E E L M E N T SE thE historiEs of Pharaoh amasis accounting for discrepancies among classical historians ALSO FEATURING • Rose-Red Youth and Rose-White Boyhood: An Examination of Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray • The Free Soil Party: Turbulent Times and Minority PoliticsThE UNdERGRAdUATE RESEARch JOURNAL OF BOSTON cOLLEGE sP r in g 2 0 11 · V o lu m E 7 · i ss u E 1ElEm En ts : : th E u n d Erg r ad u atE r EsEar ch Jo u r n al o f Bo sto n co llEg E sP r in g 2 0 11 :: V o lu m E 7 :: issu E 1 ProducEd By thE staff of ElEmEnts mission statEmEnt Elements, the undergraduate research journal of Boston College, will showcase the varied research endeavors of fellow undergraduates to the greater academic community. By fostering intellectual curiosity and discussion, the journal will strengthen and affirm the community of undergraduate students at Boston College. E This journal was printed using 100% renewable energy and zero VOC inks. Mission stateMent Elements, the undergraduate research journal of Boston College, will showcase the varied research endeavors of fellow undergraduates to the greater academic community. By fostering intellectual curiosity and discussion, the journal will strengthen and affirm the community of undergraduate students at Boston College. e The cover image for this issue depicts a rather curious scene. Adrien Guig- net’s Cambyses and Psammetich portrays Egypt at a time of disarray, when Persian conquest brought about the collapse of the twenty-sixth dynasty fol- lowing the death of the eminent Pharaoh Amasis. As Matthew Richey points out in “The Histories of Pharaoh Amasis: Accounting for Discrepan- cies Among Classical Historians,” Amasis was the last pharaoh capable of staving off an invasion from the East—no small feat. In a work of meticulous scholarly research, Richey recounts the fascinating story of how Amasis obtained the throne of Egypt. However, an already complicated story becomes even more confusing when Richey must con- front the existence of four divergent accounts of the same event. At one point, he notes: Both Greek authors, then, provide a very simplified account of the struggle for power... In a number of subtle ways, Herodotus’ portrayal of Amasis is more flat- tering than the characterization given of him by Diodorus Siculus. This discrep- ancy is especially apparent since neither version adheres closely to the surviving Egyptian and Babylonian sources. Here, and throughout the rest of the article, Richey confidently, yet pains- takingly, addresses the ambiguity resulting from multiple sources, piecing together a story long since torn apart. I am proud to feature “The Histories of Pharaoh Amasis” as the cover arti- cle for this Spring 2011 issue, certainly because of its extraordinary aca- demic merit, but more importantly because it serves as an example of meet- ing ambiguity. As scholars and as people, let us grapple with the vagueness and realize the contradictions, employ all of our knowledge only to rely on all of our intuition. Let us feel bewildered and overwhelmed, hesitant then doubtful. But whatever conclusions we draw, however tenuous, let us at least meet ambiguity. In presenting the seventh and final issue of Elements that I have been privi- leged to work on over the past four years, I recall how the progression of this journal was often an ambiguous, winding course. And it was every bit a pleasure. Sincerely, Brian Varian Editor-in-chief editor’s note thanks The editors of Elements would like to thank the following individuals for their generous support of and assistance with this issue of Elements: Mary Crane, Director, Institute for the Liberal Arts SuSan Dunn, Administrative Assistant, Center for Centers JuStine SunDaraM, Reference Librarian/Bibliographer, John J. Burns Library We would also like to thank to Boston College for the financial support that makes this issue possible. Questions & Contributions If you have any questions or would like to contribute an article for the next issue, you may contact the journal at elements@bc.edu. The next deadline for submission is Friday, April 1, 2011. Cover CAMBYSES AND PSAMMETICH © Erich Lessing / Art Resource, NY PeriodiCity Elements is published twice an academic year in the fall and spring semesters. The information provided by our contributors is not independently verified by Elements. The materials presented represent the personal opinions of the individual authors and do not necessarily represent the views of Elements or the Boston College community. Elements, The Undergraduate Research Journal of Boston College Volume 7, Issue 1, Spring 2011 Boston College, 140 Commonwealth Avenue, Service Building 103 Chestnut Hill, MA 02467 Printed by Dynagraf Advancing Printing Solutions, 5 Dan Road, Canton, MA 02021 Copyright © 2011 by the Trustees of Boston College eleMents staff eDitor-in-Chief Brian Varian Managing eDitor r. Brian traCz Deputy eDitor JaiMe Crowley huManitieS ali MCDonalD, Senior Editor SaM Baron, Editor Sarah Collier, Editor Mike henry, Editor BrenDan kelly, Editor John kinzer, Editor Dan Sologuren, Editor aliSon wawrzynek, Editor natural SCienCeS anne kornahrenS, Senior Editor niCk CoChran-Caggiano Editor S. eVan Cooper, Editor ChriS gagne, Editor ChriStina han, Editor SoCial SCienCeS ChriS SheriDan, Senior Editor aDi aShok, Editor keVin finnegan Editor teJa ganta, Editor VinoDh MeChery, Editor alexanDer tingle, Editor eriC traCz, Editor niCk CoChran-Caggiano Editor anDreina yaneS, Editor zaCh ziMMerMann, Editor layout JaiMe Crowley, Senior Editor niCk CoChran-Caggiano Editor Sarah Collier, Editor S. eVan Cooper, Editor ChriStina han, Editor eriC traCz, Editor weB DeSign Dan Sologuren, Senior Editor VinoDh MeChery, Editor faCulty aDViSor elizaBeth ChaDwiCk MOTIVATIONS OF GENRE: REALISM AND FANTASY IN SCOTTISH DRAMA Benjamin Key Rendering early twentieth-century Scottish plays of different genres—realism and fantasy—as vehicles for coping with human struggling. NEARING GOD: MEISTER ECKHART’S THEOLOGICAL MYSTICISM Sebastian N. Agredo Enlivening the writings of a fourteenth-century monk who grappled with the elusiveness of God, leaving an indelible imprint upon the German philosophical tradition. THE NUREMBERG TRIALS: PRECEDENT FOR INTERNATIONAL LAW Dianna Michelle Martínez Reaffirming the foundational influence of the Nuremburg Trials as extending, however imperfectly, to more recent occurences of genocide. AUTHOR BIOGRAPHIES LIST OF ARTWORK 69 61 53 92 94 THE FREE SOIL PARTY: TURBULENT TIMES AND MINORITY POLITICS Dennis F. Murphy Situating the Free Soil Party within the transitional political milieu of America in the 1840s and 1850s, while commenting on broader issues confronting minority parties. 81 Contents THE HISTORIES OF PHARAOH AMASIS: ACCOUNTING FOR DISCREPANCIES AMONG CLASSICAL HISTORIANS Matthew Richey Nuancing the historical understanding of an empowered pharaoh through a meticulous examination and contextualization of various, often divergent ancient sources. ROSE-RED YOUTH AND ROSE-WHITE BOYHOOD: AN EXAMINATION OF OSCAR WILDE’S THE PICTURE OF DORIAN GRAY Andrew Tareila Coloring The Picture of Dorian Gray, carefully parsing its aesthetic evocations, accessing the Gothic novel through textual analysis. DOROTHY GOOD: THE CASE OF A CHILD WITCH Ellen Zatkowski Contextualizing the trial and eventual conviction of four-year-old Dorothy Good amid the distinctively Puritan cultural mores of seventeenth-century Massachusetts. DOWN THE RABBIT HOLE: PERCEPTUAL TRANSFORMATION IN PLATO, HEIDEGGER, AND ZUBIRI R. Brian Tracz Synthesizing three philosophers’ understanding of sense-perception to outline apprehension as a change from brute fact to meaningful object. 9 21 31 43 “Viewing Egypt as the source for many Grecian practices and beliefs, the historian is very much predisposed to look favorably upon it, and he is also eager to depict the direct contact between Greeks and Egyptians that could have led to this cultural exchange.” In 570 BCE, CIvIl war EruptEd In Egypt as aprIEs, thE CurrEnt pharaoh, and amasIs, onE of hIs gEnErals, BattlEd for Control of thE pharaonIC statE. thE ConflICt Is narratEd By sourCEs from Egypt, BaBylon, and grEECE, But thE dIsCrEpanCIEs In thEsE aCCounts arE grEat and puzzlIng. logIstICal and ChronologICal dEtaIls vary wIdEly, makIng It dIffICult to dEtErmInE thE prECIsE naturE of amasIs’ rEBEllIon and Its EffECts on grEEk mErCEnarIEs and tradErs lIvIng In Egypt. In ordEr to addrEss somE of thEsE dIf- fICultIEs, thIs artIClE ConsIdErs thE aCCounts gIvEn By grEEk hIstorIans, hErodotus and dIodorus sICulus, and ComparEs thEm to oldEr sourCEs from thE anCIEnt nEar East. suCh an ExamInatIon rEvEals thE ImplICatIons of Cultural BIas In hIstorIogra- phy and has thE potEntIal to BE InstruCtIvE for modErn hIstorIans, who havE oftEn found It dIffICult to mItIgatE sImIlar partIalIty In thEIr own wrItIngs. The hisTories of pharaoh amasis Accounting for Discrepancies Among Classical Historians matthEw rIChEy In his famous History, Herodotus of Halicarnassus sur- veys the entirety of human achievement up to his own life- time and the complete expanse of the world as the Ancient Greeks knew it. Though this was certainly seen as a legiti- mate mode of operation in antiquity, it might seem overly grand and ambitious to readers of the present day.1 In con- temporary time, it is rare to find authors of scholarly or even popular volumes who claim to pursue such grand designs. For the modern historian, the task would be a her- culean undertaking, mainly due to the meticulous re- search that is expected to back up any historical work, even those addressed, as Herodotus’ was, to the general public. In reading and interpreting the classical historians—in- cluding, on the Greek side of things, Herodotus, Thucydides, Xenophon, and Arrian—moderns often for- get that the methods used by the ancients are in many in- stances starkly different than those currently employed. This becomes relevant when attempting to understand events which ancient historians, such as Herodotus, ap- pear to have misconstrued and reconciling the seeming absurdities that have often been incorporated into such ac- counts. At the same time, modern classicists have long noted vari- ous discrepancies in the historical works of earlier antiq- uity when compared with those of the Hellenistic and Ro- man eras. Plutarch, in his essay, “On the Malice of Herodotus,” even saw fit to characterize the progenitor of the genre, Herodotus himself, as “the father of lies.” Among later historians, Diodorus of Sicily revised and up- dated some segments of Herodotus to constitute parts of his now fragmentary Library of History. One particular pas- sage, which narrates the rise to power of Amasis, a sixth- century BCE pharaoh of Egypt’s twenty-sixth dynasty, is especially interesting in that it may provide some clues about the ways in which Herodotus originally approached his subject material. His methods may have colored his historical retelling, which might otherwise give off the im- pression of impartiality.2 Stories about the pharaoh Ama- sis’ rise to power are extant in four independent sources. Aside from the version according to Herodotus, the ac- counts available of his rebellion against his predecessor on the throne, Apries (589-567 BCE), are minimal but illumi- nating. The rendition of Diodorus Siculus in his Library of History looks to be derived largely from Herodotus him- self, but the details are different enough to suggest that he had at least one additional source at hand.3 An Egyptian point of view is given in a stela (a vertical, inscribed stone monument) from Elephantine, the only one of the eleven dating from Amasis’ reign to describe the power struggle itself, albeit four years after the fact.4 Lastly, a Babylonian cuneiform text from year 37 of Nebuchadrezzar’s reign— corresponding to year 4 of Amasis’s rule—was shown by Elmar Edel (1978) to provide a corroborating external source for the later years of the conflict, including develop- ments that Herodotus seems to ignore entirely.5 Diodorus Siculus’ account is the closest to that of Herodotus and so the easiest to contrast in terms of its minor differences. As in Herodotus, the story begins when Apries sends his forces to the North African city of Cyrene, a Greek colony, to quell an uprising. Apries’ men are summarily defeated, and the pharaoh is immediately blamed for his lack of foresight and is even accused of having secretly plotted to destroy part of his army. Certain Egyptian survivors decide to join the Cyreneans in revolt to express their displeasure at Apries’ supposed treachery. It is when Apries sends Amasis, one of his right-hand men, to these new insurrectionists that the first difference between the accounts of Diodorus and Herodotus becomes apparent. Diodorus reports that: “In reading and interpreting the classical historians—including, on the Greek side of things, Herodotus, Thucydides, Xenophon, and Arrian— moderns often forget that the methods used by the ancients are in many instances starkly different than those currently employed.” 13 thE hIstorIEs of pharaoh amasIs pharoah amasIs of Egypt, hErE dEpICtEd as a sphInx, was ImmortalIzEd In thE wrItIngs of ClassICal grEEk hIstorIans. 