to dramatise, keep alive and
celebrate the style of philosophical enquiry pursued by Plato's teacher,
Socrates (469 - 399), has started to become a medium for exploring ideas
which we can no longer confidently attribute to the historical Socrates
himself. The Republic can be seen as an ambitious attempt by Plato to
bring together within a single, extensive work all the major questions and
issues which had come to matter to him as a mature and increasingly
independent thinker, though one still perpetuating the uncompromising quest
for wisdom and truth learnt from Socrates.
The major theme of the Republic is the nature of justice, which
comes to be interpreted as the central value in both the unity of human
societies and the harmony of individual souls. This parallelism between the
city and the soul, the social and the psychic, forms one of the work's
bonding leitmotivs (see comm. on 605b5), and it allows the scope of the
dialogue to encompass great questions of politics, psychology and morality.
After an initial challenge to Socrates, in bks.1-2, to establish the nature
of justice and its intrinsic value, most of the work (bks.2 -7) is presented
as the imaginative elaboration of requirements for a hypothetical city, ruled
by philosophical Guardians, in whose entire organisation justice would be
perfectly embodied. In the course of explaining the nature and educational
needs of his envisaged philosophical rulers (bks.6-7), Socrates expounds a
view of reality according to which our sensual world and its contents are
inferior in being and truth to a transcendent and perfect realm of
unchanging verities (the Forms). Thus the work takes on a metaphysical
dimension which has implications for every facet of human lives.
Combined with the political perspective of the hypothetical city is the
psychological perspective of the individual soul, which is analysed (in bk.4)
into a tripartite structure of elements: the rational, the 'spirited' (emotion
and will), and the appetitive (desires). When regulated by the rule of
reason, the relations between the components of the mind match the forces
of social order which maintain the unity of a common good between the
three classes of the just city (the philosopher Guardians, the military
auxiliaries, and the civilian workers). These twin perspectives are sustained
in bks.8-9, where we are offered an enquiry into variously defective
political constitutions, and into the states of soul which correspond to

1
them. Bk.9 also offers what appears to .be the final vindication of justice
against the challenge which gave the discussion its original impetus. Only
the just man, whose life is governed by reason, can be truly happy,
Socrates is able to conclude; while injustice, whatever material rewards it
may appear to reap, is a condition of wretched slavery to one's animal
emotions and desires.
Rep. 10 has sometimes been judged an 'afterthought' or later addition
to the rest of the work. In fact, there are no good grounds for slighting
the book in this way. 1 Its status may certainly be regarded as that of a
coda, but the kind of coda which adds to, at the same time as it
completes, the larger design. It must be recognised that, though a
composition of great sophistication and purposefulness, the Republic as a
whole is not a seamless garment. Its argument unfolds in stages which
reflect the nature of exploratory dialectic, and at a number of junctures it
takes a new or not wholly predictable turn: the start of bk.l0 is one of
these. We have no reliable evidence, outside the work itself, either for
Plato's original conception of the dialogue, or for just how this conception
was modified as the writing proceeded. Whatever the chronology of
composition (see the Appendix), we must accept that the text which we
have reflects its author's final intentions for its shape and contents.
Bk.l0 comprises three major elements, the second and third of which
are closely linked: a renewed challenge to the credentials and effects of
poetry (which had been earlier impugned in the discussion of education in
bks.2-3); an argument for the immortality of the soul; and a mythical
vision (attributed to a Pamphylian soldier, Er) of the realisation of justice
in the eternal workings of the cosmos, encompassing both the astronomical
system of planets and stars, and the reincarnation of immortal souls. The
first part of the book therefore offers a reprise of an earlier subject, but
it does so in such a way as to expand into new considerations about all
mimetic (or representational) art. What then follows provides an elevated
climax for the entire work, and strives to carry the vindication of justice
onto a higher level than bk.9 had achieved: justice is finally seen not only
to be the key to happiness in this life, but also to be sanctioned by a
perfect world order within which the soul's goodness and happiness are
measured on the scale of eternity. Thus the political, psychological and
metaphysical strands of the Republic are finally drawn together into an
essentially religious vision, a kind of philosophical 'theodicy'.
Before examining the contents of the book in greater detail, it is
worth being aware from the start of a particular point of Platonic purpose
in the juxtaposition of an attack on poetry with a mythical exposition of
an eternal scheme of justice. When Plato concludes the entire Republic
with a myth, he is using a form of presentation which he knows to be
particularly associated with poets (§2.1 below). The myth of Er starts
(614b2-3) with an explicit contrast between the character of Plato's

2
philosophical narrative and the myths of the very poet, Homer, who was
the major target of the earlier part of bk.10's arguments. Plato was
conscious throughout his life of being, both as writer and thinker, a kind
of rival to the great poets of his culture. Bk.10 refers directly to an old
'quarrel' between poetry and philosophy (607b5), and as late as Laws
7 .817a -d Plato continues to express a sense of competition between his
own philosophical enterprise and the nature of tragic poetry (which includes
Homer: see 595c1). So we can say of Rep. 10 that its design lends
implicit force to this point of view: Plato sets out his reasons for rejecting
the finest Greek poetry, before offering his own philosophical, yet
quasi -poetic, vision of a cosmic order of which the poets themselves had
never spoken.

1.1 The Platonic Approach to Poetry

Some of the reasons for bk.10's return to the subject of poetry arise, as
we shall see, from the internal structure of the Republic. But the relation
between bk.10 and the earlier scrutiny in bks.2-3 can also be placed in a
longer Platonic perspective. It is commonly supposed that Plato possessed
a fixed view of poetry, with Rep. 10 regarded as the chief statement of
this view. But Plato's approach to poetry is less simple than that. It will
be useful, therefore, to offer a sketch of some of the major themes and
factors which shape this approach, up to the time of, and including, the
Republic.

(a) We start, as in other areas, with elements of Socratic influence.

Socrates is portrayed from the early works onwards as fully conversant, in
the typical educated fashion, with much Greek poetry, especially Homer's.
He is ready to cite poetic material in considering the philosophical matters
which interest him, and there is a recurrent strain of fondness for poetry
in his attitude (see esp. Ap. 28b-d, 41a, Lys. 213e-14a, Meno 81b,
Phdo. 94d-5a, Symp. 209a-d). Although there were no doubt other
biographical factors too at work here, it is plausible that Plato was affected
by a degree of Socratic respect for poetry. Significantly, at any rate,
Plato continues to incorporate this feature in his Socratic persona as late as
Rep. 10 itself (see comm. on 595b9-10), and I would diagnose some
authentically Socratic as well as Platonic motivation for this.
(b) Socratic interest in poetry leads, however, to a critical posture
towards the authority of poets. Socrates argues at Ap. 22a -c that when
he tested the reputation for wisdom popularly held by poets in his time,
he found them unable to give that rational account of their work which
alone, in his eyes, would guarantee true knowledge. At best, therefore,
poets must be held to have access to some kind of irrational inspiration.

3
In addition to Ap. 22c, poetic inspiration is considered, but not without
irony, in Ion and at Meno 99c-d. But already by the time of the latter,
we have moved well away from anything like a pure Socratic portrait.
That Plato himself could never entirely dismiss the idea of inspiration is
indicated later by Phdr. 245a (but cf. 248d-e) and Laws 3.682a.
Equally, though, it must be said that inspiration never bulks large in, and
is indeed usually altogether absent from, Plato's mature treatments of
poetry. There is no trace of it in Rep. 10.
It should be added that poets' lack of rationally accountable knowledge
helps to explain the belief, probably in part Socratic (for it fits with his
sense of personal dlalec-ic), that consistent interpretation of poetry is
impossible: for this view see Prt. 347c-e (with the preceding parody of
literary criticism), Ion again, Hp. Min. 365c-d, and the irony regarding
Simonides at Rep. 1.332b-c.
(c) The Socratic critique of poetry has a sharp ethical focus. The
early work Euthyphro shows Socrates questioning traditional poetic (as well
as visual) images of divine enmities (6b-c). This challenge to the ethical
content of poetry in fact has a long philosophical tradition behind it, and
it becomes a major strand in Plato's hostility towards poetry. 2 If poets
purvey ethical falsehoods, not only are they deserving of philosophical
rebuttal, but their status as central material in Greek education becomes
questionable. It is this line of thought which leads to the major censure
of poetry in Rep. 2-3, as well as to smaller passages such as 1.33ld-2c,
334a -e, and Meno 95c -6a. I would stress, though, that Plato's
conviction of the need to exclude or ban poets from the ideally just state,
goes beyond anything we have reason to attribute to Socrates himself.
(d) Entailed in (c) is the sense that poetry can and does possess the
serious power to work deleterious effects on its audiences. This becomes a
permanent concern of Plato's, variously elaborated. One recurrent idea
(derived particularly from the cultural conditions of classical Athens) is that
poetry is debased by the requirement of satisfying mass audiences: e.g. Ap.
l8c-d, Grg. 50ld-2d, Rep. 6.493, with my comm. at 602b3. Related to
this is the suspicion that poetry (and other art) may be prepared to
sacrifice ethical standards to the pursuit of one simple goal - giving
pleasure to its devotees (see comm. on 606b4).
Plato sustains this broad social appraisal of poetry's effects with an
analysis of the impact of poetry on the individual mind. In Rep. 3, esp.
395c-d, 396b-e, it is contended that any poetry in direct speech (which
Plato here calls mimesis: cf. (e) below) involves those who experience it
- whether as actor, reader, or hearer 3 - in a process of imaginative
identification, which will prove harmful to the extent that the behaviour of
the dramatised characters is itself flawed. In bk.lO we find the even more
radical claim that all poetry, whether dramatic or otherwise, invites or
entails sympathy with the characters portrayed, and that the emotions

4
evoked in this way carry over into - have a permanent effect on - the
mental lives of poetry's audience (see comm. on 606b5-8). The
deepening of the scope of this psychological charge is itself part of the
explanation for Plato's return to the subject of poetry in the final book of
the Republic.
(e) My last paragraph has already referred to a further change in the
ambit of Plato's arguments between bks. 2-3 and 10. This is the shift in
the use of the mimesis word - group from denoting dramatic enactment
through direct speech (3.392d5 ff.) to meaning artistic representation or
depiction in a much broader sense (comm. at 595a5). This shift must be
seen against the background of an increasing preoccupation on Plato's part
with the concept of mimesis. There are, in fact, no direct references to
poetic or artistic mimesis (in any sense) in the early dialogues. But from
the middle period works onwards, we encounter a growing application of
the language of mimesis both to visual art (e.g. Crat. 430b ff., 432b ff.)
and to art - poetry, music, painting - in general (e.g. Crat. 423c-d,
Phdr. 248el-2, Pol. 288c, 299d4, 306d). The assumption found in bk.10
that virtually all poetry is mimetic (see on 595a5) becomes invariable in
Plato's later works (e.g. Tim. 19d-e, Laws 2.668a-b), as does the notion
of a fundamental analogy between the status and aims of poetry and
painting. Rep. 3 ~s limited sense of mimesis is certainly not aberrant; it
has well-established usage behind it. 4 But it does make the argument of
that book less ambitious than bk. 10's case against poetry, where the
concept of mimesis anticipates and reflects the much greater range of
mimesis terminology which becomes typical of Plato's later thought. 5

This sketch of some of the factors and developments in Plato's approach

to poetry has already given us a partial sense of the relation between
bks.2-3 and bk.10. The earlier passage rests on the foundations of a
critical attitude which may go back in its essentials to Socrates (and, in
certain respects, beyond him). It brings against poetry related charges of
falsehood, immorality, and the psychological power, especially when using
the dramatic mode, to imprint these effects on its audience. These
arguments did not lose their validity for Plato; parallels to them can still
be found as late as his final work, the Laws. 6
Bk.10 itself in fact picks up the earlier allegations of falsehood and
psychological harm, but it enlarges and modifies the import of both, and
thereby carries altogether further philosophy's 'quarrel' with poetry (607b5).
The attack is now of a more radical kind, and revolves around the fresh
understanding of mimesis as a process of specious image - making which
accounts for all poetic and visual art. 7 Mimesis is now judged to be
inherently false or fake, rather than simply capable of conveying falsehoods
(which was the suggestion in bks.2-3). This new and deeper indictment
takes some of its force from two bodies of doctrine, one psychological and

5
one metaphysical, belonging to the intervening books of the work. The
first, cited immediately at 595a7 -8, is the analysis of the internal
dynamics of the soul, presented in bk.4 and subsequently explored,
especially in bks.8-9. The second is the metaphysical vista of bks.5-7,
according to which ultimate reality is represented by transcendent Forms or
Ideas (see on 596a6). This metaphysical viewpoint is particularly pertinent
to the tripartite hierarchy of being (Forms, particulars, images) set out at
596a -7e, but it is also echoed in the various later contrasts drawn
between appearances and reality. The psychological doctrine of earlier
books is explicitly recalled at a number of points in the condemnation of
the effects of art on the mind at 602c-8b.
The fresh condemnation of mimesis, therefore, builds on but goes
beyond bks.2-3 by elaborating concepts and criteria taken both from the
Republic's drama of the soul, and from the middle books' great series of
contrasts (often expressed in the language of original and image) between
the plane of unchanging verities and the multiplicity of particulars in the
sensual world. So, within the total structure of the work, bk.l0's critique
of poetry acquires extra weight and momentum from what has intervened
since the earlier treatment; it expresses the much greater confidence with
which poetry's status - as the core of Greek culture and education - can
now be impugned, both in its relation to reality and in its impact on the
soul. Moreover, although Plato's major concern is with poetry, and his
analogy with painting is a subordinate (sometimes rhetorical) consideration,
the latter should not be regarded as a purely polemical strategy. The
critical point is that the wider concept of mimesis, as the references in (e)
above demonstrate, itself incorporates the conviction of an affinity between
poetry's and visual art's derivative standing in relation to the world. 8
Plato's development of this conviction may at times be gravely tendentious,
as will become clear. But that does not altogether undermine his premise
that certain important questions about art's status can be asked equally of
poetry and painting. In what follows, therefore, I shall often assume that
bk.l0 offers, at least in an inchoate form, a critique not just of poetry but
of representational (mimetic) art as a whole.
If for nothing else, Rep. 10 would be significant for raising in a bold
form issues which have frequently recurred in later aesthetics and criticism
of art. It is to be understood that Plato frames his challenge to art in a
deliberately provocative manner: Socrates refuses to hedge his arguments
round with compromising qualifications, but insists on stating the case
against poetry and art with blunt directness, even with teasing exaggeration.
One possible function of this style is to provoke the lovers of poetry into
defining much more rigorously the value which they attach to it (see
607d). Rather than rejecting the provocation as too facile, we shall do
well to try to recognise the permanent problems which some of its
arguments pose. 9

6
 1.2 Art and Reality

In constructing his arguments in Rep. 10, Plato makes use of already

existing attitudes towards art, and attempts to show the adverse conclusions
which can be drawn from them. Greek artistic practice and theory alike
accepted that poetry and the visual arts in some sense represented,
depicted, or dramatised reality (whether actual or potential). Such a view,
which by Plato's time was generally expressed in the language of
mimesis, 1 0 has also in one form or another been the most widely held of
all assumptions about literature and art in the subsequent European
tradition. This mimetic or representational aesthetic entails that works of
art do not themselves constitute the elements of reality which they betoken
or show. Rep. 10 reinterprets or exploits this conception in order to
arrive at the conclusion that the process and nature of art - mimesis -
is intrinsically superficial, and of no direct value for the living of our
lives. In a passage which 'has haunted the philosophy of art ever
since', 1 1 art is compared to a mirror (596c - e) in its alleged limitation to
producing evanescent simulations of the world of the senses. This
limitation is doubly damning given Plato's metaphysical suppositions, for it
means that poetry and painting have no access to the true, transcendent
and unchanging reality which lies beyond appearances. All this, if
accepted, necessarily makes it is absurd to attribute deep knowledge of the
world to poets or painters, and equally so to claim that their work can
have an ethically beneficial effect on us - a claim common in Greek
culture as well as in later ages.
The tenacious strength of this case is that, even when stripped of its
metaphysical dimension (as it must automatically be, for most of us), it
continues to pose a hard question about the relation between art and our
other experiences of the world. Plato's position presupposes that poetry
does in its own medium something comparable to what the painter does in
his; the poet offers verbal images of men, gods, objects and events, just
as the painter does in visual form. And what both artists achieve is no
more substantial, no more informed by understanding, and therefore no
more valuable, than turning a mirror on the ordinary world around us. If
the subjects of art are of interest or importance, we can turn directly to
the study of them, and do not need second - hand representations of them.
How can something offered as a simulation (a mere appearance,
dramatisation, or fiction) justify itself?
Underlying this question is a serious doubt about the criterion of
verisimilitude or truth - to -life as a complete or sufficient justification for
art. Such a justification was probably widely presupposed in Plato's own
culture, as it has often been since. But if Plato is right, a realistic
painting or a convincingly dramatic piece of poetry cannot, on grounds of
vividness or life -likeness alone, merit serious attention (even if Plato

