No Drawn-Out Whaling Chapters Here: Melville's Poetry

Despite my previously expressed frustration with poetry, the poems from Herman Melville’s, Battle Pieces, did not aggravate me in the slightest. The reasons for my newfound poetic appreciation are somewhat mysterious (even to myself), but still, I want to try to pinpoint exactly what is responsible for the abrupt change in my attitude.

The first (and most substantial) culprit for the conversion is undoubtedly the straightforwardness of the message in Melville’s pieces. This is especially evident in the poem, “The Portent.” The title could have been anything—from “John Brown,” to “An execution,”—but by calling it “The Portent,” Melville is stating outright that the action contained in this poem is in some way going to be an omen, or sign of something to come. Well, considering the actual poem, it goes, “Hanging for the beam, / Slowly swaying (such the law)” is “(Lo, John Brown)” (1-2, 6). Continuing, the last lines state, “But the streaming beard is shown / (Weird John Brown), / The meteor of the war” (12-14). So, in the piece, there is an insinuation that the actions and execution of John Brown are an indication of a coming war. Well, that fits nicely with the title, especially since John Brown’s raid on Harper’s Ferry, failed slave revolt, and subsequent execution are indeed “meteors” or warnings of the Civil War. Here is a poem whose title states what the action confirms, and is not a trick or lofty reflection. It is concrete, to the point, and all accomplished while retaining the tradition of wonderfully poetic language.

However, it is important to mention the role of the footnotes and how in this particular case, they are responsible for some of the piece’s clarity. They not only provide key snippets of historical context in which to place the poem, but also reveal, “Melville takes Brown’s raid as a portent of the Civil War” (2461). Obviously, reading that makes interpreting and understanding the poem far easier than if a reader were to go it alone. Still, not all the credit lies entirely with these notes. Reading the work in 2008 and not being an avid historian, I am not familiar with the exact dates or details of Harper’s Ferry and John Brown’s execution, but this is definitely not true of Melville’s contemporary readership. His audience would have been acutely aware these happenings since these were the day’s “front-page” stories. For that reason, in his time, the poem could stand alone, being clear without an explanative footnote.

Certainly, there are more reasons for my change other than the directness in Melville’s poetry, as I also like how he tackles a tangible subject matter (like war) rather than some cosmic musing. Yet, after the long-long-long story of “Benito Cereno,” the succinct and straightforward nature of these poems is what stands out the most. It is probably why I like them so much, because it is in this honest, frank, (and short) manner that Melville is able to make poignant and perceptive statements. He is not trying to confuse the reader, bury his message, or be obscenely ambiguous in an attempt to appear larger than what he is.

Melville, Herman. "The Portent" The Norton Anthology of American Literature Vol. B. 7th ed. Ed. Nina Baym. New York: W. W. Norton & Company, Inc., 2007. 2461.

The Wonderfully Complicated World of Poetry

Of course, Dickinson is not my first encounter with what may possibly be one of the most difficult types of literature to read. However, after having read numerous poems, I often still find myself completely at a loss, scratching my head and wondering, “What did I just read?” Furthermore, pinpointing exactly what is causing my complete lack of understanding is as difficult as the actual material. I can never seem to name precisely who the culprit is, and soon everything—from the language, to the structure, to odd punctuation—becomes suspect. Why does poetry seem to be some foreign language only a select few can comprehend?

One trouble I have noticed not only in myself, but also in others who have voiced opinions in my literature classes, is that the major problem is not the poem, but rather, it’s the lazy reader who wants the answers right now. This laziness is in large part the fault of today’s instant-gratification society. Now is a time where magazines have replaced books, only to be replaced by blips and clips posted on the internet. The average reader has become an impatient reader who does not want to work for the information. Still, noting this one dilemma does not completely account for my personal problem with poetry. I am well aware of my own laziness, and am willing to overcome it by putting forth the work, however, I still find myself stuck in a bog of ignorance when trying to discern the ultimate meaning to some poems. An example is probably the best way to show what I mean:

Emily Dickinson’s poem #1163 [1138] begins well, and I am happy to say I completely understand the entire first stanza. Clearly she writes, “A Spider sewed at Night / Without a Light / Opon an Arc of White - ” (1-3). It’s a phenomenon I’ve witnessed in my own backyard, noticing fascinatingly intricate spider webs materialize overnight. With the first part a success, it is time to undertake the next stanza. Here the lines start to climb the scale of mysteriousness stating, “If Ruff it was of Dome / Or Shroud of Gnome / Himself himself inform -” (4-6). The old, lazy reader I was would give up at this point, deciding if the author wants to be obscure, then I will gladly let her, but the determined me is curious. My best guess says that Dickinson is trying to convey images of what the web looks like. Ruff could be describing the pleated collar popular in British fashion, or it could also be referring to the thickened fur or feathers some animals carry around their neck. In either case, a “Ruff” is a decorative touch much in the same way the web of a spider is a decorative dome. The last line tells of how the outward appearance of the web is actually an informant, telling of who the spider inwardly is—the web is a physical manifestation of the spider’s personality. As for the middle line, I am truly at a loss, for the word “Gnome” only conjures up images of lawn decorations or Travelocity commercials.

