Various - "The Atlantic Monthly, Vol. II, No. 8, June 1858"

John Spargo - "The Marx He Knew"

Sir Arthur Thomas Quiller Couch - "The Adventures of Harry Revel"

C. P. Gasquoine - "The Story of the Cambrian"

Annual Bibliography of Commonwealth Literature 2007
This paper argues that discourses of love in Ghanaian market literature for youth offer a view into complex negotiations of agency and empowerment. Drawing on Deborah Durham's notion of youth as "social `shifters'" and Francis Nyamnjoh's conception of the "interconnectedness" of agency, I take Ghanaian market literature as one specific case of how African literature for youth foregrounds questions of continuity and change as African societies enter into increasingly complex global relations. In this literature for youth, received notions of love, often constructed out of impressions from American pop and hip hop music, carry new notions of agency that compete with existing "domesticated" forms. Authors like Ike Tandoh and Evelyn Tay employ discourses of love to offer youth alternative avenues for empowerment in a context of socio-economic disenfranchizement. In a creative process of "straddling", this writing both reveals and reproduces the contradictions that obtain in youth configurations of agency.

Atlantic Monthly, Vol. 5, No. 32, June, 1860

V >> Various >> Atlantic Monthly, Vol. 5, No. 32, June, 1860




The stage, indeed, in its various forms, seems more fully to manifest and
illustrate the artistic influence among Americans than any other art. It
often addresses those whom more refined solicitations might never
reach. Those who would turn from Church's or Page's pictures with
indifference are frequently attracted by the representations in a theatre.
The pictures there are more alive, more real, more intense, and fascinate
many unable to appreciate the recondite charms of the canvas. The grace of
attitude, the splendid expression, the intellectual art of Ristori or
Rachel may impress those who fail to discover the same merits in colder
stone, in Crawford's marble or the statues of Palmer; and they may
sometimes learn to relish even the delicate beauties of Shakspeare's text,
from hearing it fitly declaimed, who would never spell out its meaning by
themselves. The drama is certainly superior to other arts while its reign
lasts, because of its veriness, its actuality. He must be dull of
imagination, indeed, who cannot give himself up for a while to its
illusions; he must be stupid who cannot open his senses to its delights or
waken his intellect to receive its influences.

Neither can a taste for the stage be declared one which only the ignorant
or vulgar share. Though away in the wilds of California a theatre was often
erected next after a hotel, the second building in a town, and the
strolling player would summon the miners by his trumpet when not one was in
sight, and instantly a swarm peeped forth from the earth, like the armed
men who sprang from the furrows that Cadmus ploughed,--though the wildest
and rudest of Western cities and the wildest and rudest inhabitants of
Western towns are quick to acknowledge the charms of the stage,--yet also
the most highly cultured and the most intellectual Americans pay the same
tribute to this art. We have all seen, within a few years, one of the most
profound scholars and most prominent divines in the country proclaiming his
approbation of the drama. We may find, to-day, in any Eastern city, members
of the liberal clergy at an opera, and sometimes at a play. The scholars
and writers and artists and thinkers, as well as the people of leisure and
of fashion, frequent places of amusement, not only for amusement, but to
cultivate their tastes, to exercise their intellects, ay, and oftentimes to
refine their hearts. The splendid homage paid in England not long ago to
the drama, when the highest nobility and the first statesmen in the land
were present at a banquet in honor of Charles Kean, is evidence enough that
no puerile or uncultivated taste is this which relishes the theatre. Goethe
presiding over the playhouse at Weimar, Euripides and Sophocles writing
tragedies, the greatest genius of the English language acting in his own
productions at the Globe Theatre, people like Siddons and Kean and Cushman
and Macready illustrating this art with the resources of their fine
intellects and great attainments,--surely these need scarcely be mentioned,
to relieve the drama from the reproach that some would put upon it, of
puerility.