7
deliberately underestimates the skill needed to produce such qualities: see
comm. on 599al-2). If truth-to-life were an artistic end in itself, then
perfect illusionism would be a supreme achievement of art. Yet such
illusionism, as Plato ironically intimates at 598c, would by definition
obliterate all consciousness of art and would be incompatible with critical
judgement. It does not follow, of course, that degrees of verisimilitude
and vividness cannot be valuable artistic means to an end. Plato's
argument compels us to see the need to define such an end (or ends).
So, even after putting aside the metaphysics of transcendent being (the
Forms), representational poetry and art do still have a case to answer (if,
at least, they are not simply to lapse into trivial self-satisfaction).
Plato's position itself, of course, can and must be challenged in
certain respects. A full counter-case would need to be made on a
number of fronts for different kinds of poetry and art (bk.l O is a great
eraser of artistic distinctions). But we can start with the fact that while
bk.lO may alert us to the weaknesses of positing verisimilitude as an end
in art, it fails to consider why it might still be thought a valuable means
to some further end. In dismissing mere representation (mimesis), Plato
never seems to allow that it could serve a purpose beyond its own
achievement. We can similarly observe how Plato ignores possibilities
which he elsewhere acknowledges. No consideration, for example, is given
to the positive ways in which a work of art might constitute something
more than, and distinct from, the things which it represents. Qualities-
say, of beauty, design, expressiveness - which we may wish to predicate
of a poem or painting, but not necessarily of its subject (separately
conceived), are not permitted to figure in the enquiry. 1 2
Moreover, earlier passages in the Republic which refer to idealistic
forms of painting (5.472d4 -7, 6.484c) prompt the question why bk.lO
allows artisan craftsmen (596b), but not painters or poets, to have
conceptions of ideal(ised) reality - a question not lost on later neoplatonist
aesthetics, which produced a suitably metaphysical view of art to satisfy
Platonic standards (81.4 below). But even without adopting such a stance,
we can legitimately object that neither painting nor poetry is as dependent
as Plato's argument contends on particulars in the world (in the way in
which a mirror' necessarily is), nor as limited to slavishly reproducing them
even where it does take them as its subject. Any form, or theory, of art
which can lay claim to something other or more than the simulation of
particulars, will reduce its vulnerablility to the first part of Plato's case in
bk.l O, even if the basic premise of representational status is upheld. 1 3
One such theory was produced by Plato's own pupil, Aristotle (see §1.4
below).
For the modern lover of poetry or art, who is likely to be heavily
influenced by Romantic attitudes, there is a strong temptation to couch a
defence against Plato in the language of creativity - to oppose the artist's

8
inner light of imagination against the static and passive notion of art as
'mirroring'. Such claims are perhaps a necessary counterbalance to the
reductionism from which Plato's formulation of poetry's and painting's aims
partly suffers. But it remains important to see that brandishing a term
such as 'creative' is not in itself to provide a solution to the question. If
we are looking for a justification of art which will give it some valuable
purchase on the world, and so some power to enrich our experience and
understanding, we need a clarification of a number of related issues.
Some of these are matters of psychology, to which I shall return in the
next section. But it may help in defining a response to Plato's position to
turn to consideration of his charge that mimesis, artistic representation,
requires no knowledge in its makers, and cannot produce it in its
audiences. Pursuing the reasons for this charge should give us further
insight into both the strengths and the weaknesses of bk.10's indictment of
art.
Plato's stance here has a Socratic foundation (§1.1 above) in
questioning the widely held Greek view that poets, if not painters, were
knowledgeable in the various matters which they represented in their work
(see comm. on 598c-e). Like Socrates, Plato here conceives of knowledge
as divisible into specific' areas of expertise. On this basis he is able to
claim that art cannot in general be justified in terms of its practitioners'
technical mastery in the matters they depict or dramatise (though, once
more, he ignores the intrinsic technicalities of art itself). 1 4 But defenders
of both painting. and poetry might argue against Plato that by offering
images of possible human realities to the imagination, these arts nurture
the mind in ways which cannot be categorised according to a scheme of
technical spheres of knowledge (such as medicine or strategy: cf. 599c).
Plato was in fact faced in his own day with people who offered some
such justification for poetry, but he rejected the idea of poets as ethical
guides to life (606e5) for four principal reasons: first, that poetry, like all
mimesis, is concerned with appearances not with substance (598a -9a);
second, that empirical considerations (e.g. lack of followers) show, say,
Homer not to have been an outstanding teacher in his own lifetime
(599a -601 b); third, that imitators are inferior to both makers and users of
objects (601 b-2b); fourth, that poetry's real power - its capacity to draw
us emotionally into its world - is actually a force which harms, not
improves, the mind (602c-8b). Of these reasons, the second is by the
far the weakest; it depends on a series of arbitrary assumptions about the
relation between ethical knowledge, on the one hand, and practical activity
and success, on the other. But the nature of Plato's argument at this
point should be read as a rhetorical rather than a philosophical rebuttal of
the more exaggerated claims made on behalf of poets: if Homer was as
omniscient and polymathic as some people believe, Plato's objection runs,
why did he not change the world in some more conspicuous way than by

9
writing poetry? One might, nonetheless, want to offer the rejoinder: is
not the creation of poems which come to dominate the imagination of an
entire culture (as Plato's own concern with them testifies) an impressive
enough way of changing the world?
The third reason - expressed by the tripartite scheme of user, maker
and imitator at 601b-602b - depends heavily on the idea of technical
categories of knowledge which I have mentioned above. There are many
areas to which the scheme has no clear applicability at all, and it might
be argued that art can enlighten us precisely in regions where there is no
specialist source of guidance. More significantly, the relevance of the
scheme to the central question of ethical action is obscure. The argument
implies that where ethics is concerned, poets can hardly be taken seriously
as guides to the realities of practical choice. This is both true and yet in
need of qualification: true (against some existing Greek attitudes) in that a
consistent relation between experience of poetry and moral virtue cannot be
unsentimentally maintained; but to be qualified by the observation that
Plato's own Socratic heritage had made him aware of the difficulty of
finding any obviously superior paradigm of ethical teaching or influence. If
our conception of ethics depends on stringent criteria of moral knowledge
(making the good man equivalent to the expert user of an artefact), it will
not be easy to point to an incontrovertible instance of such knowledge in
practice. Yet, once we allow that ethical understanding may be acquired
and fostered in a variety of ways, a place may reappear for the poet and
artist in such processes. For one thing, Plato himself, by his own use of
philosophical myth (§2.1 below). and indeed by his whole devotion to
literary dialogue, appears to recognise the special capacity of imaginative
and fictional narratives to offer the mind material for a specifically
dramatic process of reflection.
But Plato's fundamental allegation against the artist, implicit in the
maker/user/imitator scheme as well as separately stated. remains that his
concern with 'appearances' and 'simulacra' prevents him from obtaining
any real hold on the truth (which for Plato. we must remember, lies
ultimately beyond our human existences). No-one who values art seriously
will. I think. take Plato's imputation lightly, even if he finds some of the
arguments used to express it unacceptable. To answer Plato adequately
here would necessarily be to provide an alternative aesthetic to the
philosopher's, and an honest alternative would not pretend that the relation
between art and reality is an easy or straightforward one. But in the
present context I must restrict myself to observing that Plato's arguments
drive home the inadequacy of viewing art as a substitute for some element
of reality independently available to our experience. Any justification of
art which rests on such a premise will always be vulnerable to the charges
of parasitic imitation and specious pretence which bk.10 levels against both
poetry and painting. (Similarly, some of Plato's arguments may be

10
particularly penetrating when directed against bad art.) A vindication of
these activities against Plato will always need, therefore, to identify
something in the making and experience of art which cannot be readily
found elsewhere in life, and yet - if aesthetic complacency is to be
avoided - something which itself constitutes, or can contribute to, a good
form of life. Instead of presenting art as a substitute for something else,
such a defence would show that there is no substitute for art itself.
That the best art is not sealed off from life is acknowledged by Plato
himself in the last of the four objections which I listed above. To
consider the implications of this brings us to the second great dimension of
bk.10's aesthetic critique.

1.3 Art and the Mind

Plato wishes to show that art can inflict positive damage on the mind. He
sets about this, for both painting and poetry, by employing a strong
dichotomy between the reasoning faculty and the 'lower', baser elements of
the soul. In both cases, he contends, art encourages the latter at the
expense of the former - painting by its invitation to the senses to judge
by simulated appearances alone (and partial ones, at that); poetry by the
arousal of sympathetic and powerful emotions which will in turn infect our
ordinary lives and impede the work of reason.
It must at once be said that the coupling of poetry and painting is
weaker here than earlier in bktl O, and weaker than it needs to be. The
two cases, as presented, are scarcely comparable at all, and that of
painting seems especially tenuous: that even trompe l'oeil painting has any
general effect on the reasoning, 'measuring' capacity of the mind
(602d -3a), is a proposition difficult to make sense of. This leaves us,
nonetheless, with an independently powerful argument against poetry, and
indeed one which could in turn be generalised (though Plato does not do
so) to apply to all art. The force of the argument depends on the
premise that the emotions aroused by poetry are not distinct from those
active in the rest of our lives. If we can acknowledge that Plato is right,
au fond, to believe that poetry imaginatively engages our emotional life by
drawing us sympathetically into the reality which it represents or enacts,
then we should be able to recognise that he has grounds for arguing that
this emotional engagement is a channel through which certain values may
be communicated from a work of art to its willing audience.
The combination of a sense of poetry as something psychologically
potent and dangerous, with the earlier suggestion that it is sham and
empty, may be paradoxical but is not illogical. Plato wants both to rebut
certain claims for the wisdom derivable from art, and to attack what he
sees as its real, if undesirable, efficacy in casting us under its spell. 1 5

11
The lover of poetry or art here finds himself, therefore, up against
someone who does not underestimate what he is attacking. Leaving aside
the possibility of a purely negative, aestheticist defence (to the effect that
the experience of art is pleasurably independent from the rest of life), a
reply to the Platonic case requires two major and related components: first,
a different understanding of the relation between reason and emotion within
the mind; second, an alternative set of values bearing on the objects which
provide a focus for our emotions. 1 6
Both these tasks were in part tackled by Plato's pupil, Aristotle,
whose philosophy posits a much more interdependent relation between
reason and the emotions, and attaches much greater value to the emotion
of pit)! which is Plato's chief target at 603c-6b. 1 '7 The contrast between
Plato and Aristotle helps to emphasise that we are dealing here with
fundamental premises about psychology and ethics, on which our response
to the arguments of 605-8 will depend. As regards ethics, there seems to
be no way of circumventing the direct clash of opposing values. Both
inside and outside bk.l0 Plato admits that he would be prepared to
countenance poetry which endorses the same values as his own. 1 8 Most
existing poetry is unacceptable to him because it implies and sustains values
which are inimical to his. This is especially so with tragedy (which, for
Plato, includes Homer: see at 595cl). Tragedy carries with it a sense of
the importance of human life and its sufferings which Plato, in the light of
his philosophical convictions, cannot share. So there is a matter of
ultimate values at stake in the fear of poetry's psychological power in
bk.l0. If we value life differently from Plato, then that has inevitable
implications for our response to his assessment of art.
But it may be possible to suggest that the ethical question might look
at least a little different if Plato's uncompromising psychology were to be
qualified. I have conceded that Plato is right to see a link between the
experience of art and of the rest of life, but he may still be countered in
his belief that the former affects the latter in a direct and uniform
manner. Where tragedy is concerned, for example, he talks only of
undiluted sympathy for the sufferings and griefs of the dramatic agents.
He makes no allowance for more complex responses in which sympathy
might, to take just one possibility, be combined with a sense of partial
responsibility or guilt on the part of the agents. Once such complexities
are allowed for, it may be much harder to posit such a consistent relation
between the experience of life and of art as is done at 606a - b.
Art, like the rest of life, can elicit less simple responses than the
kind against which Plato's psychological argument is directed in bk.l0.
Plato pays poetry the respect of admitting (almost confessionally, 605c) its
power to grip and affect the mind, but he does not support this with a
recognition of the intricate ways in which this power may operate in
practice. He leaves us, we may feel, with one possible form of

12
psychological influence - the kind mediated through a wholesale emotional
surrender to art (which can unquestionably occur) - and we must allow
the possibility that he observed such influence to be the major
phenomenon of tragic theatre in his own culture. But the sweep of his
final judgement of condemnation calls, in the larger context of aesthetic
thought, for a much more comprehensive enquiry than he is prepared to
offer in bk.If)." 9

1.4 The Platonic Legacy to Aesthetics

Plato's two major treatments of poetry, in Rep. bks.2-3 and 10, posed a
permanent challenge to later critics and theorists. When, for example, the
rhetorician Dio of Prusa (Dio Chrysostom) in the first century AD
composed a lecture on Homer's inspired genius, he could not avoid
mentioning, and equivocating over, the grave censures passed on the poet
by Plato (53.2-6). To trace all the subsequent effects, both positive and
adverse, of Plato's case against poetry and art would take copious space
and energy. What I shall attempt here is a mere sketch of some of the
more significant lines of development.
The most substantial response which Plato's arguments received in
antiquity came from Aristotle, whose Poetics develops a positive evaluation
of mimesis: rather than merely simulating particulars in the world, the poet
(like the painter: Aristotle accepts the comparison) is now regarded as
making intelligible representations of possible human realities, which can
legitimately hold our interest in their ethical substance. Aristotle is able to
find more intrinsic significance in mimetic art than Plato had done, since
he rejects the latter's belief in a transcendent reality against which the
human world must be measured. To the charge of ignorance on the part
of the poet, Aristotle's answer is that the poet must not only know the
principles of his own art but must have an implicit grasp of the kinds of
reality (universals, Poetics 9) which he dramatises. The successful
embodiment of universals in a fictional mode depends, like the work of
any craftsman or artist (n.25 below), on a clear notion of the significant
form to be structured in the material of the art - in the case of poetry
and painting, the forms of human action and life. And while he agrees
with Plato that art engages the emotions in ways which have implications
for our psychological life in general, Aristotle rejects the particular
suggestion that tragic pity is damaging to the mind: he believes both that
pity has a legitimate place in the experience of reality, and that its arousal
by tragedy can benefit us through a process of katharsis. 2 0
The Poetics, however, was not well enough known to have much
effect on ancient reactions to Plato's criticisms of poetry. It had little
impact, for instance, on the recurrent Hellenistic controversy, itself part of

13
Plato's legacy, over the ethical usefulness of poetry. A series of critics
entered the debate with pronouncements on one side or the other, and the
terms of the argument seem to have been drastically simplified into a
polarity between edification and pleasure. 2 1 Where poetry, and the
education which went with it, was altogether repudiated, as by the
philosopher Epicurus, some Platonic influence is possible but unprovable.
Yet a consciously Platonic stance on the matter, if usually with some
compromise, long remained available. We can see this particularly from
the work of Plutarch (c.4S-l2S), whose De audiendis poetis widely echoes
Plato in applying moralistic and psychological criteria to the judgement of
poems acceptable in education, but who nonetheless yields a legitimate
place to poetry as a preparation - a propaedeutic - for the adult pursuit
of philosophy. This variety of qualified Platonic moralism was
ready-made to be taken over by later Christian writers such as Basil of
Caesarea (c.330-79), who was able to adapt it to the vital issue of the
relation between pagan literature and Christian education. 2 2
But Plato had also invited the lovers of poetry to defend the art.
One line of defence, which in fact goes back before Plato but was mostly
elaborated in the Hellenistic and Roman periods, was the allegorising
reinterpretation of poetry, especially Homer's. 2 3 Such a strategy, which
allowed doubts about poetry's ostensible content to be assuaged or
sublimated, and thus warded off any assault on its central cultural position,
became associated especially with the Stoic and later the neoplatonist
school, and was destined for a long and important history. It came
eventually to be combined with other and equally significant developments
in Hellenistic thinking about art. The notion that a poet or artist might
go beyond the representation of nature existed already in the Classical
period, and Plato acknowledges it without much sympathy. 24 During the
Hellenistic era this view coalesced with a concept, also known to Plato, of
the artist's inner 'idea' or 'image' of his intentions. The resulting fusion
created a Platonising or quasi - Platonic model of art which yet
momentously inverted Plato's own arguments in Rep. 10: art's sensuous
forms and human materials could now be claimed as one channel of access
to that higher, transcendent level of being from which Plato had placed
the artist 'at second remove'. 2 5
A further Platonic strand related to this remarkable development was
that of God as a cosmic artist or craftsman embodying his intentions -
even his Platonic Ideas - in the stuff of the world. This image had
more than one source, but it had been very influentially worked out in
Plato's Timaeus; 26 and it came to provide a paradigm for the activity of
the human artist. Thus, paradoxically, Plato himself supplied most of the
individual components for a new and more elevated ranking of art and the
artist in the hierarchy of reality. It was just such a revaluation of art
which found its way into the thought of the first great neoplatonist,

14
Plotinus (c.205-270). In a seminal section of his Enneads (5.8.1) Plotinus
incorporates art (referring directly to sculpture and painting) into his
metaphysical system of degrees or levels of reality. He does so by seeing
the creation of a work of art as a process by which the artist imposes a
'form' or 'idea' (eidos) on his material, though he thinks the resulting
beauty is necessarily inferior to that in the mind of the artist. Plotinus
also allows that art is in part, or at times, mimetic or representational, but
he adds three qualifications to this: that nature - the object of mimesis
- is itself a mimetic image of a higher reality; that art does not just
copy but penetrates to the principles underlying nature; and that art adds
to or improves on natural beauty. 2 7 True or perfect beauty is not to be
found in the physical world, but it may nonetheless be intimated or
expressed through certain sensuous forms.
The process of reconciling Plato and the artists was continued by later
neoplatonists, especially Proclus (c.410-85), who elaborated a theory of
different kinds of poetry to account for the types or degrees of truth
which might be expected from various literary works. Proclus's essential
motivation, paralleling that of Plotinus, was to attribute to the greatest
poetry (Homer's) a potential to communicate truths about a higher level of
being than the material or natural world experienced by the senses. To
do so, he not only invoked the concepts of allegory and symbolism, but
also re-elaborated the ancient notion of poetic inspiration, now understood
in a much more heavily metaphysical sense than originally. A further
component of Proclus's thinking about poetry, which reflected the wider
ideas of neoplatonism, was an intense concern with literary unity. Works
of literature were regarded as microcosms, reflecting the structure of reality
at large through the interrelation of their various parts or levels under the
control of a guiding design. This notion of organic unity has proved to
be of lasting significance. 2 8
By the end of late antiquity, therefore, Plato's direct and indirect
legacy to aesthetics was, as it has since remained, rich but ambiguous.
Plato's own works contained explicit condemnations of poetry and art on
moral, epistemological, educational and other grounds. But these
condemnations had stimulated, in a culture which continued to value poetry
and art, new thought about the nature and functions of these activities,
and had prompted a justification of them using ideas found, at least in an
inchoate form, within the Platonic corpus itself.
Although some traces of neoplatonist influence on aesthetics can be
found in the medieval period - in, for example, the tendency to discern
wisdom veiled allegorically behind the surface of poetry, and in the notion
of poetic 'madness' 2 9 - it was only after the revival of neoplatonism in
fifteenth - century Florence that this influence became conspicuous.
Renaissance neoplatonism gave currency to ideals of spiritual beauty and
love, and of the means of the soul's ascent to the contemplation of divine

15
being. Exploiting the presence of poetry among the inspired states of the
soul mentioned in the Phaedrus, devotees allowed art, as a source of
symbols and indexes of higher things, an acceptable place in their scheme
of the soul's aspirations to rise above the limitations of the natural world
and to approach the realm of the divine. The resulting sense of the poet
or artist as a god-like creator, a man with special powers of imagination,
enabling him to give form to his intuitive or visionary ideas of beauty,
became a vital alternative to the stricter, classicising aesthetic of the artistic
'imitation of nature' . A dialectic between these rival ideals, and their
associated standards, can be traced in the subsequent history of art theory
and critical thought. 3 0
It is a large part of the significance of the various developments
sketched above that they have contributed to the permanent availability,
since the Renaissance, of a matrix of views within which poetry and art
are endowed with an insight going beyond or deeper than the plane of
common experience. Such views have become most firmly established
through the Romantic movement, on which neoplatonism was undoubtedly a
serious, if fitful, influence: in England alone, figures as major as
Coleridge, Wordsworth, Blake and Shelley all have vital neoplatonist
connections. In the perspective of Plato's legacy to aesthetics, the abiding
irony of this fact is that it has produced the widest currency yet attained
by a notion of the artist and his art which contradicts that advanced most
forcefully in the last book of the Republic, while yet embracing
metaphysical and quasi - religious ideas of the kind which Plato himself did
so much to elaborate for other purposes. For it is ultimately on a
distinction between the sensible world of nature and a superior spiritual
realm (whether conceived within or beyond nature) that both Plato's
condemnation of art in bk.l0 and the tradition of ideas outlined above
rest. 3 1
Even when disengaged from the framework of this distinction, many
of bk.l0's arguments can continue to prompt important lines of thought
about poetry and visual art, as I tried to suggest in earlier sections of the
Introduction. But it remains true that Plato tests the claims of
representational or mimetic art against the backdrop of a comprehensively
dualist philosophy of the world. It is, in either case, for the initiation and
provocation of a long debate about the relation between art and 'reality'
(however conceived), and about the value of art to the human mind, that
Rep. 10 has acquired the status of a notoriously fundamental document in
the history of European aesthetics.