With two stanzas down, there is only one left, but it is composed of the most confusing, and frustrating, three lines in the entire poem: “Of Immortality / His strategy / Was physiognomy -” (7-9). As many times as I read those words, and as much as I understand the meaning of each (since the book so kindly provides the definition of “physiognomy” in the footnotes), I cannot devise a consequential conclusion. At best I guess the spider wants not to literally live forever like the typical definition of immortality implies, but rather, if one interprets immortality to mean “being famous,” or living on in memory, then of course it makes sense he creates an amazingly unforgettable web to show the outside world who he is (physiognomy). Then again, what is the larger implication? I am sure it is some insinuation as to the cosmic order of the universe and the true meaning of existence, but I have trouble making such connections to my conclusion. As a result, the spider’s secret is safe, and I am all the more wary of poetry. It leads me to believe that the best poetry is that which has some ambiguity, but is still accessible, able to speak to those of any reading ability, sharing its message with the masses and not just a few (unfortunately, I believe I just created criteria only Dr. Seuss could fulfill).

Dickinson, Emily. "1163 [1138] A Spider Sewed at Night." The Norton Anthology of American Literature Vol. B. 7th ed. Ed. Nina Baym. New York: W. W. Norton & Company, Inc., 2007. 2589.

Getting the Last Laugh

Asking “Why the chicken crossed the road?” is a question that will receive a slew of answers, all of which will be met with laughter, but is it a joke that can bring change or usher in a new era of thought? To answer “Yes!” is almost as funny as the inquiry itself, but the truth is that humor is not usually thought of as the stuff one can use to illustrate a serious point—such hefty matters it seems are left to those of a somber nature who will write lengthy, well-thought out arguments which present every detail for their cause. Luckily, there are those who laugh in the face of convention, and do not shy away from using the comical to present their case in what is perhaps the most non-threatening way available. Fanny Fern is one of these wonderful non-conformists who recognized that through humor, she could make a strong, effective point, calling attention to injustices by exaggerating the absolute worst qualities of what was miring the women of her time.

Using shock to force people’s attention towards the problem is one method Fern used magnificently writing, “Next morning, ask him to leave you a ‘little money,’ he looks at you as if to be sure that you are in your right mind, draws a sigh long enough and strong enough to inflate a pair of bellows, and asks you ‘what you want with it, and if a half-a-dollar won’t do?’ Gracious king!” (1795). But why end it there? Continuing she writes, “O, you may scrimp and save, and twist and turn, and dig and delve, and economize and die; and your husband will marry again, and take what you have saved to dress his second wife with; and she’ll take your portrait for a fire-board!” (1795). To think that all marriage offers a lady is the chance to be a beggar of her husband, and what one may manage to save is of no consequence as she will surely die, and her spouse will simply move on to the next wife in line, is a miserable outlook. Of course, this is one of the most dreadful depictions of what marriage means for women, and was not indicative of every union. However, that does not mean that there is not a strain of truth behind such outrageous statements. For many women, if they wanted something, it was ultimately the husband’s discretion. For those who would argue that women would never be able to support themselves if allowed the same privileges as men, now may see the opposing side of the issue, noting women have never had the chance given the constraint and financial control granted only to husbands. Fern’s outlandish set-up is actually creating a well-placed argument for women’s rights, and her humor is calling attention to some of the more unfavorable aspects of society.

Now that is has been show how humor can be used to make a point, the question remains: Exactly how effective is it? Can humor really bring about change? Is it a medium strong enough to insight revolutionary action, or does it cause people to merely laugh and continue living in their patterns? When considering these questions, it is important to remember, even though a person may be laughing, it can still be a serious matter. Though it is contrary to what one may typically think, humor can be as funny as it is grave. This is especially true of written humor where without a spoken tone with which to base any judgments, the reader is left only with the text, their perspective, and if they are lucky, some background on the author. And though it is a considerably difficult task to undertake, certainly, it is crucial to decide with what kind of tone the author means to convey in their humor. Is it lighthearted, or bitingly sarcastic? Do they wish only to point out what is wrong, or are they calling others to action, seeking change? It is hard to argue that Fern has a bitterness in her work, after all, she desires to ask the “Bearded Lady” if she shaves with a “Women’s Rights razor,” but that does not necessarily mean her work is all about garnering laughs. Because she is dealing with such a weighty issue (especially for her time), her humor is something more than mindless joking, and should be considered as poignant and influential as her contemporaries who preferred the route of non-fiction for their shared cause.

Fern, Fanny. "Aunt Hetty on Matrimony." The Norton Anthology of American Literature Vol. B. 7th ed. Ed. Nina Baym. New York: W. W. Norton & Company, Inc., 2007. 1794-1795.

Why D'ya Do It?

MOTIVES—responsible for a person’s actions, they are the driving force behind why—and the justification for what—someone does. For that reason, it is hard to overstate the importance of the motive, especially when considering it in regards to perceivably peculiar events. Accordingly, it is with special attention that one should examine motive in regard to Nathaniel Hawthorne’s unusual Mr. Wakefield of his likewise titled, “Wakefield,” as well as the darkly eccentric narrator, Montresor, of Edgar Allen Poe’s short story, “The Cask of Amontillado.

Within the first paragraph, Hawthorne states neatly in one sentence the entire crux of his story. “The man, under pretence of going on a journey, took lodgings in the next street to his own house, and there, unheard of by his wife or friends, and without the shadow of a reason for such self-banishment, dwelt upwards of twenty years” (1298). Clearly, Hawthorne does not intend to propose a cause as to his character’s actions, but that does not necessarily mean he offers no assistance for those who wish to discern one themselves. According to Hawthorne, if one were to ask Mrs. Wakefield what type of man her husband was, she would aptly described him as someone with a “peculiar sort of vanity” that would keep “petty secrets, hardly worth revealing,” prone to what “she called a little strangeness” (1299). Obviously, there is some inherently curious quirk in the mind of Wakefield, and what society would see as outlandish (a 20-year self-banishment), Wakefield may arguably see as “par for the course.” Certainly, Hawthorne’s intentional description of the man lends credence to the assumption that it may be nothing more than an odd personality that is responsible for an even odder action.