14 ElEmEnts : : sprIng 2011 ἀποσταλεὶς δὲ πρὸς τούτους ὑπὸ τοῦ βασιλέως Ἄμασις, ἀνὴρ ἐμφανὴς Αἰγυπτιος, τῶν μὲν ῥηθέντων ὑπ’ αὐτοῦ πρὸς ὁμόνιαν ἠμέλησε, τοὐναντίον δ’ ἐκείνους προτρεψάμενος εἰς ἀλλοτριότητα συναπέστη καὶ βασιλεὺς αὐτὸς ᾑρέθη (Amasis, a prominent Egyptian man, was sent to them by the king, but he ignored his orders, and on the contrary, encouraging their disaffection, he joined them in rebelling and was himself made king).6 It sounds here as though Amasis was an active partner in the revolt, but Herodotus’ view is quite different. In his telling, Amasis is initially vigorous in his attempt to dissuade the rebels from their cause, but “λέγοντος αὐτοῦ τῶν τις Αἰγυπτίων ὄπισθε στὰς περιέθηκέ οἱ κυνέην, καὶ πεπιτιθείς ἔφη ἐπὶ Βασιληίῃ περιτιθέναι” (“as he was speaking, one of the Egyptians came up behind him and put a helmet on his head, and having placed it, said it was a sign of kingship”).7 In the Histories, all agency in making Amasis king—and therefore inducing him to join the rebellion—has been assigned to an anonymous Egyptian. Amasis is transformed into a reluctant hero, forced to accept the mantle of responsibility despite his own valiant efforts to bring about the conflict’s peaceful resolution. Diodorus and Herodotus proceed along mostly parallel paths for much of the remainder of the story, up to the point of conclusion.8 One comment by Herodotus, made in the context of the battle itself, seems aimed at mitigating the defeat of the Greek mercenaries under Apries by Amasis’ native Egyptian forces: “καὶ ἐμαχέσαντο μὲν εὖ οἱ ξεῖνοι, πλήθει δὲ πολλῷ ἐλάσονες ἐόντες κατὰ τοῦτο ἑσσώθησαν” (“and the foreigners [the Greeks] fought well, but being much fewer in number, were inferior because of this”).9 Diodorus provides no such excuse for his fellow Greeks. However, an even more significant divergence appears with regard to Apries’ ultimate fate. According to the latter historian, the outcome is simple: “ὁ μὲν Ἀπρίης ζωγρηθεὶς ἀνήχθη καὶ στραγγαλισθεὶς ἐτελεύτησεν” (“Apries was captured, alive, and, being strangled to death, died”).10 Herodotus, however, prolongs the action to the benefit of Amasis: “ἐνταῦθα δὲ τέως μὲν ἐτρέφετο ἐν τοῖσι βασιληίοισι, καί μιν Ἄμασις εὖ περιεῖπε” (“He was kept in the palace chambers for a while, and Amasis acted well towards him”).11 Only later, when the mob demands the head of their former king, does Amasis reluctantly hand Apries over to them. It is easy to see Herodotus’ Amasis as a figure reminiscent of Pontius Pilate, as all of the blame for the old monarch’s death is conveniently transferred to the bloodthirsty people even as Amasis washes his own hands clean. In addition to these disagreements, the two Greek versions of the story also differ significantly from what can be drawn out of the other two sources, the Elephantine Stela and the Babylonian fragment dating to Year 37 of Nebuchadrezzar.12 The former is unfortunately extremely worn, and as such, many scholars have found it almost unreadable. The sense of the text has proved, however, not impossible to make out. One of the greater difficulties in clarifying meaning lies in the confusion surrounding two dates inscribed on the stela, the first at the top of l. 1 (the hieroglyphs being written in vertical columns) and the second at the top of l.  14. Originally, both Daressy and Breasted took the two dates to refer to, respectively, “Year 3, second month of the third season (tenth month)… [and] Year 3, third month of the first season (third month), day 8.”13 However, Elmar Edel, in a 1978 article, established that the two dates actually refer to events happening years apart, specifically in Years 1 and 4 of Amasis’ reign.14 The first part of the inscription, that dated by Edel to Year 1, describes Amasis at his palace in Sais, suddenly informed that his rival, Apries, has arrived at Sḫt-mfkʾt.15 He is accompanied by boats filled with ḥʾw-nbw, who are generally regarded to be Greeks.16 Hearing of this, Amasis rushes off to meet the enemy at Jmʾw and is victorious; no mention, however, is “It is easy to see Herodotus’ Amasis as a figure reminiscent of Pontius Pilate, as all of the blame for the old monarch’s death is conveniently transferred to the bloodthirsty people even as Amasis washes his own hands clean.” 15 thE hIstorIEs of pharaoh amasIs made of Apries’ immediate fate. Beginning at l. 14, the stela describes another invasion, this time by sttjw, or Asiatic, forces, who are defeated at an unnamed location. In the same context, the death and honorable burial of Apries is noted, though his actions during the battle, if he did participate, are not detailed. The Babylonian cuneiform fragment provides additional elucidation of the history.17 Most modern scholars have taken the inscription on this fragment to refer to an invasion of Nebuchadrezzar in Year 37 of his reign (568/7 BCE); the Babylonian king was presumably taking advantage of the confused situation in Egypt with an eye towards neutralizing his pesky southern neighbor.18 Past treatments of the fragment have generally accepted a reading of [Am]a-su šar Mi-ṣir (“Amasis the king of Egypt”) in the first line; however, the fragment lacks the beginning of what appears to be the name of the king who summons an army against the invader.19 Edel’s article was the first to suggest that the fragment and the stela were in fact referring to the same event, an invasion from Babylon into Egypt, occurring in Year 4 of Amasis (Year 37 of Nebuchadrezzar), and somehow involving the death of the former pharaoh, Apries. This interpretation has opened the door for new considerations of the Greek accounts. In a 1988 article, Leahy attempted to synthesize the four accounts as presented in Herodotus, Diodorus, the stela, and the Babylonian tablet, to form one coherent sequence of events: The rebellious troops led by Amasis advanced on Sais [the capital of the 26th dynasty pharaohs] from some point in the north-western Delta. There was an encounter early in 570 near the capital (Diodorus’ Marea) which resulted in the seizure of Sais by Amasis, and the discomfiture and retreat of Apries. The former dated his reign from that point and was recognized as far south as Sharuna within a very short space of time. After a lengthy period of consolidation and preparation, Apries advanced from the direction of Memphis on Sais, was met en route by Amasis and defeated at Jmʾw, which can probably be identified with Herodotus’ Momemphis. Apries again escaped and this time fled abroad, to return only in year 4 . . . ultimately to Babylonian territory.20 Such a sequence is valuable in that it takes both of the classical authors into account without taking many liberties with the testimony of the earliest sources. The Elephantine Stela mentions that Apries fled to an “jw” (usually rendered “island”) after the original battle. Leahy takes this retreat to an “jw” as signifying a strategic withdrawal to Memphis, which functions as an “island” of support for the former king. This is especially valuable in explaining why some pockets of Egypt supported the earlier king even into the latter months of Year 1.21 Herodotus, of course, nowhere acknowledges such a confused situation, preferring instead a single decisive battle; then again, Diodorus does not portray a particularly complicated sequence, either. Both Greek authors, then, provide a very simplified account of the struggle for power. The story must have been naturally diluted through successive retellings over the course of the century between Apries’ downfall and Herodotus’ writing. This dilution emphasizes differences that accompany the simplified accounts of Herodotus and Diodorus all the more. In a number of subtle ways, Herodotus’ portrayal of Amasis is more flattering than the characterization given of him by Diodorus Siculus. This discrepancy is especially apparent since neither version hErodotus mIsrEprEsEntEd muCh of amasIs’ rEIgn. 16 ElEmEnts : : sprIng 2011 adheres closely to the surviving Egyptian and Babylonian sources. The fundamental reason that Diodorus’ and Herodotus’ characterizations of Amasis differ is that the histories originate in radically different cultural milieus, to which each history in its turn was appropriately adapted. A long standing argument holds that Herodotus’ misrepresentation of the events stems from pro-Amasis propaganda disseminated by the king’s supporters during the forty-four years of his long reign and later picked up by the historian as he travelled in Egypt.22 Instead, based on the differences in his version as contrasted with that of Diodorus, Herodotus’ pro-Amasis slant stems rather from the Graeco-centric, philaegyptic, and anti-Persian viewpoint that the historian himself displays throughout his Histories, not least of all in Book II. Throughout this segment in particular, Herodotus takes pains to equate Greek religious and cultural practices with those of ancient Egypt, the land which “πλεῖστα θωμάσια ἔχει” (“has exceeding wonders”).23 Even in the midst of the account of Amasis’ rebellion, he finds room to go on at length regarding Egyptian class structure, which he subsequently ties strongly to its equivalent in certain Greek cities, especially Sparta.24 Viewing Egypt as the source for many Grecian practices and beliefs, the historian is very much predisposed to look favorably upon it, and he is also eager to depict the direct contact between Greeks and Egyptians that could have led to this cultural exchange. Thus, the historian compiles extensive records of Amasis’ dedications to Greek temples, his beneficent treatment of the Greeks at Naukratis, and his marriage to Ladike, the beautiful Grecian woman from Cyrene, even as he ignores the wider cultural context of the Ancient Western Mediterranean as well as Amasis’ ulterior motives for these activities. Herodotus declares Amasis a “Φιλέλλην” (or, “Greek- sympathizer”) and details a concrete example of Amasis’ kindness towards the Greeks in that “καὶ δὴ καὶ τοῖσι ἀπικνευμένοι ἐς Αἴγυπτον ἔδωκε Ναύκρατιν πόλιν ἐνοικῆσαι” (“he gave to those coming to Egypt the city of Naukratis in which to live”).25 Here, the impression is very much that the Greek occupation of Naukratis dates from the reign of Amasis and no earlier. This attribution, however, runs contrary to all archaeological evidence found on the site itself, as well as the literary testimony of other Greek authors. As early as the excavations of Sir Flinders Petrie in the 1880s, Naukratis was recognized as being rather older, as a city, than Herodotus claims.26 Most modern scholars date the earliest pottery to approximately 620 BCE, that is, at least fifty years before Amasis could have “given” the city to the Greeks.27 It is Diodorus who comes much closer to the archaeological evidence in claiming that it was Psammetichus I (664-610 BCE), “φιλέλλην ὢν” (“being a philhellene”), who first opened the Greek trading routes, both at Naukratis and elsewhere.28 Even if he had founded the city, Amasis’ confining the Greeks to Naukratis is actually an example of a policy that Egyptian kings commonly adopted in dealing with populations of foreign traders. Over one thousand years earlier, Senwosret III (1876-1838 BCE) had instituted essentially the same requirements for Egyptian trade with the free Nubians to the south: The southern frontier made in Regnal Year 8 under the Majesty of the King of Upper and Lower Egypt Khakaurēʿ (May he live for ever and ever) in order to prevent it being passed by any Nubian journeying north by land . . . with the exception of that Nubian who shall come to traffic at Jḳn or on an embassy.29 As in the case of Naukratis and the Greeks, the Nubians are assigned a specific site, Jḳn, at which to conduct their trade, but they may go no farther into the country and may arrive at no other point of entry. Despite the similarities of this case to the Greek situation at Naukratis, no one has argued, as Herodotus did in the case of Amasis, that the designation of Jkn was attributable to Senwosret’s being amasIs, kIng of Egypt In thE 6th CEntury BCE 17 thE hIstorIEs of pharaoh amasIs a “philonubian.” As Möller writes, “The uniqueness of this empórion is understood as a special distinction for Naukratis, rather than as a restriction upon the Greeks,” whereas the evidence suggests the latter interpretation.30 Indeed, though Herodotus perceives a kindness to the Greeks in Amasis’ giving them a city of their own, the pharaoh was actually restricting their trade, presumably in retaliation for the support that Greek mercenaries had given to his enemy, Apries.31 Oswyn Murray has shown that propaganda originating with the Greeks in the port itself could have given Herodotus probable cause for attributing the city’s establishment to Amasis. Certain Greeks who wanted control of the city magistracy were at times apt to draw their legitimacy from the supposed “favoritism” that Amasis had shown their ancestors.32 As a matter of fact, Herodotus generally does not seem to have conjured his facts out of thin air, as some less generous commentators have alleged. Instead, he may very well have taken multiple traditions into account before picking, consciously or unconsciously, the one that best suited his ideological bias. The story of Ladike, Amasis’ Cyrenean wife, at II.  181 presents another instance of the historian viewing the pharaoh’s actions through a Graeco-centric lens. Remarking on the likely motive behind this marriage, Herodotus writes that Amasis was, “εἴτ’ ἐπιθυμήσας Ἑλληνíδος γυναικὸς εἴτε καὶ ἄλλως φιλότητος Κυρηναίων εἵνεκα” (“either desiring a Greek woman, or for some other reason seeking the friendship of Cyrene”).33 Herodotus here chooses to focus on the inherent alluring qualities of Greek women, which would naturally have attracted this most admirable of exotic rulers, rather than the obvious political implications of the marriage. Cyrene’s policy of expansion, adopted during the sixth century, was a genuine threat to the western border of Egypt, at a time when Egypt already had serious concerns on the eastern front.34 Amasis had likely learned from his predecessor, Apries, that the Cyreneans could be a formidable enemy. Therefore, he wanted both to avoid an immediate confrontation and to ensure extra support against imminent invasion from the East.35 With his Graeco-centric depiction, Herodotus misses an opportunity to illuminate the larger concerns of rulers in the Western Mediterranean and instead gives a rather biased account of the pharaoh’s supposed philhellenism. Again, the historian probably did not fabricate the marriage, since it is perfectly in line with what is known of the rest of Amasis’ foreign policy, but he did frame it in a manner which was surely overly flattering to the Greeks and their women. In general, in discussing the presence of the Greeks in Egypt, Herodotus chooses to ignore the reality that Amasis’ purported friendship towards the Greeks was almost entirely military in nature, as were the relations pursued by his immediate predecessors. It appears that Amasis was at first fairly hesitant to employ the ethnic class of mercenaries who had formerly been loyal to Apries, but with the downfall of Babylon and the ascendancy of Persia in the East, he realized that he had no choice but to enter into alliance with the Cyreaneans to the West. Where the Greek historian portrays a ruler whose actions originate out of his unbridled philhellenism, Amasis was actually behaving very pragmatically in searching out external support to combat the rising power of Persia. Why, then, does Herodotus’ account of a pharaoh acting out of love for Greeks and Greek culture differ so starkly from the reality of a desperate emperor grasping at straws for support against the influence of Persia? The answer is actually tied up in the existence of Persia itself. As a direct result of the Persian Wars that had occupied the Greeks for the first twenty years of the fifth century BCE, nearly everybody who had resisted the Persians in the recent past came to appear, to the Greek mind, as a hero and ally of the cultured West, which at this time meant, for all intents and purposes, Greece. These supposed allied “Where the Greek historian portrays a ruler whose actions originate out of his unbridled philhellenism, Amasis was actually behaving very pragmatically in searching out external support to combat the rising power of Persia.” 