16
 2.1 The Myth of Er

The conclusion of the Republic lifts onto a new plane - the plane of
cosmic harmony and eternal destiny - the entire work's concern with
justice and the soul. It does so by presenting an argument for psychic
immortality, which is then reinforced by a mythical vision of the cosmos
within whose order such immortality finds its place and meaning. About
the argument for immortality, little needs to be added here to the analysis
given in the commentary. It is clear, I think, that the beliefs or
convictions which concern Plato at this point outrun the scope of cogently
rational dialectic. The soul is something whose existence is known (if it is
known at all) from our experience of embodied beings. Once the soul is
imagined as capable of existence outside the body, as well as of
transmigration into other bodies, the problem arises: how can embodied
humans understand something which is so alien, so antithetical to the rest
of their experience and knowledge? Plato suggests, in fact, that we can
only begin to comprehend the nature of the soul if we contemplate it
independently of its association with 'the body and other evils' (611b-c).
But such a claim only compounds the difficulty. It is both a tacit
acknowledgement of, and an attempted solution to, the problem of
conceiving the 'true nature' of the soul, that Plato should leave rational
argument behind and turn to myth.
Muthos means a story. Plato applies the word to, among other things,
the traditional Greek tales which we call myths, to such things as Aesopic
fables, to the legendary material of poetry, to certain philosophical theories
(including some of those of the Presocratics), to narratives of oral history,
and to his own philosophical visions. His attitude to muthos or its use -
muthologia - varies from outright rejection, through playful acceptance of
its lively appeal, to the endowment of it, in his own case, with portentous
value. In one sense, the whole Republic is a story or muthos - the
fictional account of a hypothetical society constructed to dramatise certain
values and principles. Although some of Plato's brusquer comments on
poetic myths might make us think otherwise, there is in fact nothing
intrinsically objectionable to him about muthologia: the criterion of its
acceptability is whether it provides a story of the good, a token of the
truth. 3 2
But how is the truth - value of a myth to be interpreted or judged?
Evidently not in terms of its literal meaning; a philosophical muthos, at
least, cannot express all its import in a completely overt way. 3 3 The
significance of a Platonic myth must be taken, in some degree at least, to
be symbolic. In using myths in this way Plato was not, after all, unique.
Before him, both certain presocratic philosophers, especially Parmenides,
and some of the sophists had resorted to stories for the conveyance of
their teachings. 34 In addition, it is difficult to avoid the inference that

17
Plato intended his myths to be a kind of philosophical poetry, rivalling or
displacing - while simultaneously using some of the features of - the
traditional poetic mythology which he felt impelled to condemn. Within
two generations of Plato's death, indeed, a hostile philosopher could
ridicule his use of myth in general for its abandonment of rationality, and
the myth of Er in particular for being no better than the tragic myths
criticised in the Republic itself. 35
If Plato's myths are quasi - poetic expressions of some of the
philosopher's deepest convictions, that does not entirely settle how we
should read them. It remains an inherently difficult, probably insoluble,
question whether all the details of a myth can or should be treated as
functional in the same way or on the same principles. It is tempting to
select certain features as significant, because they can be made to yield
otherwise identifiable doctrines, while ignoring others as purely decorative.
But we should surely be prepared to ask of any component just what it
purports to conveyor intimate, and what its contribution is to the effect
of the whole. Enquiring into the putative sources of Platonic myths may
have a part to play in answering such questions, but, as §2.2 below and
my commentary will clarify, it cannot give us a complete understanding of
Plato's mythopoeic intentions. Nor should we shirk the ultimate question
whether Plato's myths are inevitably in some degree elusive and opaque, by
relying on a show of symbolism in spheres where we have no other access
to what is symbolised. If so, what standing does this leave the myths in
the work of a philosopher whose oeuvre so consistently advocates and
values rationality? 3 6
The myth of Er, like those in Gorgias (122-5) and Phaedo (125-9),
offers a story and vision of the soul's judgement after death. But its
significance, in the context of the work as a Whole, is more complex than
either of those earlier myths. 3? The myth's introductory function (see
613e-14a) is to give an account of the rewards and punishments which
await the just and unjust after death. This function appears to be duly
fulfilled by Er's report of the post mortem tribunal which sends souls on
thousand - year journeys during which they receive tenfold recompense for
their previous lives. Some interpreters have been greatly disturbed by the
fact that this scheme should make so much of the consequences of justice
and injustice, when the rest of the Republic has argued for the intrinsic
significance of vice and virtue to the soul. But this discrepancy can be
explained (though hardly rendered transparent) by the shift from the purely
human to the cosmic plane of things, and by the symbolic rather than
literal weight of the myth: the consequences of (in)justice can be read, in
other words, as tokens of the soul's ultimate relation to the workings of
the entire universe. The vision of the soul's judgement should not, then,
be taken in isolation from the image of the rational, mathematical order of
the cosmos. 3 8 At the same time, the fundamental concept of the soul's

18
destiny is made problematic by the intricate procedure of reincarnation.
Both of these topics call for further consideration.

2.2 Astronomy and Religion

As Er accompanies the souls which, after a millennium of punishment or

reward for their previous existences, are now journeying towards the choice
of new lives, he and they are presented with a vision of the workings of
the cosmic structure. They behold a pillar of light which binds the
universe together and contains the suspended spindle of Necessity, whose
rotations move the fixed stars, sun, moon and planets (616b-17b). The
perfection of this system, with its mathematically specified arrangements
and ratios, is completed by the 'harmony of the spheres' - the musical
concord produced by the Sirens who accompany the heavenly bodies
(617b).
We can detect three major areas of possible influence on Plato's
symbolic picture of the universe.
(a) Presocratic cosmology. We are dealing here in part with a
generic and diffuse affinity. Plato's image of a cosmic spindle, for
instance, owes something to the presocratic habit of mind of characterising
features of the universe in terms of familiar earthly objects. Examples of
this habit are Anaximander's comparisons of the earth to a column drum
(see on 616b5) and of the sun and moon to chariot wheels (KRS 135);
Anaximenes' analogy between celestial movements and the turning of a felt
cap on the head (ibid. 154-7); and Heraclitus's conception of the
heavenly bodies as bowls of fire (ibid. 200-1).39 Plato's picture differs
from all these in being neither comparative nor literal, but symbolic and
even mystical. But in this and in certain other respects, we can see an
important affinity to Parmenides' vision of an ordered universe of fiery
rings, at the centre of which is the goddess, called both Justice and
Necessity, who 'steers' and controls all. 4 0
(b) Pythagoreanism. Pythagorean cosmology itself reflects the general
presocratic quest for a holistic understanding of the cosmos. According to
a late Hellenistic source, it was the Pythagoreans who first posited the
necessity of perfectly circular motions for heavenly bodies a
presupposition which Plato shared or took over. 4 1 There are two other
distinctive features of Pythagorean thought which appear in Plato's myth:
first, a precise mathematical arrangement of the heavenly bodies; second, a
doctrine of celestial music, whose Pythagorean spirit was specifically
commended at 7.530d. Plato is most likely to have been familiar with
these ideas through the work of the 5th cent. Pythagorean Philolaus
(mentioned at Phdo. 61d-e), who appears to have recognised the existence
of five planets, and who was probably responsible for systematising

19
Pythagorean belief in a celestial harmony produced by the circular
revolution of the heavenly bodies. 4 2 But this is not, one must insist, to
claim that this aspect of the myth of Er is itself professedly Pythagorean
(cf. on 617b6-7).
(c) New astronomical thought. The 5th cent. had seen the
development of scientific, observational astronomy in Greece, motivated by
a mixture of practical (calendaric) and theoretical interests. Plato himself
is credited by a late source with having set astronomers the challenge of
accounting for all celestial phenomena by an arrangement of uniform,
circular motions. Certainly, Plato's own works show a keen interest in
elaborating a mathematical understanding of astronomy. 4 3 This line of
thought led, in Plato's own lifetime, to the first fully mathematical model
of the universe, produced by Eudoxus of Cnidus. The essence of this
model was a set of 27 homocentric spheres (plus the earth), with
irregularities in observed celestial phenomena accounted for by variations in
direction, speed and axis of rotation. Eudoxus became associated with
Plato's Academy, but it is chronologically difficult to see his influence on
Rep. 10 itself, particularly in view of the detailed differences between the
two. 44 Besides, there is no evidence that Eudoxus connected the
mathematical perfections of the heavens with any particular religious or
philosophical beliefs: in this respect, the kinship between Plato and the
Pythagoreans is stronger.
The astronomy of the myth of Er draws together strands, then, from a
number of sources. 4 5 To observe the way in which Plato's imagination
worked on elements of already existing material is of interest and
importance. But the result is not mere syncretism; it is a distinctively
Platonic vision. Its function and significance within the myth as a whole,
and indeed for the import of the entire Republic, is to provide an image
of a universal and eternal world order which goes beyond justice for
individual souls. 4 6 If the fate of the soul is the most direct concern of
the myth as of the rest of the Republic, it has nonetheless to be seen
within the larger framework of an unchanging harmony in the universe at
large: whatever imperfections are involved in the existence of individual
souls, they are allowed to glimpse a transcendent perfection to which they
should aspire to assimilate themselves. The ultimate purpose of justice is
to reflect and realise within the individual soul, and in the relation
between souls, the kind of unchanging and unified order which is the
ground of the cosmos's being. This is the essence of a belief which Plato
elsewhere tries to intimate by other means, especially by the existence of
transcendent Forms.
The value of an astronomical model to Plato was that it carried by its
very nature an immensity and grandeur of vision which he could elaborate
into suitably symbolic, religious and mythic terms. In doing so, he was
distancing himself absolutely from any purely secular reading of the heavens

20
or the world. Laws 12.967a attests that astronomers had begun to acquire
a popular reputation for atheistic or materialist explanations of celestial
bodies and their phenomena, and that such explanations were associated
with the principle of 'necessity' . But for Plato the study of astronomy
could lead only to the very opposite worldview: that the universe is
controlled and guided by a cosmic soul which is the expression of perfect
reason. 4"7 Plato's Necessity (616c4 etc.), like Parmenides' (see above), is
therefore a goddess, whose daughters, the Moirae or Fates, represent the
impingement of necessity on the existence of souls (see §2.3 below), a
necessity which is inseparable from justice. This religious symbolism is
connected with the choice of a spindle. The spindle is not a
self-contained system, as one might find in a mechanistic world picture; it
requires a source of movement, a guiding intelligence to control its
regularity, and this is supplied by Necessity and her daughters. This
conception of the rational sustaining source of the universe is akin to
notions of a divine 'craftsman' of the universe (see n.26).

2.3 Reincarnation and Destiny

The world order astronomically pictured in the myth of Er can only be

communicated by a special 'messenger' returned from the dead (614d),
because all other souls, on the threshold of reincarnation, are required to
drink an amnesic draught from the river Heedless (621a). There is a hint,
however, in the reference to some souls' excessive drinking from the river,
of a possibility of recovering in life a knowledge of at least some of what
was beheld and experienced by the soul in the millennium between two
incarnations. The doctrine (found in the Meno, Phaedo, and Phaedrus) of
knowledge as recollection from pre-natal existence, does not occur
explicitly in the Republic, but some such doctrine is surely suggested by
the episode just mentioned. Recollection is a theory of the process by
which our souls find their way towards true knowledge, a grasp of perfect
absolutes which the particulars of the ordinary world can only dimly
suggest, but which our souls have previously experienced in their clearest
form. The myth of Er allows obliquely for recollection of this kind, and
thus it leaves some room for the ascent of the mind, through philosophy,
towards that state of purity to which we were referred in the prelude to
the myth (611e).
But many problems of interpretation remain, problems inherent in the
philosophical use of a medium - myth - whose richness of symbolism
and narrative detail seems incompatible with the explicit structure of
rational doctrine. How are the great and unphilosophical majority of souls
to fare, according to the implications of the myth? How is an individual
soul, transmigrating every thousand years into a new body, ever to progress

21
towards justice in its earthly existence, if each of its series of
reincarnations is discrete, and if the series as a whole does not allow of a
cumulative acquisition of experience? 4 B There is a great paradox here.
The souls choose their next existence in the memory of their previous
embodied life (as well as of the preceding millennium of punishment or
reward), but they then depart to live their new lives without any memory
to sustain the choice. This makes the significance of the choices hard to
fathom: if they are the choices of the souls' previous 'selves', this would
entail a harsh. predestinarianism for the creatures who must live out the
new lives. But if, as in fact is made quite clear (617d-e), the choices
somehow belong to the new creatures themselves, how can they be
conceived of as pre-natal and even prior to the identities to which they
apply?
Solutions to some of these problems can be constructed, but they are
not all soluble in ways, or on principles, which are rationally compatible.
We might, for instance, as 618c-d gives us some prompting to do, treat
the pre - natal status of the souls' choices as allegorical of choices internal
to the course of a life. But to extrapolate that interpretation consistently
would lead us to regard the whole picture of the souls' existence between
lives as symbolic of things inside life itself. The consequence of that
would be to explain away, or at the very least to take all substance from,
the very immortality of the soul. But that is not an option open to us.
Immortality is an irreducible premise of the myth: a doctrine argued for in
advance of it, and presupposed by Socrates' comments on it (618e-19a,
621c-d).
Plato's myth, then, for all its apparatus of post mortem rewards and
punishments, does not offer a comfortable or simple vision of the ascent of
souls to an eventual state of eternal justice. As Er witnesses the spectacle
of choice, he feels pity, amusement and amazement (620al-2), but there
is little or nothing for him (or us) to admire or emulate. We have
already seen at 619b-c how, in fact, terrible ethical retrogression is
possible for souls; and if, as is said there, just as many souls recently
rewarded for their previous existence fell nonetheless into fatal choices of
their next life, then grave doubt is cast over the efficacy for any particular
soul of the whole cycle of reincarnations. Even the philosophical soul will
have in each incarnation to start afresh the process of recollection and
learning, and so, it seems, will be unable to carry over knowledge and
goodness previously attained.
If we take all the details of the myth seriously, we may infer that for
many souls, perhaps the majority, the cycle of reincarnation will be long
and far from evenly progressive in some cases, even, unending. 4 9
From one point of view, this inference fits perfectly with the fact that
souls are not, within this scheme of things, to be equated with persons:
each soul becomes embodied in a living creature (human or animal), but it

22
has an existence which transcends its individual incarnations. A person can
learn from experience, but the souls in the myth of Er cannot learn
continuously in this way, for they lose their previous incarnate identity at
each transmigration. Plato is acknowledging, it would seem, that the quest
for justice must always be pursued anew within the circumstances and
limitations of an individual life. If knowledge and virtue are to be
achieved, it must be by a choice which is rooted and lived out within a
particular existence.
Yet that conclusion forces us to ask what, after all, reincarnation itself
signifies. Any concept of reincarnation presupposes that there is some
sense in talking of the same soul animating different embodied creatures.
The whole myth depends on that presupposition, but it leaves its ultimate
meaning, together with the apparatus of necessity and choice, shrouded in
obscurity. There are forbidding difficulties in believing in literal
reincarnation; even a believer in the immortality of the soul may well
demur at the idea of transmigration into a series of bodies. 5 0 Plato's
presentation of reincarnation seems to lie at the intersection of a number
of aims and problems: the basic postulate of immortality of the soul
(without which the soul would be impermanent and therefore valueless: see
on 604e3); the need to imagine a process by which the destiny of an
individual soul can be prolonged beyond the failures of an embodied
existence; but also, negatively, a recognition that our own lives do not in
any straightforward way draw on the fruits of the (presumed) preexistence
of our minds or souls. The result is a deep uncertainty about just what it
is which constitutes the identity or continuity of a soul once it is separated
from any individual embodiment, since, on his own admission (611b-c),
Plato's entire treatment of the soul has dealt with it in its impure human
context, not in its true purity.
The notion of reincarnation remains accordingly mystical, enshrined in
myth but never elucidated by dialectic. In these circumstances, we are
scarcely in a position to elaborate criteria for answering the question (often
put), 'Did Plato really believe in reincarnation?' Whatever a truly 'pure'
soul would be, it would, on Plato's premises, have no connection at all
with embodied personality: its ultimate existence would be an ineffable bliss
of the kind suggested in the Phaedo and Phaedrus.v ' Reincarnation
should perhaps be read as, above all, the negative corollary of this idea: it
represents the visionary sense that, so long as it fails to attain complete
purity, the soul must continue to be returned to, entangled in, a bodily
existence, for that is the only existence of which an imperfect soul - the
only kind of soul known to either Plato or us - is capable.