In his first paragraph, Poe similarly reveals a crucial aspect concerning his following story. “The thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as I best could, but when he ventured upon insult I vowed revenge” (1612). After this brief introduction, Poe makes no further remarks on the supposed insults or injuries Fortunato has committed against the frightful narrator. The beginning is the first, only, and last mention of the motive behind the entire revenge plot. Unlike Hawthorne, Poe gives the reader no clues, insights, or evidence that help the one decide if what the narrator said was true, or what he did was justified. The basis for the story is completely the reader’s discretion. Supposing the narrator is merely insane or suspecting Fortunato truly committed a heinous crime are likewise viable explanations, since Poe’s lack of detail makes anything plausible.

What does such a purposefully ambiguous motive do for the story’s overall effect? Foremost, it makes it a stronger story with a more momentous impact. Hawthorne’s description of the lofty Mr. Wakefield supports the claim that his strange behavior was the result of a quirky personality flaw (an incredibly weak reason to give to his outlandish behavior). It is the equivalent of saying, “Oh don’t mind him, he’s just weird,”—an explanation which is never adequate. Conversely, Poe’s absolute absence of particulars concerning his narrator leaves no details with which to promote or deny an explanation of what drove that desire for revenge. By leaving the motive purposefully in question, the reader must inevitably formulate a reason they feel is most logical. Essentially, the story becomes more real to them since it is their theory which explains the man’s actions. Indeed, it leaves me to conclude that for the sake of the story’s effectiveness, the author must give substantial and complete reason to the character’s actions, or none at all—anything else just leaves you wondering “WHY?”

Hawthorne, Nathaniel. "Wakefield." The Norton Anthology of American Literature Vol. B. 7th ed. Ed. Nina Baym. New York: W. W. Norton & Company, Inc., 2007. 1298-1303.

Poe, Edgar Allan. "The Cask of Amontillado." The Norton Anthology of American Literature Vol. B. 7th ed. Ed. Nina Baym. New York: W. W. Norton & Company, Inc., 2007. 1612-1616.

One Nation, Under Nature, Indivisible...

Undoubtedly we have no questions to ask which are unanswerable. We must trust the perfection of the creation so far, as to believe that whatever curiosity the order of things has awakened in our minds, the order of things can satisfy….nature is already, in its forms and tendencies, describing its own design. Let us interrogate the great apparition, that shines so peacefully around us.

From Ralph Waldo Emerson's Nature, page 1111

I absolutely love Emerson’s view of Nature (most likely because he so rightly states what I have come to believe). Effectively, what he has done in this argument is place Nature in a spot commonly thought of as solely attributable to God. The elusive and ethereal concept of Creator becomes the more tangible and immanent presence of the natural world which surrounds humanity. He speaks of having to trust that Nature will answer any, and all questions which may be aroused in the mind—a premise that sounds surprisingly like a description of faith. Furthermore, he credits Nature as self-revealing, since by its very design it describes itself. Of course, this is another one of the major beliefs associated with God, a being who reveals himself to man through his own gift of grace. Yet, perhaps the best feature of his entire statement would have to be the accessibility Nature offers to the individual who desires to discover life’s answers or solve its mysteries. The essence of the natural world is everywhere, and all one has to do is stop and observe her evident beauty if he wishes to know her better. No longer does someone need to be the divinely chosen (“the elect”), or have others provide their interpretations as the key to salvation. Instead, the individual can be his own guide on the path to achieving complete unity with the universe. Essentially, the life of happiness in heaven religion seeks is likewise attainable by those who would look more to Nature, seeing God, creator, and universe wonderfully manifested in this entity that envelopes humanity, revealing new splendors daily.

Now I must come to a point inevitably raised by the first selected quote: Does Emerson’s argument advocate non-belief in an actual God by replacing it with Nature? My short answer would be “not really,” but more clarification is probably for the best.

Standing on the bare ground,—my head bathed by the blithe air, and uplifted into infinite space,—all mean egotism vanishes. I become a transparent eye-ball. I am nothing. I see all. The currents of the Universal Being circulate through me; I am part or particle of God.

From Ralph Waldo Emerson's Nature, page 1112

The description of the “transparent eye-ball” is this notion of existing totally and completely in harmony with Nature. It is a state of being where “you” no longer exist, but alternatively are a part of a much larger notion (Nature and the universe). It is the reason that everything is visible even though the person is no longer there. In this state, Emerson speaks of being a “part or particle of God.” This condition of being in complete unity with everything is responsible for making him feel as though he is sharing in the experience of God. For that reason, I would assert that Emerson sees God and Nature as intrinsic parts of each other. Both are equal sides of the same coin. Nature seems to be the perceivable part of what God is, and it is through her that humanity can come to know God best. I do not feel as though he promotes non-belief in a deity, but rather looks more to Nature as the visible aspect of that power in the universe which is commonly thought of as God. Nature is not God’s replacement, but instead is his reflection.

Of course, all these thoughts raise more questions. If satisfying life’s puzzles is possible by merely observing Nature, does humanity need organized religion? Is believing in the power of Nature the same as believing in the power of God? Can Nature actually provide answers to universal mysteries, or has Emerson simply over idealized the natural world? Realistically, can the average person ever hope to be so connected to the world that they become the “transparent eye”? How can a person even begin to understand the vast wealth of knowledge present in Nature?

Whatever the answers may be, for certain, Nature is a complicated part of existence, and therefore, deserves all the consideration humanity has to offer.

Emerson, Ralph Waldo. "Nature." The Norton Anthology of American Literature Vol. B. 7th ed. Ed. Nina Baym. New York: W. W. Norton & Company, Inc., 2007. 1110-1138.