New York is, perhaps, more of a representative city than any other in the
land. It is an aggregation from all the other portions of the country; it
is the result, the precipitate, of the whole. It has no distinctive,
individual character of its own; it is a condensation of all the rest, a
focus. Thither all the country goes at times. Restless, fitful, changing,
yet still the same in its change; like the waves of the sea, that toss and
roll and move away, and still the mighty mass is ever there. New York, in
its various phases and developments, its crowded and cosmopolitan
population, its out-door kaleidoscopic splendor, is indeed a representative
of the entire country. It has not the purely literary life of Boston, nor
so distinctive an intellectual character; it is not so stamped by the
impress of olden times as Philadelphia; but it has an outside garb
significant of the inward nature. It is like the face of a great actor,
splendid in expression, full of character, changing with a thousand
changing emotions, but betraying a great soul beneath them all. New York is
artistic just as America is artistic, just as the age is artistic: not,
perhaps, in the loftiest or most refined sense, but in the sense that art
is an expression, in tangible form, of ideas. New York is a great thought
uttered. It is like those fruits or seeds which germinate by turning
themselves inside out; the soul is on the outside, crusted all over it, but
none the less soul for all that.

And New York illustrates this idea of the drama being the representative
art of to-day. The theatre there, including the opera, is a great
established fact,--as important nearly as it was in the palmiest days of
the Athenian republic, or on the road to be of as much consequence as it is
in Paris, the representative city of the world. Fifty thousand people
nightly crowd twenty different theatres in New York. From the splendid
halls where Grisi and Gazzaniga and La Borde and La Grange have by turns
translated into sound the ideas of Meyerbeer and Bellini and Donizetti and
Mozart, to the little rooms where sixpenny tickets procure lager-beer as
well as music for the purchaser, the drama is worshipped. And this not only
by New-Yorkers: not only do those who lead the busy, excited life of the
metropolis acquire a taste, as some might say, for a factitious excitement,
but all strangers hasten to the theatres. The sober farmer, the citizens
from plodding interior towns, the gay Southerners, accustomed almost
exclusively to social amusements, the denizens of rival Bostons and
Philadelphias all frequent the operas and playhouses of New York. When the
richer portion of its inhabitants have left the hot and sultry town, or, in
mid-winter, are immersed in the more exclusive pleasures of fashionable
life, even then the theatres are thronged; and in September and October you
shall find all parts of the country represented in their boxes and
parquets,--proving that this is not an exclusively metropolitan taste, that
it is shared by the whole nation, that in this also New York is truly
representative.

Boston typifies a peculiar phase of American life; it is the illustration,
the exponent, of the cultivated side of our nationality; its thought, its
action, its character are taken abroad as symbols of the national thought
and action and character, in whatever relates to literature or art. The
Professor said truly, Boston does really in some sort stand for the brain
of America. Well the brain of America appreciates the stage. It is but a
few months since the culture and distinction of Boston nightly crowded a
small and inferior theatre, to witness the personations of the young genius
who is destined at no distant day to rival the proudest names of the drama.
The most brilliant successes Edwin Booth has yet achieved have been
achieved in Boston; scholars and wits and poets and professors crowd the
boxes when he plays; women of talent write poems in his praise and publish
them in the "Atlantic Monthly"; professors of Harvard College send him
congratulatory letters; artists paint and carve his intellectual beauty;
and fashion follows in the wake of intellect, alike acknowledging his
merits. Boston recognized those merits, too, when they were first presented
to its appreciation; and now that they verge nearer upon maturity, her
appreciation is quickened and her applause redoubled. It cannot be said
that the taste or culture of the nation is indifferent to histrionic
excellence, when absolute excellence is found.