18 ElEmEnts : : sprIng 2011 defenders thus included not only the coalition soldiers at Marathon or the Spartan warriors at Thermopylae, but even the “barbarian” Scythians, who resisted Darius, and the Egyptians who attempted to fight Cambyses. Amasis in particular receives praise and veneration because he was the last of the Egyptians to oppose successfully the threat that was looming on the Eastern horizon.36 For Herodotus, this particular pharaoh became an enlightened bulwark against the East, whether or not Amasis would have seen himself as such. This characterization is not present in Diodorus because, by his time, the Persians had ceased to be a direct threat to the Greek way of life. Diodorus lived in a radically different period, in which the Roman Republic was coming to the fore and the Greek way of life had already spread throughout virtually all of the known world, thanks to the conquests of Alexander the Great. Gone, then, is the Herodotean emphasis on the uniqueness of the Greek resistance to the barbaric East; as such, there is no further need for the glorification of such benevolent allies as Amasis. Diodorus apparently felt free to eliminate the more obvious fabrications and exaggerations of Herodotus’ account, perhaps informed by his use of alternative sources.37 Herodotus’ description of the rise and rule of Amasis is one of the first examples of the cultural appropriation which came to dominate nineteenth and twentieth century scholarship in relation to such ancient Near Eastern empires as Babylonia and Egypt, who were, very soon after their “discovery,” bound to the empires of their discoverers. Western scholars of the modern era have expended much ink in claiming certain cultures of antiquity as part of the European cultural heritage and in the process often distort the nature of those supposed connections, whether they be linguistic, artistic, or religious. As in Herodotus, much of this endeavor is intended to prove the greater antiquity, and therefore glory, of the religious and cultural entity at the center of the narrative. For Herodotus, this entity is the Greek polis; in the modern case it is most often Western Europe and America. Herodotus clearly saw those who had fallen to Persia before the Greek resistance as constituting, in some way, a preparation for the successful stand of the Hellenes, and therefore in alliance with the supremely civilized race against the dark and despotic tyrants of the East. Historians would do best to take Herodotus’ distorted portrayal of the pharaoh Amasis as a warning to be wary of the tendency to paint foreign cultures as solely supporting and encouraging of an imagined centrality. endnoTes 1. Among mythographers this is especially common; see Hesiod, Theogony and Ovid, Metamorphoses, both of which describe the progress of history from the origins of the cosmos to the rise of humanity. Those historians who did not write such chronologi- cally all-encompassing histories as that of Herodotus largely saw themselves as continuing some predecessor’s work; Thucydides’ History of the Peloponnesian War and Xenophon’s Hellenika run very neatly together for this reason. 2. The Herodotean occupies Book II.162-182, with some digressions. 3. For the ending date as contemporaneous with the middle of the reign of Amasis, see below, as well as Leahy, “The Earliest Dated Monument of Amasis and the End of the Reign of Apries.” JEA 74 (1988), 183-199; Lloyd Historia 37 (1988), 45. Cf. Murphy, The Antiquities of Egypt, 87, n. 138. Dio. Sic. I.68; Leahy, JEA 74, 189. A. Burton remarks on potential sources for all of chs. 43-68 (“the third section”) in Diodorus Siculus Book I, A Commentary (Leiden, 1972), 25-29, though without mentioning the rebellion in particular; commentary on ch. 68 is on p. 206 ff. 4. Lloyd, in Historia 37 and Herodotus, III, 178 ff., calls this the “Amasis stele,” which has the potential to be confusing, as it is certainly not the only stela to reference Amasis. In Aspects of the Military Documents of the Ancient Egyptians (New Haven and London, 1982), A. Spalinger generally terms it the “Amasis Historical Stela.” I opt instead for Leahy’s terminology. As regards the text itself, the only published copy of the inscription as a whole is G. Daressy, RT 22 (1900) 2 ff.; photographs, albeit unclear, in P. Der Maneulian, Living in the Past (London, 1994), plates xi., xii.; partial translations in J. H. Breasted, Ancient Records of Egypt: Historical Documents from the Earliest Times to the Persian Conquest, IV. (Chicago, 1906), §§996-1007; Relatively recent studies in E. Edel, “Amasis und Nebukadrezar II,” GM 29 (1978), 13 ff.; Leahy, JEA 74, 189 ff; I. A. Ladynin, “The Elephantine Stela of Amasis,” GM 211 (2006), 31 ff. 5. The tablet is BM 33041 (Nbk 329). See again Edel, GM 29, 14 ff.; and Ladynin, GM 211, 32 ff. Cf. A. Spalinger, “Egypt and Babylonia: A Survey (c. 620 b.c. – 550 b.c.),” SAK 5 (1977), 221 ff.; id., “The Civil War Between Amasis and Apries and the Babylonian Attack Against Egypt,” in Schriften zur Geschichte und Kultur des Alten Orients 14 (Berlin, 1979), 593 ff. The text itself is to be found in D. J. Wiseman, Chronicles of Chaldean Kings (London, 1956), 94- 5, pls. xx-xxi); trans. A. Oppenheim in ANE Texts Relating to the OT, ed. J. B. Pritchard (Princeton, 1955), 308; partial trans. by P. Berger, Die neubabylonischen Königsinschriften (Neurkirchen- Vluyn, 1973), 6, 68-9, 321. Leahy, JEA 74, 191 n. 31 details changes that may be made to the text. 6. Dio. I.68.3. 7. H. II.162. 8. The differences that can be noted in the interim section (H. II.162-3, Dio. I.68.4) are (1) the lack of mention of the Patarbemis affair in Dio., who does not record a cause for “the rest of the Egyptians” going over to Amasis, whereas Herodotus cites the exceedingly cruel treatment of one Patarbemis by Apries. Dio. may have disregarded this portion of H. as an overly imaginative 19 thE hIstorIEs of pharaoh amasIs retelling of the sequence, probably concocted to further illustrate the incredible brutality to which Amasis was rightly opposed; and (2) the location of the battle. H. gives “Momemphis,” while Dio. locates the battle at “Marea”; see Lloyd, Herodotus, III, 181 ff.; A. J. Ball, Egypt in the Classical Geographers (Cairo, 1942), 18, esp. n.2 for modern equivalents; cf. Burton, Diodorus, 208; for an attempt to reconcile the two accounts in terms of location, see Leahy, JEA 74, 192. 9. H. II.169. 10. Dio. I.68.5. 11. H. II.169. See also Lloyd, Herodotus, III, 202. 12. See n. 6 above for a bibliography of texts and translations of the stela. For the Babylonian fragment BM 33041 (Nbk 329), see n. 7 above and n. 21 below. 13. Breasted labels it “so badly preserved that a consecutive translation is totally impossible” (Ancient Records of Egypt, IV, §996). Daressy, who nevertheless attempted such a consecutive translation, still lamented the state of the inscription at the start of his article: “Ce monument est malheureusement en mauvais état de conservation: la surface en est usée par endroits, elle n’est plus polie; la lecture des inscriptions est des plus difficiles, les signes, peu profondément gravés, se perdent dans les inégalités du granit et n’ont laissé que des silhouettes sans détails” (Daressy, RT 22, 1). Also note Breasted’s translation, but Daressy concurs; see Breasted, Ancient Records of Egypt, IV, §§1002, 1006; cf. Daressy RT 22. Posener disagreed: “il serait sans doute plus exact de lire « an 1 » à la l. 1 et « an 2 » à la l. 14, que « an 3 » dans les deux cas, comme le fait Daressy” (Posener, RdPh 21, 129) Vandersleyen and De Meulenaere later adopt the earlier terminology (“la stèle de l’an 3 d’Amasis”), but note “Malgré le nom que nous donnons à cette stèle, les dates que contient le document ne sont probablement pas « l’an 3 »” (Vandersleyen, Les Guerres d’Amosis, 144, n. 3). 14. Edel, GM 29, 15 ff. 15. Daressy, RdPh 22, 2, col. 4. 16. Ibid. col. 3. This point has met with some dispute. See, A. B. Lloyd, “Were Necho’s Triremes Phoenician?” JHS 95 (1975), 59, n. 117. 17. See n. 7, above, for a bibliography of texts and translations relating to the fragment – BM 33041 (Nbk 329). 18. Trans. A. Oppenheim in ANE Texts Relating to the OT, 308. Spalinger, SAK 5, 237 ff. 19. However, cf. I. Ladynin, GM 211, 33 ff, who calls this into question. Still, it is difficult to see what other beginning might be proposed for this word, and indeed Ladynin does not suggest an alternative to the traditional reading. As Leahy writes, “The following phrase ‘King of Egypt’ suggests that this is the end of the name of an Egyptian king... Amasis is the only king of the Twenty-sixth Dynasty whose name could end so.” 20. Leahy, JEA 74, 192. 21. The last text that regards Apries as king is P. BM 10113, from Thebes, II šmw 10 (or mid-October), as cited in Leahy, JEA 74, 188. 22. Lloyd, Historia 37, 40 ff.: “The easiest explanation for the Herodotean tradition is to argue that it is based on pro-Amasis propaganda since Amasis’ reputation benefits from this account in that Apries is clearly blamed for his own death. According to Herodotus, although Amasis had deposed Apries, the latter richly deserved it.. All this suggests that Herodotus’ tradition is drawing on pro-Amasis propaganda. The precise source cannot be established with certainty, but the fact that the same propagandist bias is exemplified in the Amasis stele raises the distinct possibility that it is Egyptian in origin.” Nevertheless, Lloyd also regards H. II.172 as “cast in a form which looks very Gk. indeed… If, on the other hand, de Meulenaere is correct in assigning the narrative an Eg. origin, we should have to assume a radical Gk. reworking at some point to account for the version in H.” (Herodotus, III, 212). Cf. Leahy, JEA 74, 197 ff. 23. H. II.35 24. H. II.167. Though the historian writes “Εἰ μέν νυν καὶ τοῦτο παρ’ Αἰγυπτιῶν μεμαθήκασι οἱ ῞Ελληνες, οὐκ ἔχω ἀτρεκέως κρῖναι” (“Now whether the Greek have received this, too, from the Egyptians, I cannot exactly judge”), it is clear at the conclusion of his digression that he is implying that these customs are, in fact, inherited. 25. H. II.178. 26. W. M. F. Petrie, Naukratis I (1884-5) (London, 1886), 5. “The style of the earliest pottery here is such, as is at the lowest date placed in the seventh century BC. The Phoenician-Greek ware, as it is called, is often found; and found in the temenos of Apollo some way above the earliest remains. This would then bring the foundation of the city to at least the middle of the seventh century.” 27. Lloyd, Herodotus, III, 222 ff. for a convenient summary of some sources up to 1988 for the dating of the pottery. The older studies include Petrie, Naukratis I (1884-5); E. A. Gardner, Naukratis II (London, 1888); H. Payne, Necrocorinthia. A Study of Corinthian Art in the Archaic Period (Oxford, 1931) for the evidence of Corinthian pottery at Naukratis; C. Roebuck, “The Grain Trade between Greece and Egypt” CPh 45 (1950), 236 ff.; and J. Boardman, The Greeks Overseas (London, 1980). See, more recently, A. Leonard, Jr., Ancient Naukratis: Excavations at a Greek Emporium in Egypt, 2 vols., Annual of the American Schools of Oriental Research, vols. 54-5 (1997-8); A. Möller, Naukratis: Trade in Archaic Greece (Oxford, 2000); K. Smoláriková, Abusir VII: Greek Imports in Egypt (Prague, 2002), 95 ff.; A. Villing and U. Schlotzhauer, eds., Naukratis: Greek Diversity in Egypt (London, 2006), 5 ff. 28. Dio. I.66-68. Corroborating testimony occurs in Strabo, XVII, 1, 18 and in Aristagoras of Miletus (FgrH 608, F. 8). Taken together, their writings indicate a date in the latter half of the 7th century; cf. Lloyd, Herodotus, I, 24 ff.; Möller, Naukratis, 182 ff. 29. K. Sethe, Ägyptische Lesestücke, 3rd Ed. (Hildesheim, 1959), 23b, cited in Lloyd, Herodotus, I, 28. 30. Möller, Naukratis, 192. Cf. F. K. Kienitz, Die politische Geschichte Ägyptens vom 7. bis zum 4. Jahrhundert vor der Zeitwende (Berlin, 1953), 46 ff. 31. As is apparent both from the writing of Herodotus himself (II.161-9); see also the argument regarding the ḥʾw-nbw in n. 20, above; O. Murray, “Herodotus and Oral History” in The Historian’s Craft in the Age of Herodotus, ed. N. Luraghi (Oxford, 2001). 32. O. Murray, “Herodotus and Oral History” in The Historian’s Craft in the Age of Herodotus, ed. N. Luraghi (Oxford, 2001). 20 ElEmEnts : : sprIng 2011 33. H. II.182. 34. Lloyd, Herodotus, III, 233. 35. Depending on the time of the alliance, this prospective eastern enemy may have been either Babylon under Nebuchadrezzar II, or the Persians under Cyrus and Cambyses. Many scholars have regarded the alliance as having occurred after the Apries affair and the Babylonian invasion of 568/7, in which case the aggressor would be Persia. 36. As the pharaoh who lost the battle, Amasis’ successor, Psamettichus III (526-525 bce), could hardly come in for such veneration. 37. For the question of Dio.’s sources, see n. 5, above. references Breasted, J. H. Ancient Records of Egypt: Historical Documents from the Earliest Times to the Persian Conquest. 5 vols. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1906-7. Burton, Anne. Diodorus Siculus Book I: A Commentary. Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1972. Daressy, G. “Stèle de L’An III d’Amasis.” RT 22, 1900: 1-9. Der Maneulian, Peter. Living in the Past: Studies in Archaism of the Egyptian Twenty-Sixth Dynasty. London: Kegan Paul International, 1994. Edel, Elmar. “Amasis und Nebukadrezar II.” GM 29, 1978:13-20. Gardner, E. A. Naukratis II, London: The Egypt Exploration Fund, 1888. Harrison, Thomas. “Upside Down and Back to Front: Herodotus and the Greek Encounter with Egypt.” in Ancient Perspectives on Egypt, ed. Roger Matthews and Cornelia Roemer. London: University College London Press, 2003: 146-155. Hartog, F. The Mirror of Herodotus: The Representation of the Other in the Writing of History. trans. J. Lloyd. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1988. Kienitz, F. K. Die politische Geschichte Ägyptens vom 7. bis zum 4. Jahrhundert vor der Zeitwende. Berlin: Academie-Verlag, 1953. Ladynin, Ivan A. “The Elephantine Stela of Amasis: Some Problems and Prospects of Study.” GM 211, 2006: 31-56. Leahy, Anthony. “The Earliest Dated Monument of Amasis and the End of the Reign of Apries.” JEA 74, 1988: 183-199. Lloyd, A.B. “Were Necho’s Triremes Phoenician?” JHS 95, 1975: 45-61, plates vi.-viii. ___. “Herodotus’ Account of Pharaonic History.” Historia 37, 1988: 22-53. ___. Herodotus Book II: A Commentary. 3 vols. Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1975-1989. Möller, Astrid. Naukratis: Trade in Archaic Greece. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000. Murray, Oswyn. “Hecataeus of Abdera and Pharaonic Kingship.” JEA 56, 1970: 141-171. Petrie, W. M. F. Naukratis I (1884-5), London: The Egypt Exploration Fund, 1886. Pritchard, James B., ed. Ancient Near Eastern Texts Relating to the Old Testament. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1955. Spalinger, A.J. “Egypt and Babylonia: A Survey (c. 620 b.c. – 550 b.c.).” SAK 5, 1977: 221-244. ___. “The Civil War Between Amasis and Apries and the Babylonian Attack Against Egypt.” in Schriften zur Geschichte und Kultur des Alten Orients 14, ed. Walter F. Reineke. Berlin: Akademie, 1979: 593-604. ___. Aspects of the Military Documents of Ancient Egyptians (Yale Near Eastern Researchs 9). New Haven and London: Yale Universiy Press, 1982. 21 thE hIstorIEs of pharaoh amasIs “Endowed with permanent youth, Dorian’s life becomes a search for new sensations to mimic that first afternoon with Lord Henry.” This paper ouTlines The influence of lord henry WoTTon on dorian Gray’s hedonisTic TransformaTion in oscar Wilde’s The PicTure of Dorian Gray. noTinG The connecTions beTWeen Wildean and paTerian aesTheTicism, The paper concludes ThaT dorian is boTh aesTheTe and arTifacT. considerinG The WriTinGs of liTerary criTics Kevin ohi and Jeff nunoKaWa, This arTicle dissecTs each fiGure—aesTheTe and arTifacT—in relaTion To boTh queer Theory and paTerian aesTheTic Theory, mainly from The perspecTive of pa- Ter’s The renaissance. finally, The paper analyzes moralisTic, GoThic readinGs of The novel’s endinG, findinG Them desTrucTive in liGhT of The novel’s parallels WiTh pa- Ter’s Marius The ePicurian and oTher aesTheTic TreaTises. WiTh a heavy reliance on close readinG and formalisT approaches To liTerary criTicism, an analysis of The fi- nal momenT in The novel concludes ThaT dorian’s deaTh serves as his final Transfor- maTion inTo arT, Where life reTurns To arT ThrouGh deaTh. Rose-Red youth and Rose-white boyhood An Examination of Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray andreW Tareila Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray contains all the plot elements of a gothic novel; it is the supernatural story of a beautiful man who, once his hedonistic prayer to re- main always youthful is answered, switches “roles” with his portrait. Yet Wilde writes with careful attention paid to the themes outlined by the aesthetic movement, especially as influenced by Walter Pater, his contemporary. Accord- ingly, the novel’s characters embody these aesthetic themes. In truth, Dorian Gray could not be an aesthetic novel without the personality of Lord Henry Wotton, whose influence forces Dorian to assume a role compara- ble to Pater’s Marius the Epicurean, whose role is perhaps more matured in the aesthetic sense. A deep analysis of Lord Henry’s influential role points to Wilde’s aesthetic propositions and marks Lord Henry as the first cause of Dorian’s transformation. Lord Henry is a character de- fined by his musical voice and epigrammatic witticisms, the combination of which takes a profound hold over Dorian Gray’s intellectual development. And while he nev- er anticipates the negative effects of his hedonistic influ- ence—Dorian’s soul grows darker, unbeknownst to Lord Henry—his words shape and reshape Dorian into both the aesthete and the aesthetic artifact while corrupting his own soul. The effect poses a compelling nexus between artist, artifact, and observer, necessitating careful dissec- tion of each of these figures. Lord Henry is the first character to appear in the novel—an interesting point considering its title. While Basil Hall- ward is, in fact, the artist who paints the portrait of Dorian Gray, Lord Henry enacts a similarly artistic role in his abil- ity to sculpt the nature of Dorian’s intellect and, guided by the principles of the aesthetic movement, his soul. The first description of Lord Henry, arriving in only the second paragraph of the novel, says: From the corner of the divan of Persian saddle-bags on which he was lying, smoking, as was his custom, innumerable ciga- rettes, Lord Henry Wotton could just catch the gleam of the honey-sweet and honey-colored blossoms of a laburnum, whose tremulous branches seemed hardly able to bear the bur- den of a beauty so flame-like as theirs; and now and then the fantastic shadows of birds in flight flitted across the long tusso- re-silk curtains that were stretched in front of the huge window, producing a kind of momentary Japanese effect, and making him think of those pallid jade-faced painters of Tokio who, through the medium of an art that is necessarily immobile, seek to convey the sense of swiftness and motion.1 Kevin Ohi’s analysis of this passage points to the novel’s “power to evoke simultaneities of movement and stasis,” as the description is one of the novel’s numerous examples of passages of free indirect discourse.2 Here, readers enter into the consciousness of Lord Henry, who could “just catch the gleam” of the laburnum, a poisonous shrub con- taining blossoms of yellow flowers. The observation of the plant foreshadows three critical ideas encountered in the novel. First, the “honey-sweet and honey-colored” depic- tion of the laburnum echoes Lord Henry’s later descrip- tion of Dorian’s “rose-red youth and rose-white boyhood.”3 Second, the flower’s poisonous nature prefigures the poi- son Dorian reads in the “yellow book,” later given to him by Lord Henry. Finally, its “flame-like” beauty whose bur- den seems so hard to bear is reminiscent of the Paterian “gem-like flame.”4 However, as Ohi points out, the flowers are unaware of their own beauty—they are flame-like, but not yet flaming: “the flowers bear the affect burdening the human observer gazing on them; this very exchange, in turn, figures the identificatory crossings in aesthetic ab- sorption.”5 In this analysis of Lord Henry, this discourse marks his aesthetic maturity. The flowers are burdened with flame-like beauty because of his impression of the moment. In addition, it introduces the ecstasy of observa- tion that Lord Henry will utilize in his attempt to dominate Dorian’s intellect. Lord Henry views the “shadows of birds in flight” [emphasis added] and, later, contemplates Dorian’s “complex personality” that “took the place and as- sumed the office of art,” providing a form to the feelings— the shadows—of art. The “Japanese effect” is extended to the highest possible mode of transformation when Dorian assumes his role as artifact, but both transformations— the “Japanese effect” and Dorian’s—require Lord Henry’s influence. “A deep analysis of Lord Henry’s influential role points to Wilde’s aesthetic propositions and marks Lord Henry as the first cause of Dorian’s transformation.” 25 rose-red youTh and rose-WhiTe boyhood Like the flowers, who “seem hardly able to bear the burden of a beauty as flame-like as theirs,” Dorian requires the knowledge of his own beauty—a desire that necessitates the drama of aesthetic initiation here figured by the labur- num. However, it is clear in this passage that this initiation is deflected from the laburnum to Lord Henry, who per- ceives the beauty of a flower that is unable to share that perception. Later, in the climax of Dorian’s aesthetic initia- tion, he looks upon his own portrait; the artifact is the mir- ror image of the aesthete, and his inability to “bear the burden” of his own beauty is reflected both in the youthful face he sees and in his hedonistic prayer. As Dorian and Lord Henry share their first conversation, Basil Hallward is a passive onlooker, painting the expression on Dorian’s face as Lord Henry showers him with provocative elo- quence. In this first conversation, Lord Henry elicits a re- sponse in Dorian characterized by burning passion. He tells Dorian: You, Mr. Gray, you yourself, with your rose-red youth and your rose-white boyhood, you have had passions that have made you afraid, thoughts that have filled you with terror, day-dreams and sleeping dreams whose mere memory might stain your cheek with shame.6 If his statements seem audacious, it is because they are; he is, after all, confessing Dorian’s sins, his terrors, his inner- most secrets, all on Dorian’s behalf. Furthermore, they cause the stain that he describes; Dorian undoubtedly blushes out of self-awareness. The profound effect of these words “seemed to be able to give a plastic form to formless things”; the blush makes Dorian’s beautiful cheek visible, eliciting a physical response to new emotion, as he is con- sequently filled with the terror of his own awakening.7 Hallward enthusiastically notes the change in Dorian’s countenance as he listens to Lord Henry, remarking, “I have caught the effect I wanted—the half-parted lips, and the bright look in the eyes.”8 Therefore, when Dorian sees his portrait for the first time, he is in fact looking at this “effect”—he sees the power of Lord Henry’s audacity painted in the colors and contours of his face. In switching roles with his portrait, his face forever reflects that inno- cent wonder. Dorian desires similar awakenings later when, at the heart of the novel’s aesthetic meditations, he dwells on the im- possibility of an infinite variety to life: There steals over us a terrible sense of the necessity for the continuance of energy in the same wearisome round of stereo- typed habits, or a wild longing, it may be, that our eyelids might open some morning upon a world that had been refashioned anew in the darkness for our pleasure, a world in which things would have fresh shapes and colors, and be changed, or have other secrets.9 Dorian’s attempts to recreate that moment of aesthetic ini- tiation result from Lord Henry’s gift of eloquence. En- dowed with permanent youth, Dorian’s life becomes a search for new sensations to mimic that first afternoon with Lord Henry.10 In this section of the novel, Wilde’s nar- ration reads like an aesthetic treatise. The buildup of claus- es in sentences like the above mimic Dorian’s shifting in- terests; the use of the word “or” causes the sentence to nineTeenTh-cenTury prinT scene from The PicTure of Dorian Gray (1890), The only novel published by oscar Wilde 26 elemenTs : : sprinG 2011 irish WriTer oscar Wilde (1854-1900) 27 rose-red youTh and rose-WhiTe boyhood keep recreating itself, until arriving upon the very provoca- tive phrase, “other secrets.” This phrase reminds us of Lord Henry’s original erotic audacity, the aggression that formed Dorian’s aesthetic sensibility. The coupling of these shifting impressions with that moment in which we witness Dorian’s innocent blush emphasizes his desire to embody Pater’s gem-like flame. The “stereotyped habits” echo a similar sentiment in Pater’s “Conclusion” to The Renaissance: In a sense, it might even be said that our failure is to form hab- its: for, after all, habit is relative to a stereotyped world, and meantime it is only the roughness of the eye that makes any two persons, things, situations, seem alike.11 Surely Dorian’s past feelings, those thoughts that make him blush at Lord Henry’s words, were but Paterian fail- ures—habits formed regarding his sexuality or his life- style. Lord Henry describes each failure as if it were the artist’s paint upon a blank canvas, the realization of which “stains” the canvas, giving form to formless things. Lord Henry’s audacity thus stains Dorian, causing him to blush and creating the effect desired by Hallward. When he views his portrait for the first time, Dorian remolds into an aesthete like Lord Henry. As Wilde narrates Dorian’s im- pressions of the world, these moments of aesthetic fulfill- ment are described, “veil after veil of thin, dusky gauze is lifted, and by degrees the forms and colors of things are restored to them, and we watch the dawn remaking the world in its antique pattern.”12 The “dawn” draws upon Dorian’s awakenings, and again, resembles the notions conveyed in Pater’s “Conclusion.” Pater writes: While all melts under our feet, we may well grasp at any exqui- site passion, or any contribution to knowledge that seems by a lifted horizon to set the spirit free for a moment, or any stirring of the senses, strange dyes, strange colors, and curious odors, or work of the artist’s hands, or the face of one’s friend.13 Like Wilde, Pater repeatedly uses the conjunction “or” to mimic the effect he describes: form and content are bril- liantly wedded together. Dorian, in his magnificent beauty, embodies these passages in Pater; he is a disciple of Lord Henry’s hedonism and, by extension, Pater’s as well. In a conversation between Lord Henry and Dorian near the end of the novel, Wilde uses Lord Henry to describe the Paterian goal: A chance tone of color in a room or a morning sky, a particular perfume that you had once loved and that brings subtle memo- ries with it, a line from a forgotten poem that you had come across again, a cadence from a piece of music that you had ceased to play—I tell you, Dorian, that it is on things like these that our lives depend.14 This sentence, aside from being one of the most beautiful sentences in the novel, notes the importance of impres- sions and experience, which, according to Pater, “is the end.”15 To note these impressions, to remember the lines of verse and the cadences of a sonata, becomes success in life for Dorian. His life is characterized by complete inac- tion and attention to detail, just as Pater described. In The Renaissance, Pater declares, “All art constantly as- pires towards the condition of music” because of the in- ability to distinguish its matter from its form.16 Lord Hen- ry’s definition of influence from a musical standpoint evokes Pater’s point perfectly: “To influence a person is to give him one’s own soul. He does not think his natural thoughts, or burn with his natural passions.  .  .  . He be- comes an echo of some one else’s music.”17 Lord Henry’s own voice is repeatedly described as “low” and “musical,” and his influence causes the infiltration of his theories into Dorian’s consciousness, so much so that in later chapters, Dorian literally echoes these theories: “Now and then he repeated to himself the words that Lord Henry had said to him on the first day they had met: ‘To cure the soul by means of the senses and the senses by means of the soul’” (an epigram which will be returned to below).18 Yet in a further discussion of the musical nature of his influence, Lord Henry compares his tutorship to the playing of a mu- sical instrument: “Surely Dorian’s past feelings, those thoughts that make him blush at Lord Henry’s words, were but Paterian failures— habits formed regarding his sexuality or his lifestyle.” 28 elemenTs : : sprinG 2011 Talking to [Dorian] was like playing upon an exquisite violin. He answered to every touch and thrill of the bow. . . . There was something terribly enthralling in the exercise of influence. No other activity was like it. To project one’s soul into some gra- cious form, and let it tarry there for a moment; to hear one’s own intellectual views echoed back to one with all the added music of passion and youth; to convey one’s temperament into another, as though it were a subtle fluid of a strange perfume: there was a real joy in that.19 Lord Henry’s “low musical voice” plays on Dorian, figured here as a violin. In presenting the exercise of influence in this moment, where Dorian stands for Basil Hallward to paint, we see Lord Henry “speaks” through Dorian as the painting is brought to life. Much like Dorian can become a violin, the painting can become a person. The ease with which this occurs is made fully possible by its musical form, where Lord Henry’s words cannot be extracted from the sounds with which they resonate. Jeff Nunokawa ar- gues that because Lord Henry is motivated to exercise his influence by a homosexual desire for Dorian, “the mentor is altogether sublimated in the course of instruction where his erotic attraction to the young man finds its field of play.”20 Nunokawa emphasizes the homoeroticism of the passage, marking the effects of Lord Henry’s charisma over the charmed youth and dwelling on the way this inter- course sounds more like homosexual intercourse. Further- more, Nunokawa lingers over the “alchemic transmuta- tion” of Lord Henry’s music into a “strange perfume,” and contends that the transformation in form of the instruc- tion constitutes Lord Henry’s self-dispersal. This transfor- mation constitutes, for Nunokawa, Lord Henry’s “deper- sonalization,” but for the purposes of this analysis, it is this act that allows the color to flow into Dorian’s cheek in a movement from emotional to physical sensation. One particular theory that passes between these two char- acters is the theory that “nothing can cure the soul but the senses, just as nothing can cure the senses but the soul.”21 The mere statement causes yet another physical change: “.  .  . the scarlet of [Dorian’s] lips to shake and left them trembling.”22 This scarlet, like the color staining his cheek throughout the scene, is contrasted with Lord Henry’s “cool, white, flower-like hands.”23 The differences in both color and movement point to Dorian’s ability to feel shame—a trait seemingly unfound in Lord Henry. How- ever, just as this trait leaves Dorian in the course of the story, his desire to “cure the soul by means of the senses”— a seemingly aesthetic goal—grows in an intellectual man- ner. Shame declines in those striking moments when, upon looking at his portrait and the “face of his soul,” he simply becomes “more and more interested in the corrup- tion of his own soul. . . . He mocked the misshapen body and the failing limbs.”24 The novel begins its exposition of this aesthetic desire, as described above, with a dense chapter on the development of Dorian’s aesthetic interests, leaving the influence of Lord Henry temporarily aside. In addition to the more figurative aspects of the contrast in color between Lord Henry’s hands and Dorian’s face, for the sake of the plot, Dorian’s countenance in this scene, affected by Lord Henry, is the perfect countenance for Ba- sil’s depiction in the painting. As Dorian is to wear the face of the painting for the rest of his life, this look of shame and youthful awakening marks his face with the innocence of a boy whose every moment relives this experience. His soul and his intellect are, in fact, the opposite of innocent: according to Alan Campbell, he simply goes from “corrup- tion to corruption.”25 For an aesthete like Lord Henry, the prospect of having a work of art constantly in motion, yet constantly wearing that face of flowering innocence—of “rose-red youth and rose-white boyhood”—is likely the cause of his infatuation with Dorian. To Lord Henry, Dorian’s life itself transcends Pater’s ideal form of art; although, as has been discussed, the music is of utmost importance in shaping Dorian’s character. In his final conversation with Dorian, he says, “You are the type of what the age is searching for, and what “As Dorian is to wear the face of the painting for the rest of his life, this look of shame and youthful awakening marks his face with the innocence of a boy whose every moment relives this experience.” 29 rose-red youTh and rose-WhiTe boyhood it is afraid it has found. . . . Life has been your art. You have set yourself to music. Your days are your sonnets.”26 In this final confession of his love for Dorian Gray, Lord Henry alludes to a type—the Greek type, to be exact—that pro- longs that fleeting, vanishing impression. Moreover, Lord Henry sees Dorian’s life as the result of symphonic orches- tration; this music is not Lord Henry’s music, but the re- sult of it, the singular lifestyle of one burning “always with that gem-like flame.” However, as the sonnet was the sole art form not perfected by the Greeks, as noted by Wilde in The Artist as Critic, this allusion to Dorian’s days as sonnets reverberate a sense of newness. The Greek type is trans- formed and his ability to live as both beholder and beheld excites aesthetes like Lord Henry—yet it also excites Dorian. As in many other cases, he adopts Lord Henry’s views of the beauty of one’s life. In an earlier discussion with Basil Hallward, he says, “To become the spectator of one’s own life, as Henry says, is to escape the suffering.”27 Similarly, he maintains, “Life itself was the first, the great- est of the arts, and for it all other arts seem to be but a preparation.”28 Thus, the sonnets that characterize Dorian’s days, the music to which he sets his life, are the preparatory art forms that Dorian imagines for the art of his own life. This appreciation for preparatory forms gains an especially singular significance when, as will be dis- cussed, he becomes infatuated with a book of “poison.” Nunokawa observes that while readers see and hear less and less from Lord Henry as the novel progresses, Dorian replaces his influence with the yellow book given to him by his tutor: “For years Dorian Gray could not free himself from the influence of this book; or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that he never sought to free himself from it.”29 The book is the first of many of Dorian’s aes- thetic obsessions; nine versions are bought and “bound in different colors, so that they might suit his various moods and the changing fancies of a nature over which he seemed, at times, to have almost entirely lost control.”30 It serves as an example of the way in which the outsides of things make the insides seem more beautiful—a common motif in the novel, and one especially compelling in regard to the discrepancies between Dorian’s beautiful form and his ugly soul, which is of course explicitly shown in the portrait. However, the “poison” contained in the book, as Dorian would call it, also reminds readers of the poison inside of Dorian that seems out of his “control.” It is clear that Lord Henry influences this loss of control, yet, throughout the novel, it is obvious that Lord Henry does not guess at the harmful impacts of his influence over Dorian. Even in their final conversation before Dorian’s death, Dorian remarks on the yellow book’s poisonous na- ture, and Lord Henry replies: As for being poisoned by a book, there is no such thing as that. Art has no influence upon action. It annihilates the desire to act. It is superbly sterile. The books that the world calls im- moral are the books that show the world its own shame.31 Once again, Lord Henry points to the unique emotion of shame. Lord Henry’s belief that the exposure of shame is, in fact, beneficial to the exposed, emphasizes his over- whelming desire to appear apathetic. Surely if art had no influence upon action, his own musical voice would not have affected Dorian’s developing tastes and curiosities throughout the novel, and Basil Hallward’s portrait would not have spawned Hallward’s own death. The obvious dis- crepancies between Lord Henry’s statement and the truth of the novel emphasize his ignorance of Dorian’s evil. aT The end of Wilde’s novel, dorian Gray is found dead WiTh a Knife in his hearT. 30 elemenTs : : sprinG 2011 Dorian moves from the yellow book to a series of aestheti- cally pleasing obsessions. Like Pater’s Marius the Epicu- rean, who moved from Epicureanism to an obsession with Heraclitus, to the School of Cyrene, to Christianity, and other interests, “he would often adopt certain modes of thought that he knew to be really alien to his nature, aban- don himself to their subtle influences, and then, having, as it were, caught their color and satisfied his intellectual cu- riosity, leave them with that curious indifference.”32 When read alongside Marius the Epicurean, Dorian’s series of aes- thetic interests may be understood as lacking any sort of development. For Dorian, and the same is true for Walter Pater, the aim of “passionate experience . . . was to be expe- rience itself.”33 Thus, while Lord Henry’s brief disappear- ance from the novel may hint at a sudden decline of his influence, Dorian’s development is complete; he is the aes- thete that Lord Henry sought to form through his musical voice, the “gem-like flame” who is “for ever curiously test- ing new opinions and courting new impressions.”34 In reading the assertion that Dorian’s “development is com- plete,” however, it is necessary to note that his aesthetic life has just begun. In Marius the Epicurean, Pater wrote: From that maxim Life as the end of life, followed, as a practical consequence, the desirableness of refining all the instruments of inward and outward intuition, of developing all their capaci- ties, of testing and exercising one’s self in them, till one’s whole nature became one complex medium of reception, towards the vision—the “beatific vision,” if we really cared to make it such—of our actual experience in the world.35 Dorian enjoys the aesthetics of Catholicism, the “cold mar- ble pavement” and the “priest, in his stiff, flowered dal- matic”; and yet, “[Dorian] never fell into the error of arrest- ing his intellectual development by any formal acceptance of creed or system.”36 He then arbitrarily devotes himself to music, perfumes, jewels, embroideries; one cannot characterize his life with any theory except the aesthetic theory. Once removed from the “low, musical voice” of Lord Henry, Dorian follows his own music in a whimsical, unpredictable manner. His aesthetic theory lies outside the framework of the gothic novel in which it is found. Thus, the aesthetic novel, the story of Dorian’s enthusi- asms, which includes the aesthetic treatise highlighted above, matches the novel’s title beautifully; the reader truly is left with a picture of Dorian Gray. For Dorian, there “was no mood of the mind that had not its counterpart in the sensuous life.”37 A character so de- voted to the senses, so keen on experimentation and im- pressions, can find only one exit from this life: the exit into art itself. Pater’s maxim, Life as the end of life, renders his sensuous enthusiasms—his aesthetic life—as driven to- wards an artistic, beatific ideal. Dorian’s death at the end of the novel, for many critics, poses interesting moralizing questions concerning gothic themes of the novel’s era. On the one hand, many critics contend that his death serves to halt his hedonist life before his “evil influence” expands. As previously noted, however, his aesthetic enthusiasms do not maintain the plot of the gothic novel—they are the randomly assorted impressions of an epicurean. Thus, his death cannot stand as the terminus of an immoral life. In- stead, when the servants creep upstairs and open the door: ...They found hanging upon the wall a splendid portrait of their master as they had last seen him, in all the wonder of his exqui- site youth and beauty. Lying on the floor was a dead man, in evening dress, with a knife in his heart. He was withered, wrin- kled, and loathsome of visage.38 His death is his final initiation into art, and it serves to unite the aesthete and the artifact in the last moment. The vibrant beauty that his servants find in the picture replaces his soul that had, for years, idled in an agony of corruption. Truly, for Dorian, nothing could “cure the soul but the senses.” The crux of the aesthetic novel, that initiation fol- lowed by a series of newer, yet not necessarily grander ini- tiations, can only end with artistic life replacing life itself. The contrast in the final sentences of the novel between the beautiful form of the painting and the “loathsome” man lying next to it, coupled with the servants’ inability to distinguish their dead master if not for his jeweled rings, which were remnants of one of his enthusiasms, allows not a sense of finality, but rather a staggering simplicity in death as a final aesthetic initiation. And if his series of en- thusiasms is arbitrary, so is the timeliness of his death. Wilde’s ability to separate the two plots—that of the gothic novel and that which is contrastingly plot-less receives its climax here, where the two stories come together in star- tling opposition. endnotes 1. Wilde (3) 2. Ohi (74) 3. Wilde (21) 4. The specific reference is from Walter Pater’s final essay in The Renaissance, “The Conclusion”: “To burn always with this hard, gem-like flame, to maintain this ecstasy, is success in life” (174). 