The Legend of Sleepy Hollow

The blackened horseman hoisting his pumpkin head above his headless body is perhaps one of the most iconic and well recognized literary images of Halloween. It is as synonymous with the holiday as is candy or costumes. Of course, this is in large part attributed to the fact that the short story it arose from, “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow” by Washington Irving, is a perfect example of an intricate tale complete with all the supernatural mystery one would want on Halloween. Yet, like the best stories, it follows that after reading, one is left with a myriad of questions all dying for answers. What truly happened to Ichabod Crane on that fateful night? How much does Brom Brones really know of what transpired? What should one make of Mr. Knickerbocker’s subsequent postscript with its complicated moral? How can the reader even begin to answer any of these questions without getting completely lost in speculation or conjecture? The following is my best attempt at trying to “hammer out” logical and adequate explanations for each of the proposed questions.

First, it does well to clearly state that nowhere does Irving decisively state Ichabod’s end, opting instead to only provide clues which remain entirely subject to the reader’s interpretation. Now would be the best time to consider the role of Brom Brones in this whole affair. True, the evidence against him is not damning, but considering he “was observed to look exceedingly knowing whenever the story of Ichabod was related, and always burst into a hearty laugh at the mention of the pumpkin,” moves me to believe Ichabod’s ordeal was the result of a prank and not some supernatural specter (984). Furthermore, turning to accounts like that of the old farmer who speaks of seeing him alive in New York, consequently leads the logical side of me to be strongly convinced that the headless horseman is more myth than material.

Shifting from Ichabod’s fate to Mr. Knickerbocker’s postscript, I will admit, I was at a loss as to what it all meant or to what I was supposed to gather from its given lesson:

     That there is no situation in life but has its advantages and pleasures, provided we will but take a joke as we find it:
     That, therefore, he that runs races with goblin troopers, is likely to have rough riding of it:
     Ergo, for a country schoolmaster to be refused the hand of a Dutch heiress, is a certain step to high preferment in the state. (985)

Only after much mulling and pondering was I able to come to some decision regarding a decisive meaning:

1. Every situation in life as its advantages, provided one can take a joke
   
2. Becoming mixed up in the race to capture the heart of a “coquette” like Katrina Van Tassel would inevitably be “rough riding,” especially if one considers the eventual prank of Brom Bones (“a goblin trooper”)
   
3. Therefore, for a schoolmaster like Ichabod to be denied the hand of the heiress was not such a misfortune as it ultimately lead him to his promoted life in New York

Ultimately, I see the narrator’s syllogistic argument as an affirmation of my previous thoughts regarding Ichabod’s fate. Still, for all the proof I would try and find that Ichabod’s story was entirely within the realm of reason, there lingers a nagging feeling that wants to steer logic in the other direction. Maybe Ichabod was “spirited away by supernatural means” (984). After all, they say the old school house is haunted by Ichabod’s unfortunate ghost, and that the plough boy can still hear his voice “chanting a melancholy psalm tune among the tranquil solitudes of Sleepy Hollow” (984).

Washington, Irving. "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow." The Norton Anthology of American Literature Vol. B. 7th ed. Ed. Nina Baym. New York: W. W. Norton & Company, Inc., 2007. 965-985.

The Better and More Believable Bradstreet

While discussing the poetry of Anne Bradstreet, thoughts of Mary Rowlandson kept floating into my consciousness, but what would bring about such an impromptu association? Perhaps it was because, on the surface, these are two extremely similar authors, both coming from the same time, place, and faith. Alternatively, it may have been the relevant popularity of their work, as both pieces garnered a wide audience and much acclaim. Maybe it is the fact that to this point, these are the only women authors the course has covered. Still, mulling over the possibilities gave me the feeling that for all the reasons they are the same, it is more likely their differences which caused me to think of Rowlandson in midst of Bradstreet’s poems. Conceivably, what follows is an inevitable comparison of the two, with everything—from their intended audience, to each woman’s purpose, to their overall tone—formulating a strong case for Bradstreet as the genuine, and arguably more believable, author.

The most forthright difference of these two is their intended audience, and the consequences of that readership on their work. It is evident that Rowlandson’s captivity narrative was meant to be published, and was therefore a planned and carefully considered story. It had definite goals like promoting the faith, strengthening current believers, or calling lost ones back. Knowing her purpose was faith endorsement causes skepticism in the reader, since events or facts may have been manipulated to fit said end. Conversely, the introduction to Bradstreet’s poetry prefaces her intentions stating, “Quite unknown to her, her brother-in-law, John Woodbridge...brought with him to London a manuscript collection of her poetry and had it printed there in 1650” (Franklin 187). Unlike Rowlandson, Bradstreet did not mean for her work to be viewed by the general public, and consequently, it was written more for her own sake than for others. For that reason, I feel as though Bradstreet has a more sincere (and arguably more authentic) tone in her work. She was not trying to call others to Puritanism like Rowlandson, but rather, was chronicling her inner thoughts on the faith, seeking to reason through the trials of life. Because it was meant only for her and possibly a few close friends, Bradstreet’s poetry is not “tainted” by ulterior motives, and is easier to read as an honest mediation on the qualities of the Puritan life.