No other art is yet on such a footing among us. Neither is this because of
our partially developed civilization. It is equally so abroad; where the
nations are oldest and best established in culture, there, too, a similar
state of things exists. No school in painting, no style of sculpture, no
kind of architecture has made such an impression on the age as its music,
as its dramatic music, its opera. This speaks to all nations, in all
languages. No writer, though he write like Tennyson, or Longfellow, or
Lamartine, or Dudevant, can hope for such an audience as Verdi or
Meyerbeer. No orator speaks to such crowds as Rossini; no Everett or
Kossuth, or Gavazzi or Spurgeon, has so many listeners as Donizetti. For
the stage is the art of to-day,--perhaps more especially, but still not,
exclusively, the operatic stage; the theatre in its various forms
represents the feeling of the time so as Grecian and Gothic architecture
and Italian painting have in their time done for their time,--so as no
pictures, no architecture, no statuary can now do. Painting and statuary,
when they do anything towards representing this age, incarnate the dramatic
spirit; the literature that has most influence today is journalism,--the
effective, present, actual, short-lived, dramatic newspaper, where all the
actors speak for themselves: other literature has its listeners, but it
lags behind; other art has its appreciators, but it cannot keep pace with
the march of armies, with the rush to California, with the swarm to
Australia; there is no art on these outskirts but the dramatic. That
travels with the advancing mass in every exodus; that went with Dr. Kane to
the North Pole (he had private theatricals aboard the Resolute); that alone
gave utterance immediately to the latest cry of humanity in the Italian
War.

Neither can it be said that the theatre has no more consequence now than it
has always enjoyed. At the time when Gothic architects and Italian painters
expressed the meaning of their own ages, there was nothing like a real
drama in existence, and the Roman theatre was never comparable with
ours. The Greeks, indeed, had a stage which was an important element of
their civilization, and which took the character of their time, giving and
receiving influence; but their stage was essentially different from that of
the moderns. Its success did not depend upon the individual performer; its
pageantry was perhaps as splendid as what we now see; but the play of the
countenance, that great intellectual opportunity offered an actor by our
drama, was not known. In this see also a characteristic of the present
age. Individuality is a distinctive peculiarity of the nineteenth century;
it has been for centuries gradually becoming more possible; but every man
now works his own way, acts himself, more completely than ever
before. Therefore appropriate is it that the drama should give importance
to the individual, and allow a great actor to incarnate and illustrate in
his own form and face feelings and passions that formerly were only hinted
at; for remember that the Greek players usually wore masks, while their
amphitheatres were so large that in any event the expression of the
features was lost.

With this individuality, this opportunity for each to develop his own
identity and intensity, the nineteenth century strangely combines another
peculiarity, that of association. All these units, these atoms, so
marvellously distinct, are incorporated into one grand whole; though each
be more, by and of himself, than ever before, yet the great power, the
great motor, is the mass. The mass is made powerful by the added importance
given to each individual. And you may trace without conceit a state of
things behind the scenes very similar to this in front of the
footlights. In the theatre, also, the many workers contribute to a grand
result. The manager would be as powerless in his little empire, without
important assistants, as a monarch without ministers and people. What makes
the French army and the American so irresistible is the thought that each
private is more than a machine, is an intellectual being, understands what
his general wants, fights with his bayonet at Solferino or his musket at
Monterey on his own account, yet subject to the supreme control. And the
theatre, with all its actors and scene-painters and costumers and
carpenters and musicians, is only an army on a different scale. The forces
of the stage answer to the generals and colonels, the marshals and
privates, all marching and working and fighting for the same end. Those
splendid dramatic triumphs of Charles Kean were only illustrations of the
principle of association,--only illustrations of the readiness of the stage
to adapt itself to the times, to seize hold of whatever is suggested by the
outside world, to appropriate the discoveries of Layard and the revelations
of Science to its own uses,--illustrations, too, of the importance of the
individual Kean, as well as of the crowd of clever subordinates.