5. Ohi (74) 6. Wilde (21) 31 rose-red youTh and rose-WhiTe boyhood 7. Ibid. 8. Wilde (22) 9. Wilde (135) 10. While many critics contend that the “aesthetic initiation” occurs when he views his completed portrait for the first time, the events outlined above emphasize the importance of Lord Henry’s erotic audacity in preparing Dorian for his initial encounter with his “rose-red youth and rose-white boyhood.” The picture is, of course, necessary for Dorian only after Lord Henry teaches him how to look at it. 11. Pater 1980 (189) 12. Wilde (134) 13. Ibid. 14. Wilde (223) 15. Pater 1980 (188) 16. Pater 1980 (106) 17. Wilde (20) 18. Wilde (189) 19. Wilde (39) 20. Nunokawa (317) 21. Wilde (23) 22. Ibid. 23. Ibid. 24. Wilde (161, 131) 25. Wilde (176) 26. Wilde (223) 27. Wilde (114) 28. Wilde (132) 29. Wilde (130) 30. Ibid. 31. Wilde (224) 32. Wilde (134) 33. Wilde (134); cf. Pater 1980 (188), “Not the fruit of experience, but experience itself is the end.” 34. Pater 1980 (189) 35. Pater 1921 (143) 36. Wilde (135-6) 37. Wilde (136) 38. Wilde (229) RefeRences Nunokawa, Jeff. “Homosexual Desire and the Effacement of the Self in The Picture of Dorian Gray.” American Imago 49, No. 3 (1992): 311-321. Ohi, Kevin. Innocence and Rapture. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2005. Pater, Walter. Marius the Epicurean: his sensations and ideas. Lon- dan: Macmillan, 1921. Pater, Walter. The Renaissance: Studies in Art and Poetry. Ed. Don- ald L. Hill. Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1980. Wilde, Oscar. The Picture of Dorian Gray. Ed. Camille Cauti. New York: Barnes & Noble Books, 2004. 32 elemenTs : : sprinG 2011 Accounts And drAmAtic portrAyAls of the sAlem witch triAls often cAricAture the ActuAl events. while sAlem’s courtrooms did produce A drAmAtic scene At the close of the seventeenth century, the individuAls fAlsely Accused of witchcrAft by their fel- low townspeople Are often lost in the nArrAtive. dorothy Good, one such victim, does not initiAlly seem exceptionAl since she wAs Accused And convicted on chArGes of witchcrAft just like so mAny other women. but dorothy’s cAse becomes much more troublinG Given her AGe—she wAs four yeArs old. how could A mere toddler become involved in the chAos of the sAlem courtrooms, subject to friGhtful And vicious Ac- cusAtions? throuGh primAry sources from the period, this pAper exposes some of the influences on dorothy’s story, pArticulArly thAt of her pArents, in the context of the culturAl And sociAl expectAtions of seventeenth-century sAlem in order to un- cover the truth behind the unAnswered questions surroundinG dorothy Good. Dorothy gooD The Case of a Child Witch ellen ZAtkowski The account of the trial of Dorothy Good reads like many other documents regarding the witch trials that consumed Salem, Massachusetts, in 1692. The accusations against Dorothy included her appearance in ghost-like apparitions to the people of Salem Village, “biting, pricking and pinch- ing . . . and almost choking [her victims] to death.”1 These allegations resemble numerous other accounts of witch- craft, making it appear that Dorothy’s case was not unique. However, there is a twist to Dorothy Good’s story: Dorothy, who was both convicted and imprisoned on charges of witchcraft, was only four years old. This fact shocks modern sensibilities. Twenty-first century Americans understand childhood as a crucial period of hu- man development set apart from youth and adulthood. This was not the case in seventeenth-century Salem. It begs the following question: how could the people of the Massachusetts Bay Colony allow a mere toddler to be im- prisoned for nine months?2 Moreover, primary sources suggest that Sarah Good, Dorothy’s mother, was pregnant at her trial and gave birth to another infant who died in prison.3 What social attitudes in 1692 allowed treatment of a child and pregnant woman that would be considered abusive today? The story becomes even more complicated as other court documents reveal that Dorothy acted as a witness against Sarah, aiding in the conviction and execu- tion of her own mother. How did Dorothy become a legally acceptable accuser equal to older girls such as Abigail Wil- liams and Elizabeth Parris? By considering primary docu- ments recounting the events of the Salem witch trials, cer- tain circumstances and beliefs shed some light on these questions. Dorothy’s ordeal is intricately linked to the rep- utation and behavior of her mother Sarah Good both in Salem Village and during her own trial on allegations of witchcraft. The case against Sarah Good is likely the main reason why her young daughter Dorothy was accused, im- prisoned, put on trial, and convicted of witchcraft. Witchcraft accusations against children were not unheard of in the seventeenth century. There are previously docu- mented cases of child witchcraft in both England and Ger- many. But these cases typically occurred as the witch craz- es drew to a close.4 Theories explaining this circumstance cite social and political turmoil and disorganization in Eu- rope caused by the Protestant Reformation and subse- quent wars of religion. Uncertainty regarding social rules and expectations may have influenced the increased role that children took in the witchcraft trials, acting as both accuser and accused.5 In the Salem witch trials, Dorothy Good’s case differed greatly from those in Europe; accusa- tions were levied against her at the beginning of the witch- hunt and under different political and social conditions. Another difference is that the children involved in the Eu- ropean witch crazes were typically older than the age of four, a circumstance that makes Dorothy’s trial exception- al. These conditions prompt an inquiry into how this could be sanctioned in Salem.6 The pervasive atmosphere of suspicion in the witch trials may have allowed the villagers to overlook Dorothy’s age because of their very real fear of a witch’s evil power. The allegations against various, mostly female, villagers origi- nated from unexplainable afflictions and fits of young girls. Historian Mary Beth Norton argues that these girls’ actions arose out of the political uncertainty of the period and built upon pre-existing tensions.7 This same “preoc- cupation with conspiracy” also consumed Dorothy who saw a way out of her imprisonment by providing evidence against her mother.8 This simplified explanation, however, does not take into account the specific circumstances sur- rounding the Salem witch trials in general and Dorothy’s case in particular. Dorothy’s mother, Sarah Good, plays the most important role in the drama that unfolded in the court of magistrates John Hathorne and Jonathan Corwin. Sarah Good’s tem- pestuous life culminated in her execution on charges of witchcraft on July 19, 1692. The events of her life provide insight into Puritan society and help explain Dorothy’s story. Sarah Solart Poole Good was born into a relatively “In the Salem witch trials, Dorothy Good’s case differed greatly from those in Europe; accusations were levied against her at the beginning of the witch-hunt and under different political and social conditions.” 35 dorothy Good well to-do family in Wenham, Massachusetts. After her fa- ther committed suicide, Sarah’s mother remarried. She subsequently refused to provide Sarah with her rightful inheritance as stipulated in her father’s will. Sarah’s first marriage to an indentured servant named Daniel Poole also ended in money problems after Poole’s death left Sar- ah in debt from which she was never able to recover. After her remarriage to William Good, this ever-growing debt forced the Goods to sell what remained of the land be- queathed to Sarah by her late father. Homeless and poor, the Goods, along with their daughter Dorothy, ultimately came to reside in Salem Village where they began a life of begging in order to survive.9 The Good family’s situation was largely formed by Salem society, one heavily influenced by Puritanism. An offshoot of Calvinism, Puritanism was a Protestant religious move- ment composed of Christians who became disillusioned by the corruption of the Anglican Church and severed ties with Anglicanism. The Puritans, persecuted for their break from the Church of England, fled to the New World and established Plymouth Colo- ny, which became part of the larger Massa- chusetts Bay Colony. These Puritans, along with other English settlers, established a soci- ety influenced by their unfailing belief in God’s divine providence.10 While church and state were legally distinct, “religion framed the essential standards of conduct” in the colony, according to historian John Demos.11 Religion also served to “‘explain’ every man- ner of event, large and small, happy and pain- ful, public and private.”12 The connection be- tween an individual and the public steeped in religious tradition resulted in a basis of soci- etal value. The Goods were “undesirables” who violated these societal norms, contribut- ing to the family’s reputation.13 The villagers’ reactions to the Goods, specifi- cally Sarah, reveal an intolerance and intense suspicion of outsiders. The primary accusers of alleged witches targeted people who lived on the fringes of the community. Elizabeth Parris and Abigail Williams, the original in- stigators of the witch craze in Salem Village, were directly related to Salem’s minister, Samuel Parris.14 Since such an important leader was involved, the girls’ complaints of affliction at the hands of witches were of great interest to the villagers.15 Both of these girls, however, were too young to testify in court, according to English law. The question then became how the authorities, including Parris, should handle the girls’ accusations of torment at the hands of alleged witches. While many villagers took these accusations seriously, adults did not know how to manage the trials given the witnesses’ youth. Initially, village leaders did not intend to allow the girls to testify in court since they were under the legal age limit of fourteen. While some of the girls, such as Ann Putnam Jr. and Abigail Williams, were ultimately al- lowed to testify, their ages were conspicuously absent from the records. Norton argues that the lack of information on the girls’ ages may have reflected “a desire to conceal the youth of these witnesses” in case accusations should ever arise regarding the “legitimacy of the proceedings.”16 It was not until Betty Hubbard, who was over the age of four- teen, came forward complaining of her own afflictions that the villagers sought legal action against the alleged witch- Guilty verdict pronounced At the sAlem witch triAls in the mAssAchusetts bAy colony, 1692 36 elements : : sprinG 2011 es. The magistrates may then have allowed testimony from the other girls since Betty Hubbard legitimized their ac- cusations. In Dorothy Good’s trial, no official action was taken until Betty Hubbard echoed the younger girls’ claims.17 The first women that the girls accused of witchcraft—Titu- ba, Sarah Osborne, and Sarah Good—were all considered outsiders. That none of these women were native to Salem implies this prejudice may have influenced their accusa- tions.18 Tituba’s origins are unknown but it is assumed that she came from a region near Florida, called “New Spain.” She was referred to as “Tituba Indian,” explicitly denoting her racial difference from the English members of the community. Norton explains that the “Villagers viewed her ethnicity as an inseparable part of her identity,” thus making her a permanent outsider.19 Sarah Osborne, originally from Watertown, was notorious for her marriage to an indentured servant. Osborne was also involved in a feud with an influential Salem family, which further con- tributed to her infamy. Sarah Good, embittered by her so- cioeconomic status, was ostracized due to her odd charac- ter and hostility. Many members of the community had already voiced suspicions of Sarah’s practicing witchcraft. Therefore, in her case, the girls’ accusations supplement- ed well-known gossip.20 Upon Sarah Good’s arrest, people immediately volun- teered incriminating evidence against her that revealed their attitudes towards both Sarah and her family. The wit- nesses included male leaders in the Salem community such as William Allen, John Hughes, and Samuel Brabooke, as well as the girls who remained at the center of every accusation during the trials: Mercy Lewis, Abigail Williams, and Betty Hubbard. They cited Sarah Good’s “muttering” and “mumbling” in her interactions with oth- ers as evidence of her poor intentions. After receiving some form of charity, Sarah would walk away mumbling incoherently under her breath, neglecting to express grati- tude. Her behavior left a negative impression on the peo- ple who subsequently found an outlet for their frustrations and suspicion in Sarah’s trial.21 When asked by John Ha- thorne why she “muttered,” Sarah replied: “I did not mut- ter but I thanked him for what he gave my child.”22 The presence of the “afflicted” girls in the courtroom only in- tensified the suspicions of Sarah’s guilt as they dissolved into “torments” when she turned to look at them. Witness- es present at the trial referred to Sarah’s denials of the vil- lagers’ accusations as “base and abusive words and many lies,” saying “her answers were in a very wicked pitiful manner.” It would seem, therefore, that the villagers’ prob- lems with the Good family may have stemmed partly from the Goods’ failure to meet societal expectations.23 Seventeenth-century society was based upon the institu- tion of the family, ideally consisting of a father, mother, and children. The family was expected to provide “for the town at large,” an expectation presented in testimony at Sarah Good’s trial.24 Just as the church and state coexisted relatively seamlessly within society, so too did family life and social life rely on one another. There was a “wide range of functions which the family in this era was expect- ed to serve” including offering hospitality to “unfortu- nates,” who could not provide for themselves, like the Goods.25 Demos describes the importance of the family in contributing to community welfare: In an era when there were no