Another major distinction between these women is the previously mentioned “amount of authenticity” in their words. To elaborate, this is to mean that where Rowlandson would have the reader believe she never questioned her belief or doubted God, Bradstreet more credibly struggles with the demands of the faith. Moreover, Bradstreet expertly details the conflict between the desires of the body and the will of the mind (after all, that is a large part of what being human is all about). In her poem, “The Flesh and the Spirit,” Bradstreet uses the image of two dueling sisters to show how the Spirit must constantly work to silence the tempting Flesh:

Spirit: Be still thou unregenerate part,
Disturb no more my settled heart,
For I have vowed (and so will do)
Thee as a foe still to pursue.
And combat with thee will and must,
Until I see thee laid in th’ dust. (37-42)

Her scenario perfectly illustrates the reality of the constant internal conflict many Puritans (and indeed herself ) found themselves subject too. Such a battle is absent from Rowlandson’s story, as her defining quality was relentless devotion which never wavered under any circumstance. Because Bradstreet never claims to be immune from her human condition, she is able to better relate with readers who would also recognize themselves as more human than saint. Ultimately, the personal nature of her work makes it the more plausible piece, and likewise, her awareness of humanness offers a certain air of authenticity Rowlandson’s self-professed flawless faith lacks.

Bradstreet, Anne. "The Flesh and the Spirit." The Norton Anthology of American Literature Vol. A. 7th ed. Ed. Nina Baym. New York: W. W. Norton & Company, Inc., 2007. 202-204.

Franklin, Wayne, Philip F. Gura, and Arnold Krupat. “Anne Bradstreet (ca. 1612-1672).” The Norton Anthology of American Literature Vol. A. 7th ed. Ed. Nina Baym. New York: W. W. Norton & Company, Inc., 2007. 187-188.

What To Make of Wheatley's Words

To be surprised that an African-American is capable of authorship is of course an extremely dated and embarrassing thought to have today. Rewind time, and as deplorable as it might seem, such a thought becomes commonplace—the literacy of an African-American, especially one forced into slavery, is considered an oddity. In fact, it is so miraculous, that Whites must bear witness to the authenticity of their work. After all, it was only when they had been examined, that authors like Phillis Wheatley were deemed qualified enough to have been the writer of their own poems and letters. Still, the story is not her authorship, but rather, the unexpected, yet perceptive, content of her remarkable works.

The text’s introduction prefaces her collection by stating, “…It is no exaggeration to say that she has never been better understood than at the present….reconsideration shows Wheatley to be a bold and canny spokesperson for her faith and her politics” (Franklin 752). It does help to keep that in mind while reading, as it is true, in Wheatley’s words one can clearly see her support for American independence and the abolition of slavery. However, the problem is not recognizing where she stands on the issues, but discerning where exactly these beliefs are coming from, and asking if the modern mind really does understand her point of view?

To say her poem, “On Being Brought from Africa to America,” is conflicting is an understatement. She writes of her homeland and her life before slavery in not the most flattering light saying, “’Twas mercy brought me from my pagan land, / Taught my benighted soul to understand / That there’s a God, that there’s a Savior too” (1-3). Classifying the actions of slave dealers (who abducted children and took others hostage) as an act of mercy seems an incongruously absurd idea. What’s more, before her sale into slavery, Wheatley classifies her soul as benighted, meaning it to be unenlightened intellectually, socially, or morally. This idea would also seem contradictory given the fact that modern thought would lead one to think it was the enslaver’s soul, not the enslaved, which would be darkened and in dire need of the redeeming Savior.

Perhaps more confusing than her opening lines are Wheatley’s closing sentiments: “Remember, Christians, Negroes, black as Cain, / May be refined, and join the angelic train” (7-8). To remark to anyone in the year 2008 that there is hope for African-Americans because they can be refined enough to “join the angelic train” is complete nonsense suitable only to those who would agree with Hitler. Then again, I do not believe that is what Wheatley meant, given she was writing to a much different audience and time. To start making sense of her poem, my attention returns to the previously stated questions: Where are her beliefs coming from, and does modern thought better understand her intentions?

Foremost, given she was a child when sold into slavery, and was accordingly raised by the white, Christian Wheatleys, I feel as though her work is completely influenced by that subsequent upbringing. Of course, it is not a far stretch to surmise that she may have believed her soul was in the dark until by the grace of God she was taught to read and write. Also, it should be mentioned that a large part of her work centers on the undeniable feeling all humans have for Freedom. Thus, when she says those “black as Cain” can become refined, I feel as though she is trying to dispel the untrue belief held by many Whites of the time: namely that Blacks were unable to be educated, making them something less than human and more akin to property. Indeed, those sentiments are cause enough to see why people demanded verification of her work. The time and people she was writing to are starkly different from those now, and for that reason, I do not believe judging her works by today’s standards is advisable. The reader needs to remove themselves from their time and be cognizant of hers, but maybe that is what the introduction meant when it theorized that recent critics have “provided a context in which her work can best be read and her life understood” (Franklin 752).

Franklin, Wayne, Philip F. Gura, and Arnold Krupat. “Phillis Wheatley (ca. 1753-1784).” The Norton Anthology of American Literature Vol. A. Ed. Nina Baym. New York: W. W. Norton & Company, Inc., 2007. 751-752.

Wheatley, Phillis. "On Being Brought from Africa to America." The Norton Anthology of American Literature Vol. A. Ed. Nina Baym. New York: W. W. Norton & Company, Inc., 2007. 752-753.

The Federalist, No. 10

It has been over 200 years since the publication of The Federalist Letters, but are their authors’ arguments still applicable today? The answer of course would be a resounding “yes,” since in their words are outlined many of the fundamentals the country was built on. In particular, works like, “The Federalist, No. 10” by James Madison convincingly detailed the benefits of a republic over a direct democracy, but what he could not predict was how with time, a new, less commendable government has taken shape.