23
 NOTES TO THE INTRODUCTION

1. That Plato intended bk.l0 to be integral to the work is demonstrated

by the large number of references to earlier arguments: see (with
comm.) 595a5, 7-8, 596a6, 602e8, 603d5, e5, 607bl-2, 612b2 fl.,
b4, 613c8, el. For the relative date of bk.l0 see the Appendix.
2. Pre r-platonic philosophical criticisms of poetry are cited in comm. on
607a4, b5.
3. Acting is prominent at 3.395a; reading, and by implication hearing, at
396b-e. The Greek practice of reading aloud (Le. acting out orally)
made these activities less distinct than they may seem to us: cl.
Havelock chs. 2 and 9. Compare the image of magnetic rings of
emotion at Ion 535e-6a. But Laws 7.816e suggests that acting
poetry is more dangerous than hearing it performed.
4. For mimesis as dramatic enactment cf. esp. Aristoph. Thesm. 156,
Frogs 109.
5. I discuss the range of mimesis terminology in Plato at Halliwell (1986)
116-21. Cl. U. Zimbrich, Mimesis bei Platon (Frankfurt, 1984).
6. See esp. Laws 2.653-60, where essentially ethical criteria for the
regulation of art are laid down (albeit in a somewhat more tolerant
spirit than in the Rep.), 10.885d-6c, 12.941b-c. Cf. Wind 3-6.
7. Even in bk.3 there is assimilation of all forms of art to
'image-making' (401a-d). For non-enactive mimesis in bk.3 see
399a7, c3-4, 400a7, 401a8, all referring to musical and rhythmic
forms of expression. The view of all poetry as mimesis had earlier
made a brief appearance at 2.373b5 (cl.382b9).
8. Poetry and painting were coupled before Plato tv Simonides (Plut.
Mor . 346F) , Ion of Chios fr.8, anon. Dissoi Logoi 3.10. Within
Plato's own works see e.g. 2.377e, Crat . 423d, Pot. 288c, 306d, Laws
2.669a-b; cl. Epin, 975d. The connection should be seen in the
light of Plato"s evolving attitude to painting, on which see Demand's
article.
9. Osborne's recent article recognises the challenge to art in general and
offers a serious, rich reply to it. But her thesis that Plato's attack is
directed against a theory of art, not art itself, seems to me an
overstatement: Plato's rejection of poets from the city is not a
response only to people's views of them.
10. Keuls ch.l argues that mimesis was not applied to 'static simulation of
appearance' before Plato: I have answered this in Halliwell (1986)
110-13 (where footnote 5 should refer to Keuls 19-21). Xen. Mem.
3.10.1 shows that at least by the 2nd quarter of the 4th cent. the

24
 idea of mimesis in visual art was standard (Keuls' talk of 'recreation'
(31) is beside the point).
11. Gombrich 83.
12. Occasional recognition of genuine artistic values of form and beauty
can be found at e.g. 4.420c-d, Hp. Maj. 297e-8a, Grg. 503e-4a,
Crat. 429a.
13. For one kind of 'conceptual' art known to Plato, which would avoid
some of bk.l0's criticisms, see my comm. on 598b2.
14. Contrast Leonardo's suggestion that the good painter must understand
what he represents, while the bad will only copy appearances: 'the
painter who draws ... without the use of reason is like a mirror which
copies... without knowledge' (I. A. Richter (ed.) The Notebooks of
Leonardo da Vinci (Oxford, 1952) 225). But Leonardo also uses the
mirror metaphor positively: ibid. 218.
15. Annas 342-4 faults this combination of arguments in bk.10, but cf.
Schaper 47.
16. R. Hepburn, Wonder and Other Essays (Edinburgh, 1984) ch.5
enlighteningly discusses a number of issues which are relevant here.
17. See Halliwell (1986) ch.6. But the two philosophers shared some
presuppositions: see comm. on 606b6.
18. See 607a, with e.g. 2.377cl, 3.396c-d, 399a -c for this implication.
19. Cf. D. W. Harding, 'Psychological Processes in the Reading of
Fiction', Brit. Journ, of Aesthetics 2 (1962) 133-47, for some
pertinent discriminations.
20. Halliwell (1986) deals extensively with the Poetics' relation to Plato:
see Appendix 2 and the Index s.v. Plato. See also G. F. Else, Plato
and Aristotle on Poetry (Chapel Hill, 1986).
21. For examples of the edification-pleasure controversy see Pfeiffer
166-7.
22. See N. G. Wilson, Saint Basil on Greek Literature (London, 1975).
There is a translation by F. M. Padelford in Essays on the Study and
Use of Poetry (New York, 1902). For Christian writers' readiness to
exploit Plato's criticisms of poetry in their polemics against pagan
literature, see e.g. Minucius Felix Oct. 23, Augustine Civ. Dei 2.14,
Tertullian Ad nat, 2.7.
23. Plato himself refers unsympathetically to allegorical readings of poetry
at 2.378d and Phdr. 229b-30a; but Phdo. 69c suggests a more
accommodating attitude to philosophical allegory, and cf. Tim, 22c-d.
N. J. Richardson, PCPS 21 (1975) 65-81, discusses early Greek
attitudes to allegory; for later ones, see R. Lamberton, Homer the
Theologian (Berkeley, 1986).
24. For ideas of art's improvement on nature see Xen. Mem. 3.10.1,
Aristot. Pol. 1281bl0-15, Poet. 1448a5-6, 1454b8-11, 1461b12-13.
The notion of combining models became particularly associated with

25
 the story of Zeuxis's painting of Helen: see e.g. Cic. De invent.
Z.1.1, Pliny NH 35.64. This motif is sometimes incorporated into
more idealistic theories of art: e.g. Plot. Enn, 5.8.1 (see text), '[a
statue made] from all beautiful models'.
25. For the artist's mental 'image' cf. Xen. Symp, 4.21. Aristot. Met.
988a4, 1032a32-b1 posits a guiding 'form' (eidos) in the mind of
every craftsman who makes artefacts; cl. Grg. 503e. But these
passages do not imply a relation between the image/form and anything
outside nature. Plato himself, however, intimates such a notion at
5.472d, 6.484c-d, 500e-1c. This gave the cue for the Platonising
developments described in my text, first attested at Cic. Orat, 8-10
(cf. 18-19), then, with variations, at Sen. Epist. 58.18-21, 65.7-10,
Dio Chrys. 12.55-61. Such developments may be related to theories
of artistic imagination (cl. e.g. Sen. Controv . 10.5.8, Philostr. Vita
Ap. 6.19), but they undoubtedly go beyond them. On the whole
subject see Panofsky 11-32.
26. See esp. Tim. 28-9, 41-2, with 6.507c, 7.530a, Soph, 265c-6d,
Laws 10.902e. Outside Plato the concept of the divine craftsman or
demiurge occurs at Xen. Mem. 1.4.3 ff. For the subsequent history
of the concept see W. Theiler, Reallexikon fur Antike und
Christentum 3 (1957) 694-711, and Curtius 544-6.
27. Plotinus refers to art, particularly visual art, in a number of passages,
and not always in quite the same terms. 2.9.16 allows art to function
as a pointer to true, transcendent beauty. Both 4.3.10 and 5.9.11
limit the visual arts, in Platonic fashion, to the representation of the
merely earthly, though the latter passage grants to music (perhaps
including poetry) the power to rise higher than this. Some of these
passages are discussed in relation to 5.8.1 by A. N. M. Rich,
'Plotinus and the Theory of Artistic Imitation', Mnemosyne 13 (1960)
233-9.
28. Proclus's views on poetry and art are discussed in J. A. Coulter, The
Literary Microcosm (Leiden, 1976), and his major essays on Plato's
views of poetry in A. D. R. Sheppard, Studies on the 5th and 6th
Essays of Proclus' Commentary on the Republic tHypomnemata 61,
Gottingen, 1980) .
29. On these two topics see, respectively, J. Spingarn, A History of
Literary Criticism in the Renaissance? (New York, 1908) 7-16, and
Curtius 474-5.
30. On the development of neoplatonist aesthetics in the Renaissance and
later see Panofsky 47 ff., N. A. Robb, Neoplatonism of the Italian
Renaissance (London, 1935) ch.7, and the two major essays in E. H.
Gombrich, Symbolic Images (Oxford, 1972) 31-81, 123-95. For
literary criticism see B. Hathaway, The Age of Criticism (New York,
1962) e.g. chs.2, 25, 27.

26
31. The distinction is relevant, for example, to the connections and
contrasts between Hegel's aesthetics and bk.10: see C. Karelis, Hegel's
Introduction to Aesthetics (Oxford, 1979) xxix-r-xlii, li -lviii.
32. For myths and 'play' see esp. Phdr. 276d -e. The falsehood of
myths is mentioned at e.g. 2.377d-e, Crat. 408c7-8, Laws 12.941b.
On the other hand, Plato is prepared to countenance false myth in a
good cause, as - notoriously - at 3.414b-15d. And at Tim. 29d,
68d it is suggested that plausible myth is the closest that we can get
to certain realms of truth. Laws 10.903b1 and Phdo. 114d7 treat
myth as a kind of charm or spell, in contrast to reasoned argument.
For the Rep. itself as 'myth' see 2.376d9, 6.501e4, and Tim. 26c8.
A recent attempt, more rationalistic than mine, to define the
philosophical value which Plato attaches to myth is Janet E. Smith,
'Plato's use of Myth in the Education of Philosophic Man', Phoenix
40 (1986) 20-34. CL n.36 below.
33. Phdo. 114d and Phdr. 265b deny the literal truth of myths. Grg.
523a1 - 3 suggests, however, that philosophical myth can contain
rational meaning (logos): see Dodds' note. On philosophical allegory
cf. n.23 above.
34. Parmenides' use of cosmological myth in the second half of his poem
is discussed at KRS 254 ff, CL also Protagoras's myth at Prt.
320c-8c, and the allegory of Virtue and Vice attributed to Prodicus
at Xen. Mem. 2.1.21-34.
35. Colotes the Epicurean criticised Plato for exchanging truth for myth
and doing what he had earlier (in bks.2-3) attacked the poets for:
see Proclus II 105.23-106.14, and Macrob. Comm. in Somn. Scip.
1.2.3-5.
36. Some of the ideas embodied in Platonic myths are never tackled by
the dialectic of argument. This is significantly true of reincarnation,
which is alluded to in the briefest fashion at 613a2 and 6.498d4 but
is never discussed (Phdo. 81e ff. is hardly an exception). Plato was
surely aware of the difficulties of making the concept amenable to
rational enquiry. CL Stewart 61.
37. See J. Annas, 'Plato's Myths of Judgement', Phronesis 27 (1982)
119-43; cf. K. Alt, Hermes 110 (1982) 278-99, 111 (1983) 15-33.
38. Annas 349-53, for example, ignores the astronomy of the myth
altogether; her reading of the myth is ungenerous in other ways too.
Rohatyn 326 drives a wedge between the astronomy and the
'philosophy' of the myth.
39. This presocratic mentality is the butt of Aristophanes' humour at
Clouds 95-7.
40. See KRS 257-9, with my comm. on 616c4. The articles of
Richardson and Morrison deal with Parmenidean influence on the myth
of Er, but on many details both are too speculative.

27
41. For the Pythagoreans see Geminus Isagoge p.Tl (ed. Manitius); for
Plato, n.43 below.
42. See KRS 342-5; for greater detail on Philolaus, Burkert 337-50,
386-400.
43. Plato's challenge to astronomers is mentioned at Simplicius, In Aristot.
De caelo comm. 488.14-24, 492.31-493.5 (ed. Heiberg). The
firmest statement of Plato's view of astronomy is to be found at Rep.
7.529 - 30: for the import of this passage see Dicks 104 -7, and H.
Bulmer-Thomas, CQ 34 (1984) 107-12, where many earlier views
are cited. Cf. also Laws 7.822a on the uniform circularity of
celestial motion; for other passages of importance see n.47 below.
Plato's relation to Greek observational astronomy is considered by G.
Vlastos, Plato's Universe (Oxford, 1975) 43-51.
44. On Eudoxus' system see the full treatment in Dicks ch.VI, or the
shorter outline in G. E. R. Lloyd, Early Greek Science: Thales to
Aristotle (London, 1970) ch.7. On the question of chronology see my
Appendix. Two substantial differences between Plato and Eudoxus
are, first, that where Eudoxus' system has multiple spheres for the
sun, moon and planets, Plato's gives only one whorl to each; and,
secondly, that Plato's whorls, unlike Eudoxus's spheres, all share the
same axis, the spindle's shaft (though this has occasionally been
denied).
45. Some scholars also see a considerable Eastern influence on both the
astronomy and other elements of the myth of Er: Bidez ch.6 (with
App.I) is representative of this line, but it will readily be seen that
the evidence is far from exact. Kerschensteiner 137 - 56 provides
more judicious treatment. On the particular question of Zoroastrian
influence, what is clear is that soon after Plato's death Greek interest
in Zoroastrianism and related matters led to judgements on Plato
himself which we cannot endorse without independent evidence: cf. my
note on 614b3, and for an astute judgement on the development of
Greek interests in Iranian religion see A. Momigliano, Alien Wisdom
(Cambridge, 1975) 142-8. It remains possible, of course, that some
Platonic affinities with Zoroastrianism are due to the latter's influence
on earlier Greek thinkers who have in turn affected Plato's thought:
for a summary of presocratic Greek connections with Iranian religion
see M. Boyce, A History of Zoroastrianism 11 (Leiden, 1982)
153-63.
46. Cf. the idea that men exist for the sake of the universe, not vice
versa, at Laws 10.903c.
47. See esp. Laws 10.886d (specifically rebutting Anaxagorean
materialism), 897b-8b, 12.966d -7d. The difference between Platonic
and Anaxagorean 'necessity' is clarified by Phdo. 97b-9c (n.b. 97e2).
Rep. 10 does not refer explicitly to a 'world soul': for texts which do

28
 see Tim. 35-6, Phlb. 30a, Laws 10.897a-99.
48. 6.498d3-4 appears, though somewhat playfully ('?), to imply continuity
of experience and learning between separate human existences. The
Platonic doctrine of recollection seems essentially to involve memory
of Forms and eternal truths (Phdo. 75c-d, Phdr. 249c) , though Meno
81c ff. strictly allows memory of everything. As for earlier thinkers,
Emped. fr.ll7 ought to imply continutiy of memory through several
reincarnations, and fr.129 may suggest the same for Pythagoras, but
there is no trace here of any concern with the logical problems
involved. Barnes 105-14 discusses the place of memory in
Pythagorean metempsychosis.
49. Tht . 177a refers to the idea that some wicked souls may never escape
from the cycle of human lives. The same point may be alluded to
at Phdr. 249c. Pythagoras too may not have believed in escape from
the cycle of reincarnation: see Bluck's Meno 66-7.
50. See P. Geach, God and the Soul (London, 1969) ch.l, together with
the comments on Plato's concept of the soul on pp.18 ff,
51. Unlike the Phaedo (esp. 81a, ll4c), Phaedrus 248e-9a, and Tim.
42b, bk.l O gives no direct indication of the possibility of escaping
from the cycle of reincarnation.

29
 BmuOGRAPHY

Works listed here are cited in the notes and commentary by author's name
alone (with publication date where necessary). Further bibliography on
many points will be found in the commentary.

Commentaries
J. Adam, The Republic of Plat0 2 (Cambridge, 1963)
J. Ferguson, Plato: Republic Book X (London, 1957)
B. D. Turner, The Republic of Plato. Book X (London, 1889)

General Studies
J. Annas, An Introduction to Plato's Republic (Oxford, 1981)
N. R. Murphy, The Interpretation of Plato's Republic (Oxford, 1951)
R. L. Nettleship, Lectures on the Republic of Plato? (London, 1901)
D. Rohatyn, 'Struktur und Funktion in Buch X von Platons Staat';
Gymnasium 82 (1975) 314-30
B. Rosenstock, 'Rereading the Republic', Arethusa 16 (1983) 219-46
N. White, A Companion to Plato's Republic (Oxford, 1979)

Poetry & Art

E. Belfiore, 'Plato's Greatest Charge against Poetry', Canadian Journal of
Philosophy, suppl. 9 (1983) 39-62
id., 'A Theory of Imitation in Plato's Republic', TAPA 114 (1984)
121-46
N. Demand, 'Plato and the Painters', Phoenix 29 (1975) 1-20
H.-G. Gadamer, 'Plato and the Poets', in Dialogue and Dialectic, Engl.
transl. (New Haven, 1980) 39-72
E. H. Gombrich, Art and Illusion 5 (Oxford, 1977)
C. Griswold, 'The Ideas and the Criticism of Poetry in Plato's Republic,
Book 10', Journal of the History of Philosophy 19 (1981) 135-50
S. Halliwell, 'Plato & Aristotle on the Denial of Tragedy', PCPS 30
(1984) 49-71
id., Aristotle's Poetics (London, 1986)
E. Havelock, Preface to Plato (Oxford, 1963)
E. Keuls, Plato and Greek Painting (Leiden, 1978)
I. Murdoch, The Fire and the Sun (Oxford, 1977)
A. Nehamas, 'Plato on Imitation and Poetry in Republic 10', in J.
Moravcsik & P. Temko (edd.) Plato on Beauty, Wisdom and the Arts
(New Jersey, 1982)
C. Osborne, 'The Repudiation of Representation in Plato's Republic',
PCPS 33 (1987) 53-73
E. Panofsky, Idea: a Concept in Art Theory, Engl. transl. (Icon edn., New
York, 1968)

30
E. Schaper, Prelude to Aesthetics (London, 1968)
E. Wind, The Eloquence of Symbols (Oxford, 1983)

Immortality & The Myth of Er

J. Bidez, Eos: ou Platon et l'Orient (Brussells, 1945)
J. D. P. Bolton, Aristeas of Proconnesus (Oxford, 1962)
R. S. Brumbaugh, Plato's Mathematical Imagination (Bloomington, 1954)
W. Burkert, Lore and Science in Ancient Pythagoreanism, Engl. transl.
(Camb. Mass., 1972)
D. R. Dicks, Early Greek Astronomy to Aristotle (London, 1970)
E. R. Dodds, The Greeks and the Irrational (Berkeley, 1951)
T. Heath, Aristarchus of Samos (Oxford, 1913)
J. Kerschensteiner, Platon und der Orient (Stuttgart, 1945)
R. Lattimore, Themes in Greek and Latin Epitaphs (Urbana, 1942)
J. S. Morrison, 'Parmenides and Er', JHS 75 (1955) 59-68
R. B. Onians, The Origins of European Thought? (Cambridge, 1954)
H. Richardson, 'The Myth of Er (Plato, Republic, 616B)', CQ 20 (1926)
113-33
E. Rohde, Psyche, Engl. transl. (London, 1925)
R. A. Shiner, 'Soul in Republic X 611', Apeiron 6 (1972) 23-30
J. A. Stewart, The Myths of Plato (London, 1905)
T. A. Szlezak, 'Unsterblichkeit und Trichotomie der Seele im zehnten Buch
der Politeia', Phronesis 21 (1976) 31-58

Language & Chronology

L. Brandwood, The Dating of Plato's Works by the Stylistic Method,
(Ph.D. Diss., London, 1958)
J. D. Denniston, The Greek Particles? (Oxford, 1954)
G. F. Else, The Structure & Date of Book 10 of Plato's Republic
(Heidelberg, 1972)
R. S. W. Hawtrey, 'ITAN-Compounds in Plato', CQ 33 (1983) 56-65
H. Thesleff, Studies in Platonic Chronology (Helsinki, 1982)

Miscellaneous
J. Barnes, The Presocratic Philosophers? (London, 1982)
E. R. Curtius, European Literature and the Latin Middle Ages, Engl.
transl. (London, 1953)
K. J. Dover, Greek Popular Morality (Oxford, 1974)
M. Nussbaum, The Fragility of Goodness (Cambridge, 1986)
R. Pfeiffer, History of Classical Scholarship: From the Beginnings etc.
(Oxford, 1968)
E. Vermeule, Aspects of Death in Early Greek Art and Poetry (Berkeley,
1979)
G. Vlastos, Platonic Studies? (Princeton, 1981)

31
 NOTE ON THE TEXT

The Greek text is reprinted from J. Burnet (ed.) Platonis Res Publica
(OCT, Oxford, 1902). In place of Burnet's apparatus critic us, which can
be separately consulted by the interested reader, I have supplied a
deliberately minimal apparatus of my own. This gives details for only a
small number of passages, usually where there is an alternative to the
printed text of some obvious significance, or where Burnet prints a
conjectural reading. Wherever possible, I have checked readings against
sources other than Burnet's sometimes unreliable citations; in a few places
I supplement his information.