That the theatre feels this reflex influence, that it appreciates all that
is going on around it, that it is not asleep, that it is penetrated with
the spirit of the century, whether that spirit be good or evil, the
selection of plays now popular is another proof. In France, where the
success of the histrionic art now culminates, a contemporaneous drama is
flourishing, the absolute society of the day is represented. That society
has faults, and the stage mirrors them. "La Dame aux Camelias," "Les Filles
de Marbre," "Le Demi-Monde" reflect exactly the peculiarities of the life
they aim to imitate. And these very plays, whose influence is so often
condemned, would never have had the popularity they have attained in nearly
every city of the civilized world, had there not been Marguerite Gautiers
and Traviatas outside of Paris as well as in it. Another attempt, perhaps
not an entirely successful one, but still a significant attempt, has been
made in this country to produce a contemporaneous drama. "Jessie Brown" and
"The Poor of New York," and other plays directly daguerreotyping ordinary
incidents, at any rate show that the drama is an art that responds
instantly to the pulses of the time.

But it ia not necessary for the stage to daguerreotype; it mirrors more
truly when it embodies the spirit. And never before was there an age whose
spirit was more theatrical, in the best sense of the term; full of outside
expression, but also full of inside feeling; working, accomplishing,
putting into actual form its ideas; incarnating its passions; intellectual,
yet passionate; lofty in imagination, yet practical in exemplification;
showy, but significantly showy,--theatrical. An art, then, that is all
this, surely expresses as no other art does or can the character of the
nineteenth century,--surely is the representative art.

* * * * *



ROBA DI ROMA.

THE EVIL EYE AND OTHER SUPERSTITIONS.


I have already, in a former article, spoken of some of the superstitions
belonging to the Church which are prevalent in Italy; but there are other,
and, so to speak, _lay_ superstitions, which also claim a place,--and to
them this chapter shall be dedicated.

It is dangerous ground, a twilight marsh, where the will-o'-wisps light us,
over which I propose to lead you; and had I not armed myself with all sorts
of amulets, I should shrink from the enterprise. But the famous weapon with
which Luther drove away the Evil One is at my side, potent as evil, I hope,
so long as a pen can be put into it,--and Saint Dunstan's friend is in the
corner, ready, at a pinch, for service; and having shut out all those
spirits which so sorely tempted Saint Anthony, and locked my door to dark
eyes and blue eyes and dark hair and blonde hair, I may hope to get through
my dangerous chapter, and--

Strange fatality!--one of Saint Anthony's spirits tempts me from the other
room, even at the moment I boast; but I resist,--manfully dipping my pen
into Luther's stronghold,--and it vanishes, and leaves me face to face
with--the Evil Eye. Yes! it is the Evil Eye, the _Jettatura_ of Italy, that
we are boldly to face for an hour.

This is one of the oldest and most interesting superstitions that have come
down to us from the past; and as it still lives and flourishes in Italy
with a singular vitality and freshness, it may be worth while to trace it
back to some of its early sources. Its birth-place was the East, where it
existed in dillomnt forms amongst almost every people. Thence it was
imported into Greece, where it was called _Baskania_, and was adopted by
the Romans under the name of _Fascinum_. Solomon himself alludes to it in
the Book of Wisdom. Isigonus relates that among the Triballi and Illyrii
there were men who by a glance fascinated and killed those whom they looked
upon with angry eyes; and Nymphodorus asserts that there were fascinators
whose voices had the power to destroy flocks, to blast trees, and to kill
infants. In Scythia, also, according to Apollonides, there were women of
this class, "_quoe vocantur Bithyoe_"; and Phylarchus says that in Pontus
there was a tribe, called the Thibii, and many others, of the same nature
and having the same powers. The testimony of Algazeli is to the same
effect; and he adds, that these fascinators have a peculiar power over
women. We have also the testimony of Aristotle, Pliny, and Plutarch, who
all speak as believers, while Solinus enumerates certain families of
fascinators who exerted their influence _voce et lingua_, and Philostratus
makes special mention of Apolloius Thyaneus as having been possessed of
these wonderful powers. Indeed, nearly all the old writers agree in
recognizing the existence of the faculty of fascination; and among the
Romans it was so universally admitted, that in the "Decemvirales Tabulae"
there was a law prohibiting the exercise of it under a capital
penalty:--"_Ne pelliciunto alienas segeles, excantando, ne incantando; ne
agrum defraudanto._" Some jurisconsults skilled in the ancient law say that
boys are sometimes fascinated by the burning eyes of these infected men so
as to lose all their health and strength. Pliny relates that one Caius
Furius Cresinus, a freedman, having been very successful in cultivating his
farms, became an object of envy, and was publicly accused of poisoning by
arts of fascination his neighbors' fruits; whereupon he brought into the
Forum his daughter, ploughs, tools, and oxen, and, pointing to them,
said,--"These which I have brought, and my labor, sweat, watching, and
care, (which I cannot bring,) are all my arts." Let those who consider the
moving of tables as wonderful listen to the surprising statement of Pliny
as to an occurrence in his own time, when a whole olive-orchard belonging
to a certain Vectius Marcellus, a Roman knight, crossed over the public
way, and took its place, ground and all, on the other side. [Footnote:
Plinii _Nat. Hist._ Lib. xvii. cap. 38.] This same fact is also alluded to
by Virgil in his Eighth Eclogue, on _Pharmaceutria_ (all of which, by the
way, he stole from Theocritus):--