Rightly, Madison grounded his arguments in an astute observation regarding human nature. He recognized that inevitably there will always be a “zeal for different opinions concerning religion, concerning government and many other points” which will divide “mankind into parties, [inflame] them with mutual animosity, and [render] them much more disposed to vex and oppress each other than to cooperate for their common good” (670). Examples of his assertion are everywhere. There are conservative people who would think less of another simply because they agree with liberal ideals (and vice versa). Looking at newspapers, the “talking heads” on television, and radio broadcasters, it seems everyone has an opinion, and of course, it is the right one. Simply think back to the last time you witnessed a yelling match erupt between two supposedly professional journalist on a cable news network, and then it becomes not hard to understand what Madison was up against.

What remedy is offered for this unavoidable predicament built into human nature? Madison says a representational government, or republic, is the answer, but is it truly the cure he proclaims it to be? Obviously, others agreed, for it is how the country is run today, but what consequences have befallen us? Madison theorized that with a republic “it may well happen that the public voice pronounced by the representatives of the people will be more consonant to the public good than if pronounced by the people themselves…” (672). The only safety net he offers is to surmise that because of the greater number of citizens in a large republic, there is a greater probability of candidates being of “the right choice,” since “it will be more difficult for unworthy candidates to practice with success the vicious arts” (672). Essentially, he is relying on the masses to be so drawn to the common good, that they will effectively quell those small factions who work only to further their own unscrupulous ends. True, if everyone where to be involved in every decision, the public would be voting daily, and nothing else could ever be accomplished. However, Madison’s hope that good will prevail fails to consider just how powerful and influential some special interest groups or individuals can be (especially those with money). Oftentimes, these powers corrupt the political process, making legislation more about what will benefit them instead of what will be better for the people. This is easily scene in the many tax breaks afforded to large oil companies (It has not been until recently that congress repealed the 18 billion dollar exemptions afforded these companies, but that was only because gas was climbing over the $4 mark. If prices had not skyrocketed, would these companies still be reaping the benefits their lobbyists worked hard to create?) .

Another problem comes from one outcome of the republic Madison does not seem to provide for: the factions of the representatives themselves. He surmises that the republic’s security lies in “a greater variety of parties and interests” making it less probable that a majority will become organized enough to act on what might be “a common motive” (673). Unfortunately, it seems people have defied his predictions and mobilized behind two distinct, dueling parties. It is not the majority controlling the minority that Madison worried about, but it is a likewise unfavorable condition as the country is arguably split between two sizable groups. When a program or policy fails, Democrats and Republicans become more concerned over blaming their rival rather than finding a solution. To vote outside of one’s party lines makes the individual cause for suspect as they “cannot be trusted” anymore. Certainly, it is a wonder anything ever gets done given the amount of separation present within a single government. Besides, the “variety of parties” meant to keep these groups in check and the republic healthy arguably does not exist anymore (Especially if one considers how the Independent party’s candidate is not even invited to debate).

Madison, James. "The Federalist, No. 10" The Norton Anthology of American Literature Vol. A. Ed. Nina Baym. New York: W. W. Norton & Company, Inc., 2007. 669-674.

The Implications of a Narrative

What Edwards sought to achieve with threats of fire and brimstone, and Mather, hoped to accomplish through a sanctification of early Americans, Mary Rowlandson did with a narrative that would become “one of the most popular prose works of the seventeenth century” (235). Her story, aptly titled, “A Narrative of the Captivity and Restoration of Mrs. Mary Rowlandson,” illustrated how the perfect Puritan should endure endless trials, tests, and tribulations, all the while remaining steadfast in their faith. Always there was solace available to her in the form of the Bible and its many passages there in—repeatedly she turned to it for guidance and strength as all good Puritans should. No matter the hardship, a faith-based answer was offered and taken to heart. Essentially, what Rowlandson’s narrative did was effectively pull others in (or in some cases back) to long held Puritan ideals, and evidenced by its being a best seller, arguably reached further and was more successful than anything attempted by Edwards or Mather.

Perhaps the most prominent feature of Rowlandson’s writing is the role God played in her ordeal. Reading her account closely, one begins to notice an odd quality—where there should be blame aimed at the Natives, there is instead a sentiment that relieves them of culpability arguing instead that what they did was an act of God on a wicked people. “But now our perverse and evil carriages in the sight of the Lord, have so offended Him, that instead of turning His hand against them [the Indians], the Lord feeds and nourishes them…” (262). Obviously, Rowlandson does not view the Native’s attack and subsequent evasion of the army as something of their own doing, but rather it was God enacting punishment upon the Puritan people by helping and caring for their enemies. What does such a shift in thinking accomplish? Unlike Edward’s promises of being dropped into the fiery pits of hell, Rowlandson’s warning is of a much more tangible reprimand: it is not the unforeseen eternal fire, but rather, it is the imminent tragedy of massacre and internment that one who has fallen out of God’s favor should fear.

However, God’s role in her story is not limited to the angry punisher, as he is also her source of strength, comfort, and provider of deliverance. According to her, “We must rely on God Himself, and our whole dependence must be upon Him” (266). Here it is evident that Rowlandson is trying to convey how a Puritan must always turn to God, and through him, find reason in their situation. Furthermore, she parallels her story to the Biblical figure of Job, thereby reaffirming that if one maintains their faith, all will be restored to them. What does this rhetoric accomplish for the Puritan cause? Ultimately, it give others courage and motivation to exhibit the same type of unwavering belief in their daily lives. Of course, the validity of details in her tale is subject to speculation, but regardless of their accuracy, Rowlandson’s account was a reaffirmation of the faith and a prime example of the Puritan way.

Rowlandson, Mary. “A Narrative of the Captivity and Restoration of Mrs. Mary Rowlandson.” The Norton Anthology of American Literature Vol. A. Ed. Nina Baym. New York: W. W. Norton & Company, Inc., 2007. 235-267.