SIGLA

A Parisinus gr.1807, saec. IX

D Venetus gr.185, saec. XII (lost after 612e7)

E Venetus gr.184, saec. XV (= Burnet's 'scr. Yen. 184')

F Vindobonensis supp. gr.39 , saec. XIV

Mon. Monacensis 237, saec. XV

Il P. Oxy. XLIV.3157, saec. 11 (fragments of 610c-13a)

32
 PLATO

REPUBLIC 10
 St. U
Χ. Ρ.595 Ι

a ΚαΙ μήυ, ήυ ο' ΙΥώ, πολλα μΕυ και δλλα ΠΕΡI αlιτη~
ivvobJ, ώ~ πavTΙΙ~ fιpα μίiλλ.oυ όρθωι; ιiιιc'(OμEυ τ/υ πόλιυ,
ovx ήκιστα οε ιυθυμηθΕΙΙ; ΠΕρΙ ΠOιήσιω~ λίΥω.
ΤΙΙ ποΙΟυ; Ιψη.
5 ΤΙΙ μηοαμρ παρaOίχισθαι αlιτη~ δση μιμηηκή' παvτΙΙ~
Υαρ μίiλλoυ OV παpaOικτία vVV και ίυαΡΥέστΙΡου, ώ~ ίμΟI
ΟΟΚΕΙ, ΙPIιWfTat, ιπιιαη xωpι~ ΙKaστα οιρρηται τα τ/ι; ΨVXη~
b Είδη.
πωι; λίyει~;
Ώ~ μευ πpι!~ ύμίi~ flpησOat---<JiJ Υάρ μov κατΕΡΙΙΤΙ πpΙΙ~
TOIι~ Tη~ TpαyφO{α~ πoιηTα~ και τοΙιι; fιλλoυι; ι'1παvται; TOiι~
5 μιμηηKoύ~-λώβη Ιοικιυ Είυαι πάvτα τα TOtIιi!ra τ/~ τωυ
άKovόvτωυ οιαυο'αι;, δσοι μη Ιχουσι φάρμακου τΙΙ ιΙοίυαι
αίιτα οΤα ΤυΥχάυει όvτα.
llfj οή, ιφη, oιavooυμEυo~ λίyει~;
'Ρητίου, ήυ Ο' ΙΥώ' κα{τοι φιλ{α Υί T'~ μι και αιoω~ ίκ
10 παιδO~ έχουσα ΠΕρ' 'Ομήρου άποκωλύει λέΥΕιυ. έοικι μευ
C Υ/Ψ τωυ καλωυ άπιίvτωυ TOVτωυ τωυ τραΥικωυ πpωTO~ διΟιί­
σκαλόι; ΤΕ και ήΥιμωυ ΥΕυέσθαι. άλλ' ο{ι Υαρ πρό ΥΙ τ/~
άληθE{α~ ημηTίo~ άVΉp, άλλ', tι λέΥω, PfJTlCV.
Πάυυ μευ ovv, ιφη.
5 "Ακουι δή, μίiλλoυ δε άποκρΙυου.
Έρώτα.
Μ'μησιυ δλωι; Ιχοιι; fιυ μοι ΕΙπιιυ δη ποτ' fσTW; oiιoε
Υάρ τοι αlιτΙΙι; πάνυ Τι σvυυoω τΙ βούλΕται ιίυαι.
9Η που lιp', ιφη, ίΥω σvυυoήσω.
10 ουοίυ ΥΕ, ήυ ο' ίΥώ, lιTOΠOυ, ΙΠΕI πολλά τοι όξVτιpoυ
596 βλΕπόυτωυ άμβλύΤΕρου δpωυτι~ πρότιροι Είδου.
"Εστιυ, ιφη, oiίτω~' άλλα C"Όυ παpόvτo~ ovo' ttv προθυμη­
θηυαι oίό~ ΤΕ ιίηυ ΕΙπιιυ, Ef τΙ μοι καταφα'υιται, άλλ'
αίιTO~ δρα.

34
S. Well now, there are many other factors about our city 595a
which make me think we certainly followed correct
principles in setting out its foundations, but I'm
particularly thinking of poetry when I say this.
G. What do you have in mind?
S. The complete refusal to admit all poetry which is
mimetic. Indeed, the need not to admit it appears even
more self-evident, in my view, now that the categories
of the soul have each been distinguished.
G. What do you mean? 595b
S. Just between ourselves for you're not going to
denounce me to the tragic poets and all the others who
specialise in mimesis - I think tha t all such things
impair the mind of those who hear them, at least those
who lack the antidote of knowing the true nature of
them.
G. What line of thought makes you say this?
S. I must speak out; though a certain affectionate respect
which has held me from childhood onwards inhibits me
from speaking about Homer. For it's obvious that he 595c
was the original teacher and guide of all these fine
tragedians. Nevertheless, an individual must not be
valued above the truth, but, as I said, I must speak out.
G. Of course.
S. Listen then - or, rather, answer me.
G. Put your questions.
S. Could you tell me just what mimesis as a whole is; as I
myself don't even have much idea what it is supposed
to be.
G. Then it's very likely that I shall grasp it!
S. There's nothing odd about that, since there are many
things which those with duller vision see sooner than the 596a
sharp - sighted.
G. That's true. But in your presence I wouldn't even be
able to find the confidence to say whether I can see
anything myself; you must do the looking yourself.

35
5 Βουλει ovv ivθlvδΕ άρξώμΕθα iπισκοπουVΤΕ~, iK τ/~
EΙωθυ{α~ μΕθόδου; EίOo~ γάρ πού η ~p ~καστoυ ΕΙώθαμΕυ
TLθEσθαι ΠΕρΙ tKaura τσ, πολλά, OΤ~ TαlιTOυ όυομα iπιφlΡομΕV.
η olι μαυθάυει~;
MαυθΆVω.
10 ΘωμΕυ δη και υυυ ση βούλει τωυ πολλωυ. οΤου, El
b 'θέλει~, πολλα{ πού ΕΙσι κλί:υαι και τράΠΕ(αι.
πω~ δ' ου;
'Άλλα ΙΜαι γ' που ΠΕρΙ TaVra τα σκε6η Ούο, μ{α μευ
κλ{vηS', μία δε ΤΡαπl(ηS'.
5 Να{.
Olικoυυ και ΕΙώθαμΕυ λέγ~ιυ ση δ δημιoυpγo~ ~KαTέpoυ
του UKEVOVS' πpo~ τ/υ Εδέαυ βλέπωυ ο'15τω ΠΟΙΕί: δ μΕυ Tα~
κλ{vαS', ό δεTaS' ΤΡαπέ(αS', alS' ήμΕί:S' χΡώμΕθα, και ταλλα
κατα TαlιTά; olι γάρ που τήυ γΕ lolav αlιΠιυ οημιουργΕΙ
10 οlιΟΕΙS' τωυ δημιουργωρ· πω~ γάρ;
ΟlιδαμωS'.
'Αλλ' δρα δη κα, τόυδΕ τ'υα κaλΕΙS' του δημιουργόυ.
σ Του ποί:ου;
~S' πάvτα ΠΟΙΕί:, δσαπΕΡ ElS' ~καστo~ τωυ χειporεχυωυ.
Δειυόυ ηυα λέγει~ και θαυμαστου ί'ιυδρα.
Ούπω γι, άλλα τ&χα μαλλου ψήσειS'. ό αlπ?>!; γαρ O~TO!;
5 χειΡοτέχΡη!; olι μόυου πάπα οΤό!; ΤΕ σΚΕύη ποιησαι, άλλα
και τα. ίκ τ/!; yfjS' φυόμΕυα ι'lπαυTα ΠΟΙΕί: και (<ί>α πάρτα
ίpγά(εTaι, τά τε &λλα και ~αυτόυ, και προ!; TOIίTOLS' yfjv και
olιpαυoυ και θεοvS' και πάρτα τα ίυ olιpαυ<ί> και τα ίυ d Αιοου
ύπο yfjS' ι'111avτα ίργά(Εται.
d Πάυυ θαυμαστόυ, Ιφη, λέγειS' σοφιστήι',
ΆπιστEΙ~; ήυ ο' iγώ. κα{ μοι εΙπέ, το παράπαυ OlιK ί'ιυ
σοι ΟΟΚΕί: Είυαι TOLOiiTOS' οημιουργόS', η ηυι μευ τρόπψ γε­
υέσθαι tιυ τούτωυ απάντωυ πoιηrή~, ηυι οΕ olικ ί'ιυ; η OlιK
5 αΙσθάυι/ ση κtιυ awoS' οΤόS' τ' ErTIS' πάvτα ταυτα ποιησαι
, ,
τροπψ γΕ ηυι;

36
S. Would you like us, then, to start our enquiry from the
following point, in accordance with our usual approach?
Surely we normally posit one separate category for every
set of multiple objects to which we apply the same
name. Or don't you understand?
G. I do.
S. Let us, then, now too take any example you wish of
multiple objects. For instance, if you like, there are 596b
obviously many couches and tables.
G. Naturally.
S. But the types relating to these articles are just two -
one of 'couch', and one of 'table'.
G. Yes.
S. Well, don't we also usually say that the craftsma-n of
each article has his sights on the type when he makes
the couches or the tables which we use - and likewise
with other objects? Certainly no craftsman actually
produces the type itself - how could he?
G. Impossible.
S. Come then, consider what name you give to the
following craftsman.
G. Which? 596c
S. The one who makes everything which each individual
craftsman makes.
G. You're talking of someone amazingly clever!
S. Just wait - soon you may have even more reason to
say that. For not only is this same craftsman able to
make all artefacts, but he also produces everything which
grows from the earth and can fashion all creatures,
himself among others, and in addition he fashions earth,
sky, gods, everything in the sky and everything in Hades
beneath the earth.
G. You're talking of a quite astounding sophist! 596d
S. Don't you believe me? Tell me: do you think it is
altogether impossible for there to be such a craftsman,
or do you think that there could be a maker of all
these things in at least one way, if not in another?
Don't you realise that even you yourself could make all
these things, at least in a certain way?

37
 Kal T[~, lΦη, δ Tpόπo~ OiιTO~;
ου xαλιπό~, ηυ δ' ίγώ, άλλα πολλαχ.η Kal ταχυ δημ,ουρ­
γoύμιυo~, τάχ,στα .δ' που, ιΙ 'θ'λH~ λαβωυ κάτοπτρου
e πφιΦ'ριιυ παυταχρ' ταχυ μιυ ήλιου πoιήσH~ Kal τα, ίυ τφ
ουραυφ, ταχυ δι yijV, ταχυ δι σαvtόv τι και τα/α (φα και
σKΙWι και φvτα και πάντα δσα νυυδη ίλ'γιτο.
Να[, lΦη, φα,υόμιυα, ου μ'υτο, οι/τα γ' που τfi Οληθι(ιι.
5 Kaλω~, ηυ δ' ίγώ, και ιΙ~ δ'ου lpXΊl τφ λόγφ. τωυ
το,ούτωυ γαρ οίμα, δημιουργωυ και δ (ωγpάφo~ ίστ(υ. ή
γάρ;
πω~ γαρ ου;
Άλλα φήσιι~ ούκ. άληθ7j οΤμαι. αtιτoυ 'Πο,ιϊυ ιc. ποιεί.
10 καίτ", τρόπφ γ' ηυ, καΙ δ (ωγpάφo~ ιcλίυηυ πο'ιι' η ου;
Ναί, lΦη, Φαιυομ'υηυ γι και oiιτo~.
597 Τί δι δ Kλιυoπo,ό~; ουκ ί1ρη μ'ρτο' lληβ δη oV το
cίOo~ πο,ιι, 2> δή φαμιυ ιίυαι 2> lσT, ΙCΛ(vη, Ολλα KλίVΗυ ηυά;
'Έλιγου γάρ.
OVKOVV ιΙ μη 2> lσTw ΠΟΙΙ', oVK &υ το ι1υ ποιοι, άλλά η
5 TOΙOVτOυ οΤου το ου, ι1υ δι oV· Tιλ'ω~ δι ιίυαι ι1υ το TOV
κλιυουΡΥου lργοv η α/ου ηυo~ χι!Ροτ'χυου ιΤ η~ Φα(η,
κ,υδυυιύΗ ουκ ~p Οληθη λ'γιιυ;
Oiίιcoυυ, ίφ /, ιZ~ Υ' Αυ δόζιιιυ TOί'~ ΠΙΡl Toυ~ τοιούσδι
λόγoυ~ διατρ(βι /σιυ.
10 Μηδιυ ί1Ρα θ υμάζωμιυ ιΙ καΙ TOVτO άμυδρόυ η TVΎXJVct
ι1υ πp(ι~ άλήθΗΙ
b Μη γάρ.
Βούλιι. ου-, ΙΦηυ, Ι'Π αυτων 'ΓΟVrωv ζηrήσωμ,ιυ τλν
μιμητ/υ TOVτOυ, τ[ς ποτ' ίστίυ;
ΕΙ βούλιι, lΦη.

38
G. And what is this way?
S. Not a difficult one, but one widely and quickly
practised; and quickest of all, I suppose, if you're
prepared to take a mirror and turn it round everywhere.
You'll soon produce the sun and the objects in the sky, 596e
soon produce the earth, soon produce yourself and other
creatures and objects and plants, and everything that was
mentioned a moment ago.
G. Yes, their appearances, but surely not their genuine
actuality.
S. You're making a good and necessary step forward with
the argument. For I think the painter too belongs
among such craftsmen, doesn't he?
G. Of course.
S. But you'll agree, I think, that he doesn't make the true
reality of the things in his work. And yet, there's a
certain sense in which the painter too 'makes' a couch
- isn't that so?
G. Yes, he too produces the appearance of one.
S. But what of the carpenter? Didn't you say just now 597a
that it isn't the category itself that he makes - which
we agree is what 'couch' really is - but one particular
couch?
G. I did say that.
S. So, if he doesn't make that which has true being, he
won't be producing the real, but something that is like
the real, though not real itself. And if someone were
to claim perfect being for the product of the carpenter
or of any other craftsman, he surely wouldn't be
speaking the truth?
G. Not, at any rate, as those well versed in such arguments
would think.
S. So we shouldn't be surprised if the artefact too turns
out to give a faint impression of the truth.
G. No we shouldn't. 597b
S. Would you like us, then, to search in these same terms
for the essence of the mimetic artist we're talking
about?
G. If you like.

39
Exploring the Variety of Random
Documents with Different Content
the earth and its productions. The illustration of these remarks will
be found in the following pages.