"Atque satas alio vidi traducere messes."

"Now," says the worthy Vairus, who has written an elaborate treatise on
this subject in Latin, well worthy to be examined, "let no man laugh at
these stories as old wives' tales, (_aniles nugas_,) nor, because the
reason passes our knowledge, let us turn them into ridicule, for infinite
are the things which we cannot understand, (_infinita enim prope sunt
quorum rationem adipisci nequimus_); but rather than turn all miracles out
of Nature because we cannot understand them, let us make that fact the
beginning and reason of investigation. For does not Solomon in his Book of
Wisdom say, '_Fascinatio malignitatis obscurat bona'?_ and does not Dominus
Paulus cry out to the Galatians, '_O insensati Galatoe, quis vos
fascinavit'?_ which the best interpreters admit to refer to those whose
burning eyes (_oculos urentes_) with a single look blast all persons, and
especially boys."

It seems to have been a peculiarity in the superstitions as to the
_fascinum_, that boys and women were specially susceptible to its
influence; and in this respect, as well as in some of the symptoms of
fascination, it bears a curious resemblance to the effects of modern
witchcraft as practised in New England. Dionysius Carthusianus, speaking of
the nomad tribes of the Biarmii and Amaxobii, who, according to him, were
most skilful fascinators, says that they so affected persons with their
curse that they lost their freedom of will and became insane and idiotic,
and often wasted away in extreme leanness and corruption, and so perished:
"_ut liberi non sint nec mentis compotes, soepe ad extremam maciem
deveniant, et tabescendo dispereant._" Olaus Magnus agrees with him in
these symptoms; and Hieronymus says, that, when infants suddenly grow lean,
waste away, twist about as if in pain, and sometimes scream out and cry in
a wonderful way, you may be certain that they have been fascinated. This,
to be sure, looks mightily like a diagnosis for worms; but we would not
measure our wits with the grave Hieronymus. Still, as an amulet against
such fascination, "Jaynes's Vermifuge" might be suggested as efficient, or
at least a grain or two of _Santonina_.