Puritan Writing Can Be Exciting

For the modern reader, the writings of the Puritans can be an extremely dull encounter that leaves one face down, asleep on their book. With the numerous Biblical quotations, subsequent explanations, and chastising, it is not hard to become so disinterested that one eventually finds their thoughts somewhere other than the reading. What is responsible for having created this seemingly impassable rift between America’s earliest authors and today’s reader? One explanation could be that the Puritan was writing from a society and a viewpoint so far removed from modern attitudes, that people are apt to disregard their advice considering it too antiquated. What’s more, despite it being English, the language of the Puritans is different in that it is tedious and demands more attention of the reader, and therefore can become tiresome to read. Still, it does nothing to dwell on the evident challenge there is to understanding Puritan writing, especially since the real question of significance is: How does one overcome this challenge and consequently, what benefits result from reading and heeding Puritan works?

As already mentioned, the problem people face with Puritan works is finding their guidance to be outdated and non-consequential. Many are apt to assume that because it was written so long ago and in a completely different society, words like those of John Winthrop have no relevance when applied to modern life. However, this is an erroneous sentiment to hold, since the problem can readily be remedied by applying the argument’s reverse (finding modern relevance in Puritan words). To say it another way, by relating the advice in these readings to something occurring right now, one can find interest, meaning, and purpose in what was once a boring text. A prime example would be Winthrop’s counsel in “A Model of Christian Charity:”

Quest. What rule must we observe in lending? Ans. Thou must observe whether thy brother hath present or probable, or possible means of repaying thee, if there be none of these, thou must give him according to his necessity, rather than lend him as he requires (151).

Winthrop’s advice rings truer now than it ever has before. Certainly, America’s current housing crisis and foreclosure epidemic is due to lenders’ failure to follow what would seemingly be commonsense advice regarding loan practices. Knowingly lending someone more than what they could ever possibly mean to pay back is an unscrupulous act, made only worse by the reality that the lender unfairly stands to gain at the expense of the borrower. Moreover, Winthrop preaches that when one must lend to someone without means of repayment, then he must be considered “an object of thy mercy" (151). However, one would be hard pressed to find a bank or mortgage company who would be willing to take a financial loss and simply forgive all outstanding debts. When it comes to money, there seems to be no room for a culture of mercy. (This is made only more evident by the inevitable outcome that awaits one who cannot pay what they owe, namely the loss of their home or repossession of assets).

So as not to stray too far, it is worth reiterating once more that by relating these writings of the past to problems of the present, they become less trivial and more influential (and therefore more interesting to read). One would think modern society and economics have evolved past the ideals of America’s first settlers, but obviously not, especially when one considers the backwards practices of today’s companies, (who like some of those first explorers) exploit others in their quest for personal wealth. Ultimately, it does one well to remember that much of the advice Puritan’s offer comes from a virtuous source (namely the Bible), and as such provides sound moral reasoning that many big businesses would truly benefit from implementing.

Winthrop, John. “A Model of Christian Charity.” The Norton Anthology of American Literature Vol. A. Ed. Nina Baym. New York: W. W. Norton & Company, Inc., 2007. 147-158.

True Intentions

Rarely (if almost never) does one find writings which are truly unbiased and present all viewpoints equally, without an agenda. In large part, this can be attributed to the fact that when someone is writing, their purpose is often persuasion. Even the standard practice of writing to analyze is centered on stating a thesis, supporting it with arguments, and ultimately convincing the reader that the writer’s claim is true. Probably the only strictly factual and impartial writing one can come across these days would be in an encyclopedia, and even those do not give multiple perspectives of an event or cover completely a subject’s every detail (especially when one considers that most are written from a western viewpoint of history). Therefore, it is with the above statements in mind that one could contend the writings of the first European explorers were not as factual, or even realistic, as their titles may suggest.

John Smith’s words were especially loaded, filled with all sorts of propaganda whose primary goal was to convince more skilled and able settlers to come to this new land—a land that would function best under his governance. “Here [America] nature and liberty afford us that freely, which in England we want, or it costs us dearly” (68). Smith is smartly playing to the dreams of England’s newly founded and quickly growing middle class who, despite having the money, did not have the standing of the elite (and therefore remained the proverbial “nobody” in society). To have status in England meant that one owned land, a scarce commodity in an island country where royal families had already divided up and laid claim to every acre. Also, English class systems were rigid, making movement between the divisions all but impossible. Therefore, an artisan, merchant, or mason would always be counted among the working class, no matter how much wealth they had accumulated. Smith knew this and took full advantage of it in his writings. By promising people the chance at a new life devoid of stringent class systems and filled with possibilities for endless wealth, he not only convinced many to make the hard journey, but also simultaneously created the framework for what has become the quintessential American dream.

The above is only one example of the type of writings these first explorers sent back to Europe, as everyone—from Christopher Columbus to Thomas Harriot—wrote with a specific purpose in mind. Some goals were more noble than others (for instance, Bartolomé de las Casas efforts to stop the exploitation of the Natives verses Harriot’s assurances that they would be an easy people to conquer), but still, one must ask: Does the author’s underlying intention effect the pieces overall literary value? Certainly one begins to question how much of these writings are elaborate half-truths and how much is fact, but does knowing even matter? The fact still remains, even if they were extremely one-sided or weighed down by the personal agenda, the letters and stories pouring in from the Americas were some of the first written accounts of the new world, and as such remain an important and indispensable part of the early American literary tradition.

Smith, John. “A Description of New England.” The Norton Anthology of American Literature Vol. A. Ed. Nina Baym. New York: W. W. Norton & Company, Inc., 2007. 66-69.