hospitals, no poorhouses, indeed no specialized welfare institutions of any kind, the social im- portance of the family was extremely large [serving as a] house of correction, church, and welfare institution.26 English Puritan minister William Gouge, in his 1622 work on familial obligations, Of Domesticall Duties [sic], likens the family to “a little Church, and a little commonwealth” symbolizing the importance of the family’s contribution to society as a whole.27 The villagers would most likely be fa- miliar with Gouge’s work and views on family life due to the Puritan influence in the Massachusetts Bay Colony. This conduct book was also widely published in eight edi- tions, making it accessible to the colony’s educated lead- ers.28 The Goods’ poverty and outsider status kept them from upholding the expectations placed upon the family, likely contributing to the accusations against both Sarah and her daughter. Samuel and Mary Abbey, a Salem Village couple, attempt- ed to live up to society’s expectations by providing hospital- ity for the Good family, but they were ultimately unable to handle Sarah Good’s unsettling behavior. The Abbeys re- ported that they invited the Goods to stay in their home in 1659 since the Goods were “destitute of a house to dwell in.” It was not long, however, before the Abbeys had to end their hospitality. Mary Abbey recounted that she was forced to turn the Goods out due to Sarah’s “turbulent spirit, spitefull and so maliciously bent.”29 The Abbeys believed that Sarah maintained a grudge against them and had harmed their livestock. They cited this evidence as grounds for conviction on witchcraft charges.30 In addition to dem- 37 dorothy Good onstrating society’s attitude towards “undesirable” mem- bers of the community, the Abbeys’ encounter with Sarah Good reflected a common suspicion held by many other villagers who dealt with Sarah’s ingratitude and troubled mind. Even William Good, Sarah’s husband and Dorothy’s father, believed his wife was guilty of consorting with the devil, a sentiment that would be echoed about the couple’s daughter. William Good’s testimony condemning his wife offers in- sight into the Goods’ family dynamic. In a statement be- fore the magistrates, William declared “that he was afraid that she [Sarah] either was a witch or would be one very quickly.” The worthy Mr. Hathorne asked him his reason for saying so, whether he had ever seen anything done by her, and Mr. Good answered “no, not in this nature, but it was her bad carriage to him,” and indeed said, “I may say with tears that she is an enemy to all good.”31 The fact that William Good would readily condemn his wife to prison, and ultimately death, presents an image of a turbulent family life that did not conform to society’s standards. In addition to betraying his spouse, William appears to have disregarded any consideration for his daughter’s well- being. Clearly, the Goods did not represent the ideal Puri- tan family, a fact that can help answer the questions sur- rounding Dorothy’s trial. Notable writers of the period, mainly ministers, provided the image of an ideal family through their works on Chris- tian values. The expectation that families submit to the providence of God’s divine will was paramount in any con- temporary discussion of familial duties. Children, like Dorothy, were held to high expectations concerning their behavior and attitude towards their elders. The fifth com- mandment to “Honor thy father and mother” from Chap- ter 20, verse 12 of the Book of the Ephesians encapsulates the relationship between child and parent.32 Before all else, a child must respect his or her mother and father, a prin- ciple apparent in Gouge’s work: Let all reverence be manifested in children’s behavior to their parents . . . [and] let the countenance, and gesture of the body be so soberly and modestly ordered in the presence of the par- ents, as may argue due respect.33 The child’s respect must also be a combination of “a lov- ing-feare or a fearinglove [sic], which is the ground of chil- dren’s duties.”34 The seventeenth-century household, es- tablished on the expectation present in the fifth commandment, was not a home of doting parental indul- gence but rather built upon the reciprocal responsibilities between parent and child. Childhood, while not viewed as a unique developmental stage in this period as it is today, was still a time for learn- ing how to be an adult. Demos states that Puritan children were treated like “miniature adults” and their parents’ in- struction helped train them to become contributing mem- bers of society.35 From a young age, children were expected to help with household chores. Both boys and girls began working with their families by the age of five or six, learn- ing necessary skills that were valued by the entire commu- nity.36 The notion of the importance of work contributed to the outsider status of the Good family. Since the Goods were beggars who did not have a home of their own, they were unable to work in the traditional sense by contributing to Salem’s collective well-being. Instead, they relied on other families for survival, a dependency that many villagers re- sented. Hans Sebald examines the psychological mindset of some of the villagers during the witch trials: “Pent-up fears and guilt of Calvinist repression changed into anger and exploded into behavior that was vengeful and legiti- mate at the same time.”37 This resentment was evident in testimonies such as the Abbeys’ against Sarah Good.38 While this bitterness helps to explain the sentiments ex- pressed by the community toward Sarah, it does not expli- cate the accusations against Dorothy. At four years old, she “The seventeenth-century household, established on the expectation present in the fifth commandment, was not a home of doting parental indulgence but rather built upon the reciprocal responsibilities between parent and child.” 38 elements : : sprinG 2011 was not expected to contribute to society in the same ca- pacity as an adult. But her parents, and therefore the entire Good family, lacked other traditional virtues that further distanced them from the rest of the community. Adults were expected to live a pious life in accordance with Christ’s teachings. It was understood that they would im- part these teachings to their sons and daughters. The Good family, who were not churchgoers, could not fulfill this crucial component of their child’s education. A com- mon principle spread by ministers of the period, like Cot- ton Mather, dictated that children should be taught to live a godly life from infancy. One of Mather’s sermons fo- cused on the formation of “gracious little children” and was entitled “The Little Child’s Lesson; Or A Child wise unto Salvation. A Discourse instructing and inviting Little Children to the Exercises of Early Piety. To which may be added, A short Scriptural Catechism, accommodated unto their Capacities.”39 The sermon was published and spread throughout the colony so the educated people of Salem would probably have been familiar with Mather’s views on childrearing. In his “Lesson” Mather stresses the qualities of a pious child or the ideal that other children should em- ulate. Mather presents a loving and paternal view of God’s care for his children on earth, encouraging his listeners and readers to believe and trust in their heavenly father through respect for earthly authority. The theme of obedience is also central to Mather’s mes- sage as he instructs children to learn how to fear God, a fear that would translate into a respect for their parents and elders. Children must “yield to God the submission which is due unto a father. They will by no means dispute the will of God, but render a most full, profound, absolute Obedience thereunto.”40 Gouge also provides examples of instances in which children must demonstrate respect for their mother and father such as direct obedience of orders, “reverent framing of speech to a parent,” and even table manners. Children were expected to be “meeke and hum- ble,” only speaking when spoken to: “By a present, ready, willing, pleasing answer, when by their parents they shall be spoken unto.”41 A child’s subordination to his or her parents’ wisdom must be apparent in his or her very “countenance, and the gesture of the body be so soberly and modestly ordered in the presence of the parent” thus demonstrating a fulfillment of the all-important fifth com- the writinGs of cotton mAther were A potent influence upon seventeenth-century mAssAchusetts. 39 dorothy Good mandment.42 This obedience extended to submitting to the parents’ judgment—disobedience resulted in severe punishment. Gouge explains corporal punishment as a form of “correc- tion” that children must accept and utilize constructively by changing their behavior.43 The intention of beating was not cruelty but rather an expectation and hope that the child would learn from his or her mistakes and respect all earthly authority and ultimately God’s divine authority: Parents must oft whet instruction upon their children and . . . beat into their children’s heads the lessons which they teach them: that so they may make a deeper impression in their hearts . . . so many admonitions doe settle good instructions in a childes heart, and cause that the heart be established in that which is taught.44 Dorothy Good’s imprisonment represents an extreme ap- plication of this principle. She was jailed in order to rectify her allegedly “evil” behavior. She was ultimately able to learn what society expected of her as a result of this impris- onment, which she exhibited by helping the magistrates create a stronger case against Sarah. Most discipline, how- ever, did not take place in a prison cell but within the household.45 An exception existed regarding the authorities’ interfer- ence with parent-child relations in the Massachusetts Bay Colony’s laws known as the “stubborn child law.” The “stubborn child law” allowed for the death penalty if a child exhibited flagrant and destructive disobedience towards his or her parents or other authority figures. In the eyes of the law, “an offense against one’s parents was also an of- fense against the basic values of the community,” further demonstrating the intrinsic link between families and so- ciety.46 While this law remained in the books on 1692, it was never utilized in any case involving a child or young adult.47 Also, a child under the age of sixteen would not be held to the standards of the “stubborn child law.” It was understood that parents would discipline younger chil- dren at home.48 The law’s very existence, however, illus- trates the severity of discipline in Puritan-influenced soci- ety and provides a legal basis for Dorothy’s imprisonment on witchcraft charges. This particular form of punishment seemed to accomplish its purpose since Dorothy ultimate- ly assisted the authorities by providing incriminating evi- dence against Sarah. In doing so Dorothy demonstrated her ability to submit to her elders, an aspect of Mather’s “gracious” child. While Mather’s tone attempts to appeal to young children, the sermon also reflects the seventeenth-century dualistic worldview, which accepted the existence of evil working in the world. Norton writes: New England’s Puritans . . . believed themselves to be sur- rounded by an invisible world of spirits as well as by a natural world of palpable objects. Satan, leader of the ‘evil angels,’ played a major role in the invisible world.49 The witch trials reflected this belief in the pervasive pres- ence of evil. The existence of servants to the devil in the form of witches was a common conception not limited to the people of the Massachusetts Bay Colony.50 The case of the Goods serves as a primary example of the interpreta- tion of certain events as indicative of Satan’s assault on Christianity. The Good family, homeless and penniless, did not live in accordance with the principles laid out by Gouge and Mather or the expectations of Salem. The only alternative left for the villagers was to explain Sarah’s in- comprehensible behavior as influenced by the devil. This fear of the unknown fueled suspicions of Sarah and Doro- thy Good. Both Mather and Gouge reflect these beliefs in their own references to the power of the devil and the consequences of sin. If parents did not live piously then they were lead- ing their children down a dangerous path towards evil. Mather uses the imagery of hell to convey the importance of his message to both parents and children. “Gracious little children,” according to Mather, “are sensible that they have been the children of wrath and the Children of Hell, and that while they were in their sins they have had the Devil for their father.”51 Mather does not limit his denun- ciation of sinful ways to children. He also presents the al- ternative to pious parenting: “What a terrible thing will it be for you to be then clap’d up in chains of Darkness among black Devils against the Judgment of the Great Day!”52 Gouge expounds upon the evil consequences that befall parents who pervert their responsibilities. Like Mather, he remarks upon the importance of a parent’s role in raising their offspring and the repercussions of poor parenting: Many [parents] are so farre from teaching piety, as they teach their children profanenesse, pride, riot, lying, deceit, and such 40 elements : : sprinG 2011 like principles of the devil. It had beene better for such chil- dren to have lived among wilde beasts, then under such parents [sic].53 These same parents “make themselves vassals to Satan” by neglecting their duties to provide a pious, upstanding ex- ample for their sons and daughters. The importance of parents and their influence over their children’s lives extended to the seventeenth-century notion of heredity, which implied that even specific character traits could be passed from parent to child, a belief that played a role in the witch trials. A parent’s example pro- vided the necessary foundation for a child’s education and the formation of his or her character. In other words, in order for children to live piously their parents must also live piously: “Let all Parents endeavour that their children may be those gracious Ones which may know God for their Father.”54 Gouge writes that the actions of parents will influence the lives of their offspring, for better or worse: “covetous and unjust parents . . . bring God’s curse into their house, and leave it