Mr. Astor of New York, a German by birth, but a citizen of the

United States, raised himself, by his adventurous and enterprising
spirit, from small beginnings to be one of the wealthiest and most
eminent merchants in America. Soon after his arrival in the United
States, about the year 1784, he commenced his commercial career in
the traffic of furs: at first on a very narrow scale, but gradually
expanding as his means increased. In this way he made visits to
Canada, purchasing furs in that country, and shipping them from
thence to the London market: {3} and it is supposed that at this
period his buoyant and aspiring mind conceived the vast project of
grasping in his own hands, at some future day, the whole fur trade of
North America.[3]
The valuable furs and peltries scattered in former days over the
extensive forests, lakes, and rivers of the Canadas, like the rich mines
of Potosi and Mexico, invited many adventurers. The French, for
some time after settling there, carried on an irregular but lucrative
traffic in furs and peltries, with very little opposition, until the year
1670, when the Hudson’s Bay Company, established by royal charter,
took possession of the territory now called “Rupert’s Land,” or
Hudson’s Bay. The Canada, or as it was more generally called, the
North-West Company, was formed in 1787; and these soon became
the two great rival companies of the north, as we shall have occasion
to notice more fully hereafter. Next on the theatre of action appeared
the Mackina Company, which swept the warm regions of the south,
as the two others did those of the wintry north, until the American
Fur Company, established by Mr. Astor in 1809, commenced
operations; but he, finding the Mackina fur traders somewhat in his
way, bought out that Company, and added its territorial resources in
1811 to those of the American Fur Company. This body corporate was
entitled the South-West, in contradistinction to the North-West
Company.[4]
Mr. Astor now saw himself at the head of all the {4} fur trade of the
south, and his intention was to penetrate through the barriers of the
Northern Company, so as eventually to come into possession of all
the fur trade east of the Rocky Mountains. With this plan still before
him, he now turned his views to the trade on the coast of the Pacific,
or that new field lying west of the Rocky Mountains, and which forms
the subject of our present narrative. In this quarter the Russians
alone had regular trading ports, opposite to Kamtschatka, where they
still carry on a considerable trade in furs and seal-skins, sending
them across the Pacific direct to China. Their capital is limited, and
their hunting grounds almost entirely confined to the sea-coast and
islands around their establishments. The American coasting vessels
also frequent this quarter, collecting vast quantities of valuable furs,
which they convey to the Chinese market. This casual traffic by
coasters, yielded to their owners in former days, by means of the
returning cargo, an average clear gain of a thousand per cent. every
second year; but these vessels are not so numerous of late, nor are
the profits thus made so great as formerly.
The comprehensive mind of Mr. Astor could not but see these
things in their true light, and perceive that if such limited and
desultory traffic produced such immense profits, what might not be
expected from a well-regulated trade, supported by capital and
prosecuted with system: at all events, the Russian trader would then
be confined within {5} his own limits, and the coasting vessels must
soon disappear altogether.
Towards the accomplishment of the great plan which he had in
view, Mr. Astor now set about opening a new branch of the fur trade
on the Pacific, under the appellation of the “Pacific Fur Company,”
the grand central depôt of which was to be at the mouth of the
Columbia River, the “Oregon of the Spaniards.”[5] By this means he
contemplated carrying off the furs of all the countries west of the
Rocky Mountains; at the same time forming a chain of trading posts
across the Continent, from the Atlantic to the Pacific, along the
waters of the great Missouri: connecting by this chain the operations
of the South-West Company on the east, with that of the Pacific Fur
Company on the west side of the dividing ridge.
This grand commercial scheme, appearing now plain and
practicable, at least to men of sanguine disposition, gave much
satisfaction to the American public, who, from the results
contemplated, became deeply interested in its success; for all the rich
cargoes of furs and peltries thus to be collected annually over the vast
expanse were to be shipped in American vessels for the great China
mart, there to be sold, and the proceeds invested in a return cargo of
teas, silks, beads, and nankeens, and other articles of high demand in
the United States; which would not only prevent to some extent the
American specie from going out of the Union for such articles, but
also turn the barren wilds of the north and far {6} west into a source
of national wealth. Some, however, of the more sagacious and
influential among the Americans themselves observed to Mr. Astor at
the time, that his plan would be likely to give umbrage to the British,
and arouse them to assert more speedily their claims of prior
discovery to the Oregon quarter, and that such a step would operate
against him. To these suggestions Mr. Astor simply observed, “that
he had thought of that, but intended chiefly to employ in his
undertaking British subjects, and that he should on that account give
less offence; besides,” added, he, “the claims of prior discovery and
territorial right are claims to be settled by Government only, and not
by an individual.”
Mr. Astor’s plans, hitherto known only to a few, now began to
develope themselves more publicly. On the first intimation of the
scheme, the North-Westerns took the alarm; for having already, in
the prosecution of their trade, penetrated to the west side of the
Rocky Mountains, in the direction of New Caledonia and the north
branch of the Columbia, where they expected to reap a rich harvest,
they viewed Astor’s expedition to that quarter with a jealous eye,
according to the old adage that “two of a trade seldom agree;” but
others again extolled the brilliant project, as the brightest gem in the
American Union, and particularly many of the retired partners of the
North-West Company, who, not being provided for in some late
arrangements, had left that concern in disgust, and therefore were
the most likely {7} to oppose with effect the ambitious views of their
former coadjutors. These were just the men Mr. Astor had in his eye;
men of influence and experience among savages, and who from their
earlier days had been brought up in, and habituated to, the hardships
of the Indian trade. To several of these persons Mr. Astor disclosed
his plans and made proposals, whereupon Messrs. M‘Kay, M‘Kenzie,
M‘Dougall, and Stuart, entered into his views, and became partners
in the new concern.[6] The former of these gentlemen had
accompanied Sir Alexander M‘Kenzie in his voyages of discovery to
the North Polar Sea in 1789, and to the Pacific in 1793, the narratives
of which are before the public; and most of the others had equal
experience, and were all of them in some way or other related to the
great men at the head of the North-West Company.[7]
Articles of association and co-partnership were therefore entered
into and concluded at New York, in the spring of 1810, between those
gentlemen and Mr. Astor, establishing the firm of the Pacific Fur
Company, as already noticed; to which firm five other partners,
namely, Messrs. Hunt, Crooks, Miller, M‘Lellan, and Clarke, were
soon afterwards added.[8] The association was not a joint-stock
concern; Mr. Astor alone furnished the capital, amounting to
200,000 dollars, divided into 100 shares of 2000 dollars each, with
power to increase the capital to 500,000 dollars.
The association was formed for a period of twenty {8} years, but
with this proviso, that it was to be dissolved if it proved either
unprofitable or impracticable, after a trial of five years; during which
trial, however, Mr. Astor, as stockholder, was alone to bear all
expenses and losses, the other partners giving only their time and
labour. Of the above shares, Mr. Astor held fifty in his own hands;
Mr. Hunt, as his representative and chief manager of the business,
five; while the other partners, who were to carry on the trade with
the Indians, were to have four each, in the event of the business
succeeding. The remaining shares were reserved for the clerks, who
joined the concern as adventurers, without any other remuneration
than their chances of success at the end of the five years’ trial. The
only exceptions were Mr. Robert Stuart and myself, who were to have
our promotion at the end of the third year. From the proportion of
interest, or number of shares in the hands of the stockholder and his
representative, it will appear evident that the other partners,
however unanimous they might be, could never have gained a
majority of votes in any case over those which might have been by
proxy appointed to represent Astor.
At the head depôt, or general rendezvous, was to be stationed Mr.
Astor’s representative. The person appointed to this important trust
was Wilson Price Hunt, a gentleman from New Jersey, who alone, of
the whole party, had never been engaged in the Indian trade; yet his
active habits, perseverance, and enterprise, soon made good his want
of experience, {9} and enabled him to discharge the duties of his
station. In him was also vested the chief authority, or, in his absence,
in M‘Dougall. It was therefore to either or to both of these gentlemen
that all Mr. Astor’s measures were made known, and all his cargoes
consigned.
At the time when these novel schemes were first agitated, I was in
Upper Canada; and the first intimation I had of them was in a letter
from Mr. M‘Kay, the senior partner, requesting an interview with me
at Montreal. To Montreal I accordingly went in the month of May;
and there, for the first time, I saw the gilded prospectus of the new
Company, and, accepting the proposals made to me by Mr. Astor,
was the first to join the expedition;—and who at the time would not
have joined it, for, although the North-Westerns tried to throw all
the cold water of the St. Lawrence on the project, yet they could not
extinguish the flame it had spread abroad. The flattering hopes and
golden prospects held out to adventurers, so influenced the public
mind, that the wonder-stricken believers flocked in from all quarters
to share in the wonderful riches of the far west.
It need not be wondered at, if, under the influence of such
extravagant expectations, many applicants appeared; but in
accordance with Astor’s plan, that the business should be carried on
only by persons of well-tested merit and experience, for on their
habits of perseverance and enterprise alone rested all hopes {10} of
ultimate success, his assistants were selected with more than
ordinary care, every poor fellow that engaged being led to believe
that his fortune was already made. Here Messrs. Franchère, Pillet,
M‘Gillis, Farnham, and M‘Lennan, besides Mr. Stuart and myself,
joined the adventurers;[9] besides five tradesmen or mechanics, and
twenty-four canoe men, the best that could be found of their classes.
Operations were now deemed requisite for the accomplishment of
the Company’s views; therefore, while one party, headed by Mr.
Hunt, was ordered to make its way across the Continent by land,
another party, headed by Mr. M‘Kay, was to proceed by sea in the
Tonquin, a ship of 300 tons, and mounting twelve guns. The
Tonquin’s course was round Cape Horn, for the north-west coast.
The Columbia River was to be the common destination of both
parties. The land party at its outset consisted of only seventeen
persons, but Mr. Hunt’s object was to augment that number to about
eighty as he passed along, by means of American trappers and
hunters from the south. Here M‘Kenzie strongly recommended Mr.
Hunt to take all his men from Canada, as too much time might
probably be lost in collecting them from the south; and besides,
Canadians, as he thought, would answer much better; but Mr. Hunt
adhered to his first plan.
The arrangement of these two expeditions, in which M‘Kay, whose
life had been spent in voyaging through the Indian countries, and
who was nowise {11} qualified as a merchant, had resigned the inland
voyage to a gentleman, bred to mercantile pursuits, but
unacquainted with this new mode of travelling, exhibited such an
egregious inversion of the ordinary rules of prudence, as gave rise to
much comment.
Matters being so far settled, Mr. Hunt, who was now seconded by
Mr. M‘Kenzie, left La Chine, nine miles south of Montreal, with the
land expedition, in the beginning of July; and, on the 20th of the
same month, the ship party, consisting of three partners, five clerks,
Mr. Stuart, and myself, five mechanics, and fourteen canoe men, left
Montreal for New York, where we were to embark. Of this number,
however, M‘Kay and eight of the most expert voyageurs proceeded in
a bark canoe through the States: on all such occasions there is a kind
of mutual understanding between both parties, that is, between the
canoe men and the canoe, the former undertaking to carry the latter
over the land part of the journey, while the latter is bound to carry
the others safe over water. The appearance of this unusual kind of
craft on the American waters, with the cheerful chantings of its crew,
their feathered caps and sylvan appearance, as they approached the
gay city of New York, attracted such a crowd of spectators of all
classes around them, as left but little space to land; but what was the
astonishment, when, in the twinkling of an eye, two of the crew were
seen to shoulder their craft, capable of containing {12} two tons
weight, and to convey it to a place of safety on terra firma. Mr. Astor,
who happened to be present, was so delighted with the vivacity and
dexterity of the two men, that he gave them an eagle to drink his
health; then turning round, observed to some gentlemen who were
standing by, that “six Americans could not do what these two brawny
fellows had done,” which observation gave rise to some further
remarks, when Mr. M‘Kay, with an air of confidence, challenged the
swiftest New York boat for a three mile race, offering to bet ten to
one on his canoe men, but, after what had been witnessed, no one
appeared disposed to risk his money. It is scarcely necessary in this
place to observe, that the Canadian voyageurs are among the most
expert and venturesome canoe men in the world.
 {13} CHAPTER II[10]