In Abyssinia, it is supposed that men who work in iron or pottery are
peculiarly endowed with this fatal power of fascination, and in consequence
of this prejudice they are expelled from society and even from the
privilege of partaking of the holy sacrament. They are known by the name of
_Buda_, and, though excluded from the more sacred rites of the Church,
profess great respect for religion, and are surpassed by none in the
strictness of their fasts. All convulsions and hysterical disorders are
attributed to these unfortunate artificers; and they are also supposed to
have the power of changing themselves into hyenas and other ravenous
beasts. Nathaniel Pearce, the African traveller, relates that the
Abyssinians are so fully convinced that these unhappy men are in the habit
of rifling graves in their character of hyenas, that no one will venture to
eat _quareter_ or dried meat in their houses, nor any flesh, unless it be
raw, or unless they have seen it killed. These Budas usually wear earrings
of a peculiar shape, and Pearce states that he has frequently seen them in
the ears of hyenas that have been caught or trapped, and confesses, that,
although he had taken considerable pains to investigate the subject, he had
never been able to discover how these ornaments came there; and Mr. Coffin,
his friend, relates a story of one of these transformations which took
place under his own eyes. [Footnote: Herodotus makes the same statement as
to the Buda. "They are said to be evil-minded and enchanters," he says,
"that for a day every year change themselves into wolves. This the
Scythians and Greeks who dwell there affirm with great oaths. But they do
not persuade me of it."--Herod. Lib. iii. cap. 7.

See on this subject _Life and Adventures of Nathaniel Pearce_, and _Nubia
and Abyssinia_, by Rev. Michael Russell. Petronius's story of a Versipelles
is well known.]

This is the old superstition of the were-wolf, which existed also among the
Greeks and Romans. Those endowed with this power of transforming themselves
into beasts were called _Versipelles_. Pliny makes mention of them, and
cites from a Greek author the case of a man "who lived nine years in the
shape of a wolf"; but, credulous as he is, he says that the superstition
"is a fabulous opinion, not worthy of credit." For myself, I can say that I
have known many men who were wolves; and we all remember what Queen Labe
used to do with her lovers.

Fascination was of two kinds, moral and natural. Those in whom the power
was moral could exert it only by the exercise of their will; but those in
whom it was natural could but keep exercising it unconsciously. And these
latter were the most terrible. It is generally explained by ancient writers
as being a power of the spirit or imagination, (as they termed it.)
exhibited in persons of a peculiar organization, and diffusing _radios
salutares vel perniciosos_. Though the terms employed by them, as well as
their notions of its origin, are very unphilosophical and vague, it is
plain that they considered it as a species of mesmeric or biologic power,
operating by nervous impression. The fascinator generally endeavored to
provoke in his victims an excited and pleased attention, for in this
condition they were peculiarly predisposed to his influence. And inasmuch
as persons are thrown off their guard of reserve and attracted by praise,
those who flattered excessively were looked upon with suspicion; and it was
a universally recognized rule of good manners and morals, that every one in
praising another should be careful not to do so immoderately, lest he
should fascinate even against his will. Hieronymus Fracastorius, in his
treatise "On Sympathy and Antipathy," thus states the fact and the
philosophy,--and who shall dare gainsay the conclusions of one so learned
in science, medicine, and astrology as this distinguished man?--"We read,"
he says, "that there were certain families in Crete who fascinated by
praising, and this is doubtless quite possible. For as there exists in the
nature of some persons a poison which is ejaculated through their eyes by
evil spirits, there is no reason why infants and even grown persons should
not be peculiarly injured by this fascination of praise. For praise creates
a peculiar pleasure, and pleasure in turn, as we have already said, first
dilates and opens the heart and then the spirit, and then the whole face
and especially the eyes,--so that all these doors are opened to receive the
poison which is ejaculated by the fascinator. Wherefore it is most proper,
whenever we intend to praise a person, that we should warn him, and use
some form to avert the ill effects of our words, as by saying, 'May it be
of no injury to you!' There are, indeed, some, who, when they are praised,
avert their faces, not to indicate that praise in itself is unpleasant, but
to avoid fascination; it being thought that fascination is often effected
by means of praise";[1] or in other words, the poison being given in the
honey of flattery. Now in order to close up this _dilatationem_ or opening
of the system, a _corona baccaris_ was worn, which, by its odoriferous and
constipating qualities, produced this effect, as Dioscorides assures us.[2]
Virgil, in his Seventh Eclogue, alludes to the same, antidote:--

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