The Trick to Reading a Trickster Tale

On first inspection, the scenarios and encounters of an honestly Native American trickster tale are considerably strange. Everything—from the sporadic plot, to the anamorphic characters, to the subject matter (which contain wonderful elements like a speaking laxative bulb and a trickster who carries his penis in a box)—culminate into stories that can be off-putting, if not absurd, to those of a European or non-Native descent. However, to say that these unusual elements are the primary features of a trickster tale is to do them a great disservice. Because the fables of European literature contrast so starkly with those of the Native American’s, and would never be so forward as to include something like a character who cannot escape his own defecation, these seemingly outlandish facets have unfortunately, and misleadingly, become these tales dominating features. Therefore, it would serve one well not to become mired by stories unusual events, and instead focus on its true purpose as an entertaining anecdote meant to teach lessons and social responsibilities.

Nevertheless, that does not mean one must completely ignore the fanciful oddities that make trickster tales so enjoyable. In all actuality, these details can be integral parts of the narrative directly connected to its core message or embedded lessons. For example, when one considers the previously mentioned story of Coyote and the laxative bulb he consumed, the outrageous (and even gross) consequences of his actions are not only attention grabbing, but they also illustrate the important warning within the story. Namely, it advises against thinking one is smarter or superior to nature, and further serves to show how cautious one must be when consuming what they find in the forests. Though such advice may be lost on the European reader, for the Native American, the story illustrates two essential pieces of information that were probably central to survival.

Now, it goes to say that not all the myths are solely about one’s survival, and oftentimes are more about ritual and superstition. A prime example comes in the form of the Clatsop Chinook people’s story of Coyote and his attempts (and subsequent failures) while fishing for salmon. Of course, much of the advice the tale offers concerns the proper way to catch, clean, and cook these fish, but the real questions begin when the story confronts various fishing taboos. Murderers, corpse-handlers, menstruating girls and women, and widowed people are all restricted and are not to catch the salmon Coyote seeks. The list itself is quite baffling, and the reasons as to why these select groups were prohibited is never stated, but it can be fairly argued that there might have been logical grounds for the taboos, which over time has become lost as the story was passed outside the tribe. Conversely, such might not have been the case, as it would not have been the first time in history that a certain group would be thought of as ill luck for no concrete reason other than silly superstition. Whatever the cause, the story still stands, and like its fellow trickster tales, it has successfully kept Native American morals, values, lessons, and taboos alive throughout the generations.

Can an Oral Tradition be Written?

For those of a European mindset, the stories and lore of Native Americans can oftentimes be confusing and difficult. Clearly different in content, delivery, and a sense of time, it can easily be seen that there are many obstacles one faces when seeking to understand the literature of the Native American people. Still, what exactly is it that has caused such distinctly different ways of thinking and has ultimately given way to the starkly contrasting mindsets of the average European-American and a Native American? The most forthright reason would be language, specifically, the fact that Native American history comes from a distinctly oral tradition where as that of Europe and her descendants has developed and depended on the written word. The former created a culture whose focus was on survival by living with the land, and because nothing was recorded, needed outlandish (yet memorable) stories to pass along this vital information along. The latter system preserved necessary information through notation, and therefore sought concrete facts in hopes of passing along exact, linear histories which were subsequently far removed from the mnemonics and fantasy tales of the Natives. With these two methods dictating the type and accuracy of information handed between generations, it is only logical to see how language is ultimately responsible for creating what has become two rather unique and equally opposite mindsets. Yet, given that oral tradition and written history have produced distinctly different groups of people, there is still the question: Can these opposing forms of language ever combine, and if so, would the results even be desirable?

Starting with the first explorers and continuing with the colonization of the Americas, oral tradition and written history have constantly been colliding and encountering one another. However, it was not until someone decided to record the stories of the Native Americans that the two would finally be combined and start a unique form of literature unlike anything Europe had to offer. Now their legends, myths, and stories would be accessible not only to those outside of the tribe, but also to those who were not even of the race. This opens Native American culture up to a completely new world of outer influence and scrutiny. Now one can consider the overall effects (whether negative or positive) of writing down what was once a strictly oral literature.

Until they were written down, stories of creation, tricksters, and their people’s origins were exclusive, meaning if one was not part of the tribe, then they would not have access or knowledge of such tales. This was probably a way that individual tribes were able to create and sustain such strong ties between their people as it was these stories that not only tied the generations together, but to know them would make one exclusively Kiowa, Pueblo, Iroquois…, and no one else. However, after they had been collected and transcribed, everyone could be privileged to the wisdom and knowledge that were previously sacred symbols of tribe solidarity. Yes, sharing knowledge is a positive key and a must for education, but there is arguably a great sense of hurt that comes from losing what was probably an important bond existing only within members of that tribe who spoke the language.

Perhaps the most negative outcome of writing down what was meant to be an oral is the complete loss in delivery that can only accompany the recital or performance of a story. The breakdown in form becomes more evident when one considers how abrupt and sporadic the style is of a written Native American story. Because these tales were never meant to be written or to be told by just one person, they are not constructed in the typical fashion of having a beginning, middle, and end with a constant narrator. The outcome is a story that can be unclear, or even seem as though it completely lacks any sense. Furthermore, this can lead the reader to miss the point, or dismiss as foolish what is a wonderful story. Though sad, such a consequence is unavoidable as there is no way to convey the same delivery in a written tradition as there is in an oral one. Nevertheless, despite whatever downfall one may find with recording oral tradition, it has successfully opened Native American culture to the rest of the world, and thus preserved it as an essential and integral part of early American literature.