The Tonquin sails—Quarrels on board—The captain’s character—

Accommodations—A sudden squall—Flying fish—The captain’s
harshness—Cape de Verd Islands—Alarm of fire—A suspicious
sail—Crossing the line—Springing a leak—Short allowance of
water—Immense wave—The Falkland Islands—Rocky passage—
Wild fowl—Port Egmont Bay—The party on shore—Mr.
Farnham’s gray goose—Old graves renewed—Epitaphs—Party
left behind—New dangers—Mr. Robert Stuart’s determined
conduct—Feuds on board—Cape Horn doubled—The weather—
Pilot fish—Trade winds—Rogues’ mess—Little pilot—Mouna Roa
—A man overboard—The mate in irons.
On the 6th of September, 1810, all hands—twenty-two belonging to
the ship, and thirty-three passengers—being on board, the Tonquin
set sail, and a fresh breeze springing up, soon wafted her to a
distance from the busy shores of New York. We had not proceeded
far, when we were joined by the American frigate Constitution, which
was to escort us clear of the coast. On the 7th, in the afternoon, we
passed Sandy Hook lighthouse, and the next day the Constitution
returned, we dismissed our pilot, and were soon out of sight of land,
steering a S.E. course. {14} So far all was bustle and confusion upon
deck, and every place in the ship was in such topsy-turvy state, with
what sailors call live and dead lumber, that scarcely any one knew
how or where he was to be stowed; and it was in settling this knotty
point that the crusty supremacy of the high-minded captain was first
touched. Captain Jonathan Thorn had been brought up in the
American navy, had signalized himself, and upon the present
occasion he stood upon his own quarter-deck. Matters went on well
enough till we came to the mechanics: these young men had been
selected from the most respectable of their class, had been promised
by their employers situations as clerks in the trade whenever
vacancies should occur, and in consequence, serving in the twofold
capacity of clerks and tradesmen, they were entitled, by their
engagements, whilst on board ship to the same treatment as the
other clerks; but behold when the captain came to assign them their
place, it was not in either the second or the third cabin, no, nor in the
steerage, but before the mast among the common sailors. In vain did
they remonstrate, and equally vain was it for them to produce copies
of their engagements; right or wrong, forward they must go; but that
was not all; to the grievance of bad accommodations was added that
of an insult to their feelings, by being compelled, as a further
punishment for their obstinacy, to perform the duties of common
seamen both by day and night. After this bit of a row with the
captain, they applied for {15} redress to the partners on board, the
very persons with whom they had executed their agreements. The
partners interposed, and in their turn remonstrated with the captain,
but without effect; he remained inexorable. Both parties then getting
into a violent passion, Mr. M‘Kay said, “That his people would
defend themselves rather than suffer such treatment.” On hearing
this, the captain, suddenly turning round on his heel, defied Mr.
M‘Kay and his people, adding, “that he would blow out the brains of
the first man who dared to disobey his orders on board his own
ship.” In the midst of this scene, Mr. David Stuart, a good old soul,
stept up, and by his gentle and timely interference put an end to the
threatening altercation.
This was the first specimen we had of the captain’s disposition,
and it laid the foundation of a rankling hatred between the partners
and himself, which ended only with the voyage, and not only that,
but it soon spread like a contagion amongst all classes, so that party
spirit ran high: the captain and his people viewing the passengers as
the passengers did them, with no very cordial feelings. Whilst these
feuds agitated the great folks at the head of affairs, we amused
ourselves with conjectures as to the issue of the contest. A new leaf
was to be turned over, the captain forbade the partners the starboard
side of the quarter-deck; the clerks, the quarter-deck altogether; and
as for the poor mechanics and Canadians, they were ruled ever after
with a rod of iron. All this {16} time the Tonquin was speeding her
way proudly over the wide bosom of the Atlantic, until the 18th, in
the morning, when she was struck with a sudden squall, which
backed all the sails and placed her in a critical position for about two
minutes; her stern going down foremost was almost under water,
when all at once she recovered and relieved our anxiety. The next day
two sail were descried a head, all hands were mustered on deck, and
each had his station assigned to him in case of coming to close
quarters. For some days past the flying fish appeared in immense
numbers, passing frequently through the ship’s rigging, and now and
then falling on the deck. We measured one of them and found its
length to be 5½ inches, circumference of the body 2 inches; the
wings, situate near the gills, resemble in texture the wings of the bat,
and measure, when stretched, 5 inches between the tips. In their
flight they generally rise to 15 or 20 feet above the surface of the
water, and fly about 150 yards at a time. As soon as their wings get
dry they fall again into the water, and only fly to avoid their pursuers.
They are the prey of the dolphin and other large fishes.
On the 6th of October we made one of the Cape de Verd Islands,
on the coast of Africa. It proved to be Bonavista, in lat. 16° N. and
long. 22° 47′ W. The land, covered with a blue haze, appeared
broken, barren, and rocky. The weather was overcast, and we had
heavy rain and thunder at the time. Near this place immense shoals
of porpoises kept skipping {17} on the surface of the water going
southwards. They were said to prognosticate the near approach of
bad weather. We found the changes of the weather here very
remarkable, from calm to rough, from foul to fair; clear, cloudy, wet,
dry, hazy, and squally alternately, with the usual finale of mist and
rain, and not unfrequently all these changes within the twenty-four
hours.
After leaving the land, some of the gentlemen amused themselves
one fine evening with shooting at a mark suspended from the ship’s
stern, under which a boat lay secured; soon afterwards, in the dusk
of the evening, smoke was seen to issue from that quarter; the alarm
of fire was given, and in an instant all the people assembled on deck
in a state of wild confusion, some calling out to broach the water-
casks, others running to and fro in search of water, some with mugs,
others with decanters, while the mâitre de cuisine was robbed of his
broth and dish water—no one, in the hurry and bustle of the
moment, ever thought of dipping the buckets alongside. At length to
the inexpressible joy of all, it was discovered that the smoke was
occasioned only by the wadding of the guns setting fire to some old
junk which was lying in the boat astern. This gentle warning,
however, put an end to such sport in future. Some angry words took
place between the captain and Mr. Fox, the first mate, on which the
latter was suspended from duty, and ordered below: no other reason
could be assigned for this act but {18} the friendly and sociable terms
existing between the mate and the partners; for by this time such was
the ill feeling between the captain and the passengers generally, that
scarcely a word passed between them. After three days’ confinement
Mr. Fox was reinstated.
Just as we entered the trade winds, a sail appeared about two
leagues to leeward; she gained fast upon us, and dogged us all day,
and the next morning was close under our stern. She appeared to be
an armed brig, and pierced for twenty guns, and looked very
suspicious; very few hands, however, were to be seen on her deck,
which might have been a manœuvre to decoy us alongside. We were
prepared for combat, at least as far as a good display of numbers on
deck: for to our numbers, and not to either our skill or discipline, did
we chiefly trust, and it is probable this show had the desired effect,
for she soon bore away and we saw her no more.
On the 25th, in long. 26° 24′ W. we crossed the equinoctial line,
and here the usual ceremony of ducking was performed on such of
the sailors as had never before entered the southern hemisphere. The
heat was intense, the weather a dead calm, and the ocean smooth as
a sheet of glass. The thermometer stood at 92° in the shade.
In lat. 3° 17′ S. and long. 26° 40′ W. we spoke a brig from
Liverpool bound to Pernambuco. On nearing this old and ghastly-
looking hulk, which apparently had but few hands on board, we
thought {19} ourselves exceedingly strong compared to her, and I
suppose from the bold front we presented, put her in as much bodily
fear as the armed brig some days before did us.
On the 10th of November a violent gale came on, which lasted for
fifty hours without intermission, and did us considerable damage,
our jib and jib-boom being both carried off, and a leak of
considerable extent sprung; but as it was easy of access, we soon got
it stopped again. In the night of the 14th, an alarm of fire was again
given; but after much confusion it ended without serious
consequences. Of all calamities that of fire on board ship seems to be
the most terrific, and every precaution was taken to prevent any
accident of the kind, for at nine o’clock every night all the lights were,
by the captain’s orders, put out, and this rule was strictly observed
during the voyage. In these latitudes we saw many turtle, and caught
some of them sleeping on the water, one of which weighed forty-five
pounds; we also frequently met with what the sailors call a
Portuguese man-of-war, or sea-bladder, floating on the surface of the
waters.
In lat. 35° S. and 42° 17′ W. we experienced another tempestuous
gale, which lasted upwards of forty hours. During this violent storm
the ship laboured hard, and sustained damage. Two new leaks were
observed, and many of the sails blown to rags. Although the top and
top-gallant masts had been lowered, six of the guns got dismounted,
and {20} kept for some time rolling like thunder on the deck, and the
ship in a constant heavy sea. For seventeen hours she scudded before
the wind, and went in that time two hundred and twenty miles;
nothing alarming, however, took place until eight o’clock in the
morning of the second day, when a very heavy sea broke over the
stern, and filled us all with consternation. This wave, like a rolling
mountain, passed over her deck ten feet high, and broke with a
tremendous crash about the mainmast; yet, fortunately, no lives were
lost, for on its near approach we all clung to the rigging, and by that
means saved ourselves. On the weather moderating the carpenter
was soon at work, and succeeded effectually in stopping the leaks. On
the 20th our allowance of water, already short by one-half, was
lessened to a pint and a half per man, and on the 2nd of December to
a pint each man per day—then a gallon of brandy was offered for a
pint of fresh water! but on the 5th, when the joyful sight of land was
announced, a hogshead of water was offered in return for a pint of
brandy. In the afternoon of this day, we made the N. W. point of one
of the Falkland Islands, the rugged and solitary features of which
presented a truly romantic appearance. Near this spot are three
remarkable peaked rocks, or insular bluffs, of considerable height,
and nearly equal distance from each other. We soon afterwards came
close in with the shore, and beheld a rocky surface, with an aspect of
hopeless sterility. {21} Here we came to an anchor; but the captain
not liking the place changed his resolution of taking in water there.
 During the few hours, however, which we spent on shore, while the
ship lay at anchor, one of the sailors, named Johnston, strolled out of
the way. The captain, nevertheless, gave orders to weigh anchor,
declaring that he would leave the fellow to his fate; but after much
entreaty he consented to wait an hour, adding, that if the man did
not return in that time he should never more set foot on board his
ship. A party immediately volunteered to go in search of the lost tar.
This party after beating about in vain for some time, at last thought
of setting fire to the few tufts of grass which here and there alone
decked the surface. This expedient succeeded, and the man was
found, having fallen asleep near the water’s edge. But the hour had
unfortunately elapsed, and the loss of a few minutes more so enraged
the captain, that he not only threatened the man’s life, but
maltreated all those who had been instrumental in finding him. We
then set sail, and had much difficulty in effecting a passage through a
narrow strait which lay before us, interrupted in many places by
ledges of rocks, which were literally covered with seals, penguins,
white and grey geese, ducks, shags, albatrosses, eagles, hawks, and
vultures. After making our way through this intricate pass, we again
came to anchor.
{22} On the 7th of December we anchored in Port Egmont Bay, for
the purpose of taking in a supply of water. The bay or inlet of Port
Egmont is about a mile long, and half a mile broad, and sheltered
from almost every wind that blows. All hands now were set to work;
two of the mates and two-thirds of the crew, together with the
mechanics and Canadians, commenced replenishing the water-casks,
whilst the other two mates with the remainder of the people were
employed on board repairing the rigging, and putting everything in a
fit condition for a new start. During these operations the partners
and clerks, and frequently the captain also, went sporting on shore,
where wild fowl of all kinds stunned our ears with their noises, and
darkened the air with their numbers, and were generally so very
tame, or rather stupid, that we often killed them with sticks and
stones, and the sailors in their boats often knocked down the ducks
and penguins with their oars in passing the rocks. The only
quadruped we saw on land was a wolverine of ordinary size, which
one of our party shot.
 Our tent was pitched on shore, not above four hundred yards from
the ship; this was our sporting rendezvous. On the 10th all the water-
casks were ready, and the captain on going on board that evening
said to Mr. M‘Dougall, that the ship would probably sail the next day.
Soon after, however, Messrs. M‘Kay and M‘Dougall also went on
board, where they passed the night; but coming ashore {23} the next
morning, they told us that the ship would not sail till the 12th, and
that all hands were ordered on board on that night.
In the mean time Mr. Farnham, one of the clerks, had caught a
grey goose, which he tied to a stone between our hut and the landing-
place, in order to have some sport with it. Soon afterwards the
captain, happening to come on shore, and seeing the goose, he up
with his gun to shoot at it. Thinking, however, that he had missed it,
he instantly reloaded and fired again, and seeing the goose flutter he
ran up to catch it, when he discovered his mistake, on which we all
burst out a laughing. Nettled at this, he immediately turned round
and went on board again. Meantime, Messrs. M‘Dougall and Stuart
started across the point after game; whilst Mr. M‘Kay, myself, and
some others, went up the bay a little to repair two old graves which
we had discovered in a dilapidated state the day before. On one of
these graves was the following rudely-cut inscription on a board:
—“William Stevens, aged twenty-two years, killed by a fall from a
rock, on the 21st of September, 1794;” on the other, “Benjamin Peak
died of the smallpox on the 5th of January, 1803, ship Eleonora,
Captain Edmund Cole, Providence, Rhode Island.”
While we were thus eagerly employed, little did we suspect what
was going on in another quarter; for, about two o’clock in the
afternoon, one of our party called out, “The ship’s off!”—when all of
us, {24} running to the top of a little eminence, beheld, to our infinite
surprise and dismay, the Tonquin, under full sail, steering out of the
bay. We knew too well the callous and headstrong passions of the
wayward captain to hesitate a moment in determining what to do;
with hearts, therefore, beating between anxious hope and despair,
some made for the boat, whilst others kept running and firing over
hill and dale to warn Messrs. M‘Dougall and Stuart, who had not yet
returned. In half an hour we were all at the water’s edge; the ship by
this time was three miles out at sea. We were now nine persons on
shore, and we had to stow, squat, and squeeze ourselves into a
trumpery little boat, scarcely capable of holding half our number. In
this dreadful dilemma, we launched on a rough and tempestuous sea,
and, against wind and tide, followed the ship. The wind blowing still
fresher and fresher, every succeeding wave threatened our
immediate destruction. Our boat already half full of water, and
ourselves, as may be supposed, drenched with the surges passing
over her, we gave up all hope of succeeding in the unequal struggle,
and a momentary pause ensued, when we deliberated whether we
should proceed in the perilous attempt or return to land. The ship
was now at least two leagues ahead of us, and just at this time the
man who was bailing out the water in the boat unfortunately let go
and lost the pail, and one of our oars being broken in the struggle to
recover it, our destiny seemed sealed beyond a doubt. A second
deliberation {25} ended in the resolve to reach the ship or perish in
the attempt. The weather now grew more violent; the wind
increased; and, what was worst of all, the sun had just sunk under
the horizon, and the fearful night began to spread its darkness over
the turbulent deep. Every ray of hope now vanished: but so
shortsighted is man, that the moment when he least expects it, relief
often comes from an unseen hand; and such was our case; for in an
instant our hopeless anxiety was turned into joy by the ship suddenly
making down to our assistance: but here again we had a new danger
to contend with; for, on coming alongside, we were several times like
to be engulfed or dashed to pieces by the heavy seas and rolling of
the ship. The night was dark; the weather stormy; and death in a
thousand forms stared us in the face. At length, after many
ineffectual attempts and much manœuvring, we succeeded in getting
on board; having been in the boat upwards of six hours. That the
captain’s determination was to leave us all to our fate, there is not the
least doubt; for he declared so afterwards, in a letter written to Mr.
Astor from the Sandwich Islands, and he was only prevented from
carrying his purposes into effect by the determined conduct of Mr.
Robert Stuart, who, seizing a brace of pistols, peremptorily told the
captain to order about ship and save the boat; or, he added, “You are
a dead man this instant.”
During the night the gale increased almost to a hurricane, so that
two of our sails were torn to pieces, {26} and the side-rails broke by
the labouring of the ship; so we had to lie-to under a storm-staysail
for six hours. The reader is here left to picture to himself how
matters went on after the scene just described. All the former feuds
and squabbles between the captain and passengers sink into
insignificance compared to the recent one. Sullen and silent, both
parties passed and repassed each other in their promenades on deck
without uttering a word; but their looks bespoke the hatred that
burnt within. The partners on the quarter-deck made it now a point
to speak nothing but the Scotch dialect; while the Canadians on the
forecastle spoke French—neither of which did the captain
understand; and as both groups frequently passed hours together,
cracking their jokes and chanting their outlandish songs, the
commander seemed much annoyed on these occasions, pacing the
deck in great agitation. Yet all this time the ship good was hastening
on her way.
On the 15th we saw Staten Land, whose forked peaks and rugged
surface exhibited much snow. Soon afterwards, Terra del Fuego
came in sight; and on the 19th, at 9 o’clock in the morning, we had a
full view of Cape Horn. But adverse winds meeting us here, we were
unable to double it before Christmas morning, and were carried, in
the mean time, as far south as lat. 58° 16′. While in these latitudes,
notwithstanding the foggy state of the weather, we could read
common print at all hours of the night on deck without the aid of
artificial light. The sky was {27} generally overcast, and the weather
raw and cold, with frequent showers of hail and snow, but we saw no
ice. Here the snow birds and Cape pigeon frequently flew in great
numbers about the ship. After doubling the Cape, a speckled red and
white fish, about the size of a salmon, was observed before the ship’s
bow, as if leading the way. The sailors gave it the name of the pilot
fish.
With gladdened hearts, we now bent our course northward on the
wide Pacific. On the 19th of January, 1811, all hands passed the
ordeal of inspection, or as the sailors more appropriately called it,
the “general turn-out;” and as none could guess what this new
manœuvre portended, we all judged it to be a relic of man-of-war
discipline, which the captain introduced merely to refresh his
memory; but the proceeding must be described:—After breakfast, all
hands were summoned on deck, and there ordered to remain, while
the officers of the ship got up the trunks, chests, hammocks, dirty
shirts, and old shoes belonging to each individual, on deck. They
were then ordered to empty out the contents of the boxes, examine,
and expose the whole to view, each man’s paraphernalia separately.
While this was going on, the bystanders were ordered to claim any
article belonging to them in the possession of another. This
declaration cleared up the matter, and set our judgment right as to
the captain’s motives; but to the credit of all, very little stolen
property was found—being only three articles, namely, a pamphlet, a
clasp-knife, {28} and a spoon, and even as to them the theft was not
very well proved; but the three individuals implicated were
nevertheless condemned, and placed on what is called the “rogue’s
mess” for a month.
On the 24th we again crossed the Equator, and entered the
northern hemisphere, and here the pilot fish that joined us at Cape
Horn disappeared. During a run of upwards of 5,000 miles, our little
piscatory pilot was never once known, by day or night, to intermit
preceding the ship’s bow. On the 10th of February, the cloud-capped
summit of the towering Mouna Roa—a pyramidal mountain in
Owhyhee, and the loftiest in the Sandwich Islands—was visible at the
distance of 50 miles.
As we drew near to the land, going at the rate of eight knots an
hour, a Canadian lad named Joseph LaPierre fell overboard. This
was an awkward accident, as all eyes were at the time gazing with
admiration on the scenery of the land. In an instant, however, the
sails were backed, boats lowered, and everything at hand thrown
overboard to save the drowning man; but before he could be picked
up the ship had distanced him more than a mile, and when the
boatswain reached the ship with the body, the captain, in his usual
sympathizing mood, peremptorily ordered him about to pick up all
the trumpery which had been thrown into the water. This took a
considerable time. The apparently lifeless body was then hoisted on
board, and every means tried to restore animation, and at last, by
rolling the body in warm {29} blankets, and rubbing it with salt, the
lad recovered, after being thirty-eight minutes in the water, and
though unable to swim.
Mr. Fox, who had again fallen under the captain’s displeasure, and
who had been, in consequence, off duty for a week past, was
reinstated this morning. This was no sooner done, however, than the
fourth mate, the captain’s own brother, was put into irons. The
young Thorn was as factious and morose a subject as his brother;
with this only difference, that he had less power to do mischief. He
had maltreated one of the passengers; and the captain, in order to
show impartiality, awarded him the above punishment.
 {30} CHAPTER III[11]

Karakakooa Bay—The sailors desert—The captain’s conduct—

Productions of Owhyhee—Tocaigh Bay—Governor Young—Royal
proclamation—Woahoo—Ourourah, the residence of
Tammeatameah—Harbour fees—Excursion on shore—The
Queen’s umbrella—The King’s appearance—Royal palace and
guards—Arsenal, or royal workshop—Royal dinner—His
Majesty’s fleet—Morais, or places of public worship—Sacred or
puranee ground tabooed—Storm—A sailor left to his fate among
the natives—Parting visit from his Majesty—His meanness—
Diving of the natives—Native proas: how made—Clothing—
Customs and peculiarities—Character of the women—White men
at the Sandwich Islands—The King’s disposition towards
foreigners—Captain Cook—Pahooas, or war spears—A sham fight
—Religion—Tammeatameah conqueror and king—Apparent
happiness of the natives—Prophetic hint—Distressed situation of
a boat.

On the 13th of February the ship anchored in Karakakooa Bay, in

the island of Owhyhee, and within a mile of the place where the
unfortunate Captain Cook fell in 1779. The Sandwich Islands are
eleven in number, and lie between the 19th and 22nd parallels of N.
latitude, and the meridians of 151° and 160° W. longitude. The
climate is warm but healthy, and more temperate and uniform than
{31} is usual in tropical countries; nor is it subject to hurricanes and
earthquakes. In their customs and manners the natives resemble the
New Zealanders, and like them are a warlike people: all classes tattoo
their bodies.
Karakakooa Bay is about a mile or more in extent, but sheltered
only on one side, which presents a high rugged front of coral rock,
resembling a rampart or battery in the bottom of the bay, facing the
ocean, with two bushy trees on it waving in the wind like flags. The
shores, with the exception of the above-mentioned rock, are
everywhere low, with here and there clumps of cocoa-nut and other
trees, which give a pleasing variety to the scene; and the land, rising
gradually as it recedes to a considerable height, looks down over
intervening hill and dale upon the delightful little villages of Kakooa
and Kowrowa.
We were now near land, and the captain’s conduct to both
passengers and crew had fostered a spirit of desertion among the
sailors: Jack Tar, slipping off in the night, was seen no more. This
new feature in our affairs portended no good, but brought about a
sweeping change, for the captain had now no resource but to place
his chief confidence in those whom he had all along maltreated and
affected to despise. In this state of things, the natives were employed
to bring back the deserters. One Roberts, a yankee, was confined
below; Ems, a Welshman, was tied up and flogged; Johnston, an
Englishman, {32} was put in irons; and Anderson, the boatswain,
could not be found. Storming and stamping on deck, the captain
called up all hands; he swore, he threatened, and abused the whole
ship’s company, making, if possible, things worse. I really pitied the
poor man, although he had brought all this trouble upon himself:
with all his faults he had some good qualities, and in his present
trying situation we all forgot our wrongs, and cheerfully exerted
ourselves to help him out of his difficulties. The clerks were
appointed to assist the officers, and the Canadians to supply the
place of the sailors in keeping watch and doing the other duties on
shore; while the partners, forgetting former animosities, joined hand
in hand with the captain in providing for the wants of the ship.
Order being now restored, the partners and some of the clerks
went occasionally on shore; meantime, the natives having paid
several visits on board, and sounded our bargain-making chiefs (for
they are shrewd dealers), a brisk trade commenced in plantains,
bananas, yams, taro, bread-fruit, sweet potatoes, sugar-canes, cocoa-
nuts, and some pork, the principal productions of the place. We had
not been long here, however, till we learned that the chief of the
island resided at a place called Tocaigh Bay, some distance off; and
as we expected a further and better supply there, we sailed for that
place, where we had an interview with the governor, a white man,
named John Young. He received us kindly, and with {33} every mark
of attention peculiar to an Indian chief; showed us his wife, his
daughter, his household, and vassals—a strange assemblage of
wealth and poverty, filth and plenty.
Governor Young was a native of England, and belonged to an
American ship, the Eleanor, of which he was boatswain. That vessel,
happening to touch at the Sandwich Islands in 1790, left Young there
to shift for himself; but his nautical skill and good conduct soon
recommended him to the reigning prince, Tammeatameah, and he is
now Viceroy or Governor of Owhyhee. He is about 60 years of age,
shrewd, and healthy; but, from his long residence among the natives,
he has imbibed so much of their habits and peculiarities, that he is
now more Indian than white man.
We had not been long at the village of Tocaigh, when Governor
Young gave us to understand that no rain had fallen in that
neighbourhood during the four preceding years, and that in
consequence provisions were very scarce, and good water was not to
be found there at any time. These details were discouraging. The
natives, however, began a brisk trade in fruits and vegetables; we,
however, were desirous of purchasing hogs and goats, but were told
that the sale of pork had been prohibited by royal proclamation, and
that, without the permission of the king, who resided in the island of
Woahoo, no subject could dispose of any. Anxious to complete our
supplies, we immediately resolved on sailing to Woahoo.
{34} On the 21st of February, we cast anchor abreast of Ourourah,
the metropolis of Woahoo, and royal residence of Tammeatameah.
This is the richest and most delightful spot in the whole archipelago.
On our approaching the land, two white officers came on board; the
one a Spaniard, secretary to his majesty; the other a Welshman, the
harbour master: the latter brought us safe to anchor in Whyteete
Bay, for which service he demanded and was paid five Spanish
dollars.
The royal village of Ourourah is situate at the foot of a hill, facing
the ocean, on the west side of the island. The houses were 740 in
number, and contained 2025 inhabitants. It will appear strange that
so few inhabitants should require so many houses, but this will be
explained hereafter. Behind the village there is an extensive field
under fine cultivation—perhaps it may measure 500 acres; but its
appearance was greatly injured by irregular enclosures, or rather
division lines, formed of loose stones running on the surface,
intersecting and crossing each other in every possible direction, for
the purpose of marking the plot claimed by each individual or family:
the whole is cultivated with much skill and industry, the soil
teemingly rich, and the labour abundant, with here and there small
water-courses and aqueducts.
Immediately after coming to anchor, Captain Thorn, accompanied
by Mr. M‘Kay and Mr. M‘Dougall, waited on his majesty,
Tammeatameah, {35} and after dining with him, returned on board.
In the afternoon his majesty and three queens returned the visit in
state, the royal canoe being paddled by sixteen chiefs, with the state
arm-chest on board. Their majesties were received with becoming
ceremony. The flag was displayed, and three guns fired. The king was
conducted to the cabin followed by his valet, who held a spitting-box
in his hand, but the queens preferred remaining on deck. While here,
they very unceremoniously disrobed themselves, plunged overboard,
and after swimming and sporting for some time in the water, came
on board again and dressed themselves, after which they joined
Tammeatameah in the cabin, where they did ample justice to a good
collation, drank two bottles of wine, and left us apparently well
pleased with their reception. The chiefs remained all the time in the
royal yacht alongside.
Tammeatameah appeared to be about fifty years of age; straight
and portly, but not corpulent; his countenance was pleasing, but his
complexion rather dark, even for an Indian. He had on a common
beaver hat, a shirt, and neckcloth, which had once been white; a long
blue coat with velvet collar, a cassimere vest, corduroy trousers, and
a pair of strong military shoes; he also wore a long and not inelegant
sword, which he said he got from his brother, the king of England.
During these interviews and visits of ceremony, the captain had
broached the subject of pork to {36} his majesty; but this was not the
work of an hour nor of a day; pork was a royal monopoly, and the
king well knew how to turn it to his advantage on the present
occasion, for several conferences were held, and all the pros and cons
of a hard bargain discussed, before the royal contract was concluded.
Time however, brought it about, and the negotiation was finally
closed; the king furnished the requisite supplies of hogs, goats,
poultry, and vegetables, for all of which a stipulated quantity of
merchandise was to be given in return. Business now commenced,
and good water and provisions were brought to the ship in boat-
loads; and as the king further pledged himself, that if any of the
sailors deserted he would answer for their safe delivery again, this
assurance, although the words of kings are not always sacred, had
the effect of relieving the passengers from the ship’s duties; we were,
therefore, enabled to go on shore.
On walking up to the royal city on our first landing, we were met
by two of the queens, accompanied by a page of honour. They were
all three walking abreast, the page in the middle, and holding with
his two hands a splendid parasol of the richest silk, measuring six
feet eight inches in diameter. From this umbrella hung twelve massy
tassels, weighing at least a pound each. The ladies were very
communicative, and after detaining us for nearly half an hour passed
on. We were soon afterwards introduced to his majesty, who
honoured us with a glass of arrack. Here {37} we had a full view of
the royal palace, the royal family, and the life-guards. The palace
consisted of thirteen houses, built so as to form a square. All the
buildings of the country are a kind of wicker work, remarkable for
their neatness and regularity; and although slender, they appear to
be strong and durable; nor did there appear any difference between
the royal buildings and the other houses of the place, the square and
courtyard excepted. The king occupied three of these houses; one for
eating, another for sleeping, and the third for business, which may be
called the audience chamber. Each of the queens occupied three also;
a dressing house, a sleeping house, and an eating house. His majesty
never enters any of the queens’ houses, nor do they ever enter any of
his: in this respect, they are always tabooed. There is a house set
apart exclusively for their interviews. The established custom of the
land is that each family, however poor, invariably occupies three
houses; and this will explain why so many houses are required for so
few inhabitants.
We also saw two of the king’s sons; one of them was in disgrace
and tabooed; that is, interdicted from speaking with anybody. We
were next shown the life-guards, consisting of forty men, accoutred
in something of the English style, with muskets, belts, and bayonets;
but their uniform was rather old and shabby. The parade-ground, or
place where the guards were on duty, lay just behind the royal
buildings, on a level square green spot made up for the {38} purpose,
and on which were placed eighteen four or six pounders, all
mounted, and apparently in good order.
From this we proceeded to a long narrow range of buildings, where
a number of artisans were at work, making ship, sloop, and boat
tackling, ropes, blocks, and all the other et ceteras required for his
majesty’s fleet; while others again, in a wing of the same building,
were employed in finishing single and double canoes; the former for
pleasure, the latter for commercial purposes. At the far end of the
buildings was erected a blacksmith’s forge; and beyond that, in a side
room, lay the masts, spars, and rigging of a new schooner. The tools
used by the different workmen were very simple, slender, few, and
ill-made, and yet the work done by them surprised us.
While in the workshops, Mr. M‘Kay took a fancy to a small knot of
wood, about the size of a pint-pot, and asked it of the king. His
majesty took the bit of wood in his hand, and after looking at it for
some time turned round to Mr. M‘Kay and said, “This is a very
valuable piece of wood; it is the finest koeye, and what my Erees
make their pipes of; but if you will give me a new hat for it, you can
have it.” Mr. M‘Kay smiled, adding, “Your majesty shall have it.” So
the bargain was struck, but Mr. M‘Kay fell in love with no more of his
majesty’s wood. They make their own cloth, cordage, salt, sugar, and
whisky.
{39} The king then invited us to dine; and entering a small
wretched hovel adjoining the workshop, we all sat down round a
dirty little table, on which was spread some viands, yams, taro,
cocoa-nuts, pork, bread-fruit, and arrack. The king grew very jovial,
ate and drank freely, and pressed us to follow his example. After
dinner, he apologized for the meanness of the place, by saying that
his banqueting house was tabooed that day. Dinner being over, he
brought us to see a large stone building, the only one of the kind on
the island, situate at some distance from the other buildings; but he
showed no disposition to open the door and let us have a peep at the
inside. He said it cost him 2,000 dollars. We were told the royal
treasure and other valuables were kept there. Behind the stone
building, and near the shore, was lying at anchor an old ship of about
300 tons, with some guns and men on deck—said to be the guard-
ship. From this position, we saw sixteen vessels of different sizes,
from 10 to 200 tons, all lying in a wretched and ruinous condition
along the beach; some on shore, others afloat, but all apparently
useless. The day being excessively warm, and our curiosity gratified,
we took leave of his majesty, and staid for the night at the house of a
Mr. Brown, an American settler, who had resided on the island for
several years.
After passing an agreeable night, we bade adieu to our hospitable
landlord, and set out to view the morais, or places of public worship.
Of these, Ourourah {40} alone contains fifteen of this description.
Each morai is composed of several miserable-looking little huts, or
houses. Passing by all the inferior ones, we at length reached the
king’s morai, or principal one of the place. It consisted of five low,
gloomy, and pestiferous houses, huddled close together; and
alongside of the principal one stood an image made of wood,
resembling a pillar, about 28 feet high, in the shape of the human
figure, cut and carved with various devices; the head large, and the
rude sculpture on it presenting the likeness of a human face, carved
on the top with a black cowl. About thirty yards from the houses, all
round about, was a clear spot called the “king’s tabooed ground,”
surrounded by an enclosure. This sacred spot is often rigorously
tabooed and set apart for penance. It was while walking to and fro on
this solitary place that we saw Tatooirah, the king’s eldest son, who
was in disgrace. We were prevented from entering within the
enclosure. At the foot of this pagot, or pillar, were scattered on the
ground several dead animals: we saw four dogs, two hogs, five cats,
and large quantities of vegetables, almost all in a state of
putrefaction, the whole emitting a most offensive smell. On the death
of the king or other great eree, and in times of war, human sacrifices
are frequently offered at the shrine of this moloch. The word taboo
implies interdiction or prohibition from touching the place, person,
or thing tabooed; a violation of which is always severely punished,
and at the king’s morai, with death.
{41} We had scarcely got on board, late in the evening, when a
tremendous gale from the land arose and drove the ship out to sea.
The fury of the tempest and darkness of the night obliged us to cut
cable, and two days were spent in anxious forebodings, ere we got
back again into harbour.
On the 27th, all our supplies, according to contract, were safe on
board; and from the good conduct of the sailors since our arrival, we
began to think matters would go on smoothly for the future; but
these hopes were of short duration—the hasty and choleric
disposition of the captain destroyed our anticipations. Two of the
boats had gone on shore as usual; but on the call for all hands to
embark, three of the sailors were missing. The boats, without waiting
a moment, pushed off, but had reached the ship only fifteen minutes
before two of the three men arrived in an Indian canoe.
Notwithstanding the anxiety they manifested, and their assurance
that the boat had not been off five minutes before they were on the
beach, they were both tied up, flogged, and then put in irons. But this
was not all; Emms, the third man, not being able to procure a canoe,
had unfortunately to pass the night on shore, but arrived the next
morning by sunrise. On arriving alongside, the captain, who was
pacing the deck at the time did not wait till he got on board, but
jumping into a boat which lay alongside, laid hold of some sugar-
canes with which the boat was loaded, and bundled the poor fellow,
sprawling and speechless, at {42} his feet; then jumping on deck,
kept pacing to and fro in no very pleasant mood; but on perceiving
Emms still struggling to get up, he leaped into the boat a second
time, and called one of the sailors to follow him. The poor fellow, on
seeing the captain, called out for mercy; but in his wrath the captain
forgot mercy, and laid him again senseless at his feet, then ordered
him to be thrown overboard! Immediately on throwing the man into
the sea, Mr. Fox made signs to some Indians, who dragged him into
their canoe and paddled off to shore. During this scene, no one
interfered; for the captain, in his frantic fits of passion, was capable
of going any lengths, and would rather have destroyed the
expedition, the ship, and every one on board, than be thwarted in
what he considered as ship discipline, or his nautical duties.
In the evening, the Indians brought Emms again to the ship. Here
the little fellow implored forgiveness, and begged to be taken on
board; but the captain was inexorable, and threatened him with
instant death if he attempted to come alongside. Soon after he made
his appearance again, but with no better effect. He then asked for his
protection, a paper which the American sailors generally take with
them to sea. The captain returning no answer to this request, Mr.
Fox contrived to throw his clothes and protection overboard
unperceived, at the same time making signs to the Indians to convey
them to Emms. On receiving the little bundle, he remained {43} for
some time without uttering a word; at last, bursting into tears, he
implored again and again to be admitted on board, but to no
purpose. All hopes now vanishing, the heroic little fellow, standing
up in the canoe, took off his cap, and waving it in the air, with a
sorrowful heart bade adieu to his shipmates; the canoe then paddled
to land, and we saw him no more.
Our supplies being now completed, the king came on board before
our departure; and it will appear something surprising that the
honest and wealthy monarch, forgetting the rank and pomp of
royalty, should at his parting visit covet everything he saw with us:
he even expressed a wish to see the contents of our trunks; he begged
a handkerchief from me, a penknife from another, a pair of shoes
from a third, a hat from a fourth, and when refused, talked of his
kindness to us on shore; while, on the other hand, he bowed low
when presented with a breastpin, a few needles, or paper-cased
looking-glass, not worth a groat. Even the cabin-boy and cook were
not forgotten by this “King of the Isles,” for he asked a piece of black-
ball from the former, and an old saucepan from the latter. His
avarice and meanness in these respects had no bounds, and we were
all greatly relieved when he bade us farewell and departed.
Having taken leave of his majesty, I shall now make a few remarks
on the habits, dress, and language of the natives.
{44} The Sandwich Islanders are bold swimmers, and expert
navigators. They are like ducks in the water. As soon as we had cast
anchor in Karakakooa Bay the natives, men and women,
indiscriminately flocked about the ship in great numbers: some
swimming, others in canoes, but all naked, although the Tonquin lay
a mile from the shore. Few, however, being admitted on board at
once (probably a necessary precaution), the others waited very
contentedly floating on the surface of the water alongside, amusing
themselves now and then by plunging and playing round the ship.
After passing several hours in this way, they would then make a
simultaneous start for the land, diving and plunging, sporting and
playing, like so many seals or fish in a storm all the way. During their
gambols about the ship, we often amused ourselves by dropping a
button, nail, or pin into the water; but such was their keenness of
sight and their agility, that the trifle had scarcely penetrated the
surface of the water before it was in their possession; nothing could
escape them. On one occasion a ship’s block happening to fall
overboard, one of the natives was asked to dive for it in thirty-six feet
of water; but after remaining three minutes and fifty seconds under
water he came up unsuccessful; another tried it and succeeded, after
being under water four minutes and twelve seconds: the blood,
however, burst from his nose and ears immediately after.
Their voyaging canoes are made to ride on the {45} roughest water
with safety by means of a balance or outrigger shaped like a boat’s
keel, and attached to the canoe at the distance of five feet by two
slender beams. The canoe goes fully as well with as without the
balance, skipping on the surface of the water as if no such appendage
accompanied it. When the swell or surge strikes the canoe on the
balance side, the weight of the outrigger prevents its upsetting, and
when on the opposite side the buoyancy of the outrigger, now sunk in
the water, has the same effect.
The climate here is so very mild and warm that the natives seldom
wear any clothing, and when they do, it is of their own manufacture,
and extremely simple. The inner bark of different trees (the touta in
particular) is prepared by beating it into a pulp or soft thin web, not
unlike grey paper, called tappa. The common people wear it in this
raw state, but the better sort paint it with various colours, resembling
printed cotton. Tappa is as strong as cartridge paper, but not so
thick, and can answer for clothing only in dry climates. The common
dress of the men consists of a piece of this tappa, about ten inches
broad and nine feet long, like a belt, called maro. The maro is thrown
carelessly round the loins, then passed between the thighs, and tied
on the left side. The females wear the pow or pau, a piece of tappa
similar to the maro, only a little broader, and worn in the same
manner; but the queens had on, in addition to the pow, a loose
mantle or shawl thrown round {46} the body, called kihei, which
consisted of twenty-one folds of tappa; yet when compressed it did
not equal in thickness an English blanket. The kihei is generally worn
by persons of distinction, but seldom of more than two or three folds,
excepting among the higher ranks. Like a Chinese mandarin, a lady
here makes known her rank by her dress, and by the number of folds
in her kihei.
A custom prevalent here, and which is, I believe, peculiar to these
islanders, is, that the women always eat apart from the men, and are
forbidden the use of pork. The favourite dish among all classes is raw
fish, mashed or pounded in a mortar. Considering their rude and
savage life, these people are very cleanly. The houses of all classes are
lined and decorated with painted tappa, and the floors overspread
with variegated mats. The women are handsome in person, engaging
in their manners, well featured, and have countenances full of joy
and tranquility; but chastity is not their virtue.
The king’s will is the paramount law of the land, but he is
represented as a mild and generous sovereign, invariably friendly to
the whites whom choice or accident has thrown on these islands. To
those who behave well the king allots land, and gives them slaves to
work it. He protects both them and their property, and is loth ever to
punish an evildoer. Near Ourourah we saw eight or ten white men
comfortably settled; and upwards of thirty {47} others naked and
wild among the natives, wretched unprincipled vagabonds, of almost
every nation in Europe, without clothing and without either house or
home.
I have already noticed the principal esculent vegetables growing
here; there are also some beautiful kinds of wood; that called koeye,
of which the war spears or pahooas are made, and sandalwood, are
the kinds most highly esteemed among the natives for their hardness
and polish. The cocoa-nut, in clumps here and there, forms delightful
groves, and these are often frequented by the industrious females for
the purpose of manufacturing and painting their tappa—preferring
the cool shade and open air to the heat of a dwelling-house.
At the place where Captain Cook was killed, which we visited soon
after our arrival, were still a few old and shattered cocoa-nut trees,
pierced with the shot from his ships; and a flat coral rock; at the
water’s edge, is still pointed out to strangers as the fatal spot where
he fell.
The chief weapon used in their warfare is the pahooa or spear, 12
feet long, polished, barbed, and painted. It is poised and thrown with
the right hand with incredible force and precision. His majesty
ordered fifty men to parade one day, and invited us to see them
exercising, and we were certainly much gratified and astonished at
their skill in throwing and parrying the weapons.
{48} After going through several manœuvres, the king picked four
of the best marksmen out, and ordered one of them to stand at a
certain point; the three others at a distance of sixty yards from him,
all armed with pahooas, and facing one another. The three last
mentioned were to dart their spears at the single man, and he to
parry them off or catch them in passing. Each of the three had twelve
pahooas; the single man but one. Immediately after taking his
position the single man put himself upon his guard, by skipping and
leaping from right to left with the quickness of lightning: the others,
equally on the alert, prepared to throw. All eyes were now anxiously
intent; presently one threw his spear, at a short interval the next
followed; as did the third—two at a time next threw, and then all
three let fly at once, and continued to throw without intermission
until the whole thirty-six spears were spent, which was done in less
than three minutes. The single man, who was placed like a target to
be shot at, defended himself nobly with the spear he had in his hand,
and sent those of his opponents whistling in every direction, for he
had either to parry them off like a skilful boxer, or be run through on
the spot; but such was the agility with which he shifted from one
position to another, and managed the spear with his right hand, that
he seemed rather to be playing and amusing himself than seriously
engaged, for twice or thrice he dexterously seized his opponent’s
spear at {49} the moment it came in contact with his own, allowing
at the same time the latter to fly off, and this shifting or exchanging
spears is thought a masterpiece, being the most difficult and
dangerous manœuvre in the whole affair, and it is only an adept that
can attempt it with safety. When all was over, the man had received a
slight wound on the left arm; but it happens not unfrequently that he
who is thus placed is killed on the spot; for if he allows the spear to
be knocked out of his hand without catching another, he is almost
sure to fall, as the throwers are not allowed to stop while a pahooa
remains with them, and every weapon is hurled with a deadly
intention.
The king is said to be a dexterous pahooa man himself, and it was
his prowess and knowledge in war, and not his rank, that made him