unto their children.”55 This passage reflects the Old Testament notion of punishing children for the sins of their parents, thus continuing “God’s curse” through the family line. It was not just he- reditary traits that were passed down from parent to child. Parents also had tremendous influence over their children since they were the primary role models in their children’s lives. The lessons parents taught their children were cru- cial to the child’s development and sense of the world and imparting the wrong kind of knowledge could prove detri- mental to an entire family. An English witchcraft case reflects this perception of he- redity and offers insight on the circumstances of the Good case. In 1612, Elizabeth Demdike, referred to as “Old Dem- dike,” was accused of being a witch. Subsequently her chil- dren and grandchildren were also accused and imprisoned in the Castle of Lancaster.56 The author of a pamphlet doc- umenting the case argued that “Old Demdike’s” offspring were guilty by association and that Elizabeth’s devilish ways could be, and were, transferred to family members: “Thus lived shee securely for many yeares, brought up her owne Children, instructed her Graund-children, and tooke great care and paines to bring them to be Witches.”57 Ac- cording to the court, Old Demdike’s daughter, Elizabeth Device, continued her mother’s work. At her trial she was called a “barbarous and inhuman Monster” who brought her “owne naturall children into mischief and bondage.” Device and her children were convicted and condemned to death.58 This case reflects a common trend that women, rather than men, were implicated by a relative’s conviction on charges of witchcraft since mothers were thought to have more influence over their children, specifically daughters, than fathers did.59 Sarah Good’s conviction as a witch implicated her daughter Dorothy, who allegedly in- herited Sarah’s “turbulent spirit” as well as her wisdom in the ways of witchcraft. On March 23, 1692, a warrant was issued for Dorothy Good’s arrest on suspicion of witchcraft. The usual accus- ers came forward citing torments they suffered at the hand of Dorothy’s apparition. For example, Ann Putnam Jr., Mercy Lewis, and Mary Wolcott all complained of being bitten and pinched by Dorothy.60 In every court record con- cerning Dorothy Good’s trial she is rarely referred to by name but rather as “Sarah Good’s child,” denoting the in- separable connection to her mother. The girls provided ad- ditional evidence against “Sarah Good’s child” saying that they were tempted “to writ in hir [sic] book,” a typical ac- cusation against a witch.61 It was commonly believed that the pact with the devil was only made binding through signing the devil’s book. The girls and the magistrates cit- ed this occurrence as proof of an alleged witch’s guilt.62 Deodat Lawson, a former pastor of the Salem Village “The importance of parents and their influence over their children’s lives extended to the seventeenth- century notion of heredity, which implied that even specific character traits could be passed from parent to child, a belief that played a role in the witch trials.” 41 dorothy Good church, described the first examination of Dorothy Good in the presence of her accusers on March 24, 1692: The Magistrates and Ministers also did informe me, that they apprehended a child of Sarah G. and Examined it, being be- tween 4 and 5 years of Age And as to matter of Fact, they did Unanimously affirm, that when this Child, did but cast its eye upon the afflicted persons, they were tormented, and they held her Head, and yet so many as her eye could fix upon were af- flicted. Which they did several times make careful observation of: the afflicted complained, they had often been Bitten by this child, and produced the marks of a small set of teeth, accord- ingly, this was also committed to Salem Prison; the child looked hail, and well as other Children.63 The presence of the “afflicted” in the courtroom provided physical evidence that the court used to legitimize allega- tions against witches. The appearance of the markings of “a small set of teeth” on the arms of the afflicted substanti- ated the girls’ claims against Dorothy. The judges, John Hathorne and Jonathon Corwin, recognized this striking evidence and ultimately sentenced Dorothy to prison first in Salem, then in Boston in April of 1692.64 While in the Boston prison, Dorothy was implicated in other alleged witches’ trials, following a common trend in witchcraft cases. For example, Mercy Warren in her trial on May 12, 1692, stated that she saw “Good’s Child’s” name in the devil’s book but was instructed by Dorothy and other con- victed witches to “never Tell of them Nor anything about them.”65 Another shocking twist appears in Dorothy’s testimony de- scribing her familiar, thereby confessing to being a witch and denouncing her mother. A familiar was an animal that served a witch and only lived by sucking the witch’s blood. The familiar was believed to act as a liaison between the witch and Satan himself. The magistrates typically inter- rogated alleged witches about their familiars and searched for the point on the witch’s body from which the familiar gained “nourishment.”66 While Dorothy was imprisoned in Salem, the magistrates interrogated her about her famil- iar, which she described as “a little Snake”: On the 26th of March, Mr. Hathorne, Mr. Corwin and Mr. Hi- gison were at the Prison-Keepers House, to Examine the Child, and it told them there, it had a little Snake that used to Suck on the lowest Joynt of it Fore-Finger; and when they inquired where, pointing to other places, it told them, not there, but there, pointing on the Lowest point of the Fore-Finger; where they Observed a deep Red Spot, about the Bigness of a Flea-bite, they asked who gave it that Snake? Whether the great Black man [the devil], it said no, its Mother gave it.67 This piece of evidence demonstrates that Dorothy admit- ted to having a familiar as well as to learning witchcraft from her mother. The implication of her mother reflects the attribution to heredity since Sarah allegedly imparted witchcraft on her daughter by teaching her malefic prac- tices, further signifying her failure to exhibit the ideal re- sponsibilities of a parent. Dorothy’s testimony also reflects the message of Puritan ministers like Mather and Gouge who warned of the consequences of neglectful parenting. Sarah Good led her daughter down the path towards the devil and as a result Dorothy became “the very substance of her parents.”68 Dorothy inherited her mother’s alleged witchcraft by admitting to possessing a familiar but also reflected the character of her father William by aiding in Sarah’s conviction. Dorothy, at the age of four or five, learned through her fa- ther’s actions and interrogations by the magistrates that she should also condemn her mother. Dorothy provided further testimony in one of Sarah’s hearings by citing de- tails regarding her mother’s familiars: “She had three birds one black, one yellow & that these birds hurt the Children & afflicted persons.”69 The exact circumstances of Dorothy’s testimony are not explicitly clear. By examin- ing her parents’ actions and reputations, however, it is pos- sible to catch a glimpse of the motivations of a five-year-old girl, imprisoned for nine long months. After seeing her father testify in court, Dorothy mimicked his actions, building upon stereotypes about witches and their famil- iars. Evidence for this theory is found in Gouge’s state- ment that “young children .  .  . are most pliable to follow the direction of their parents as is evident by the ordinary course of nature in all things.”70 William Good and the other Salem authorities clearly had a tremendous influ- ence over Dorothy, albeit a destructive one. Dorothy Good’s ordeal ended when she came up for bail on December 10, 1692. She had been in prison for nine months, since the day of her first examination in March to her release at the close of the tumultuous year of 1692. The pervasiveness of the evil influence of Satan, pro- pounded upon by Puritan ministers such as Mather and Gouge, contributed to commonly held beliefs about the presence of evil that allowed the accusations of witchcraft to spread. Dorothy’s story reveals the atmosphere of ten- sion and suspicion caused by the witch craze in Salem as 42 elements : : sprinG 2011 well as the repercussions for parents who were unable to live in accordance with the expectations of seventeenth- century society. Dorothy, without the necessary pious ex- amples in her life, became a reflection of these parents, “learning” witchcraft from her mother and, like her father, betraying this same mother by testifying at her trial. The entire Good family can be seen as victims of the Salem witchcraft crisis, a family torn apart by socioeconomic con- ditions as well as the high expectations of seventeenth- century society in the Massachusetts Bay Colony. EnDnotEs 1. Woodward (1, 30) 2. Boyer and Nissenbaum (5) 3. Rosenthal (871) 4. Roper (109) 5. Sebald (36-41) 6. Roper (108) 7. Norton (12, 18-19) 8. Boyer and Nissenbaum (188) 9. Boyer and Nissenbaum (203-206) 10. Demos 1986 (3-5) 11. Demos 1970 (13) 12. Demos 1970 (13) 13. Demos 1970 (184-186) 14. Norton (24-25) 15. Norton (20) 16. Norton (21, 335) 17. Norton (62) 18. Norton (21-23) 19. Norton (21) 20. Norton (21-23) 21. Woodward (16-26) 22. Woodward (16, 18) 23. Woodward (19) 24. Demos 1970 (81) 25. Demos 1970 (79) 26. Demos 1970 (81, 183) 27. Gouge (18) 28. Pollock (116, 292) 29. Woodward (24) 30. Woodward (24-25) 31. Woodward (19) 32. Demos 1970 (100) 33. Gouge (436-437) 34. Gouge (428) 35. Demos 1970 (57-58) 36. Demos 1970 (140-141, 183) 37. Sebald (212) 38. Woodward (12-26) 39. Mather 1690 40. Mather (103) 41. Gouge (434) 42. Gouge (437) 43. Gouge (462) 44. Gouge (548) 45. Pollock (14) 46. Demos 1986 (101) 47. Demos 1986 (29-30) 48. Demos 1970 (101) 49. Norton (295) 50. Norton (6) 51. Mather (101) 52. Mather (121) 53. Gouge (542) 54. Mather (116) 55. Gouge (504) 56. Gibson (189) 57. Gibson (182) 58. Gibson (199) 59. Gouge (546) 60. Rosenthal (156, 170) 61. Rosenthal (156) 62. Norton (52-53) 63. Rosenthal (155-156) 64. Rosenthal (156, 182) 65. Rosenthal (263) 66. Norton (26) 67. Rosenthal (171-172) 68. Gouge (503) 69. Rosenthal (417) 70. Gouge (544) rEfErEncEs Boyer, Paul S. and Stephen Nissenbaum. Salem Possessed. Cam- bridge: Harvard University Press, 1974. Demos, John. Past, Present and Personal: The Family and the Life Course in American History. New York: Oxford University Press, 1986. Demos, John. A Little Commonwealth: Family Life in Plymouth Colony. New York: Oxford University Press, 1970. Gibson, Marion. Early Modern Witches: Witchcraft Cases in Contem- porary Writing. New York: Routledge, 2000. Gouge, William. Of domesticall duties. London, 1622. Mather, Cotton. Addresses to Old Men, and Young Men, and Little Children in Three Discourses. “The Little Child’s Lesson.” Boston: Printed by R. Pierce for Nicholas Buttolph at the Corner Shop, 1690. Norton, Mary Beth. In the Devil’s Snare: The Salem Witchcraft Crisis of 1692. New York: Vintage Books, 2003. Pollock, Linda A. Forgotten Children: Parent-Child Relations from 1500 to 1900. New York: Cambridge University Press, 1983. Records of Salem Witchcraft, copied from the original records. Edited 43 dorothy Good by W.E. Woodward. 2 vols. New York: B. Franklin, 1972. Records of Salem Witch-Hunt. Edited by Bernard Rosenthal. New York: Cambridge University Press, 2009. Roper, Lyndal. “’Evil Imaginings and Fantasies’: Child Witches and the End of the Witch Craze.” Past and Present 167, (2000): 107- 139. Sebald, Hans. Witch-Children: From Salem Witch-Hunts to Modern Courtrooms. Amherst, NY: Prometheus Books, 1995. Sharpe. Instruments of Darkness: Witchcraft in England 1550- 1750. New York: Penguin, 1996. 44 elements : : sprinG 2011 knowledge, perception, and sensing bear a complex relation among themselves. pro- tagorus, as caricatured by plato, claims that “man is the measure of all things,” a statement which leads to the notion that “knowledge is perception.” plato chal- lenges this notion by giving an account of perception “as such” for both humans and animals. the fundamental contention in TheaeTeTus becomes “perception occurs with the soul by means of the senses.” this article contrasts this claim with the phe- nomenological account proposed by martin heidegger in which perception is a “striving” for a “being which in all circumstances is already present and there, not as a thing or any kind of object, but as that which is striven for in authentic striv- ing.” though heidegger claims that he is providing a reading of plato, heidegger and plato ultimately have incompatible formulations of perception. xavier Zubiri’s understanding of perception provides a different framework from both of these philosophers. perception can be thought of as the change of a perceived object from reality-thing to meaning-thing, distinctions used by Zubiri. down the rabbit hole Perceptual Transformation in Plato, Heidegger, and Zubiri r. brian tracZ Was I the same when I got up this morning? I almost think I can remember feeling a little different. But if I’m not the same, the next question is, ‘Who in the world am I?’ Ah, that’s the great puzzle!1 Alice falls down the rabbit hole and drinks the liquid in the bottle that changes her bodily characteristics. After crying a flood of tears, she knows that something about her pres- ent experience is incompatible with her past lived experi- ence. Yet she does not view this change as a hallucination or a delusion but as a special change—we might call it “imagination.” She wonders why she has changed; the transformation has so altered her understanding of the world that she begins to question, as the world’s knower, who she is. Perception also alters one’s mental life, but in a decidedly different way from how the rabbit hole altered Alice. Whereas imagined things undergo a change from being absent to being present, perceived things undergo a change from brute fact to meaningful object. Who am I such that I can sense, perceive, and know something? This paper will focus on Martin Heidegger’s claim in his work on Plato’s Theaetetus, the second part of The Essence of Truth, that “‘seeing’ and ‘knowing-one’s-way-around’ are, in the first instance, two fundamentally different things. Yet in the Greek concept of knowledge in the broadest sense they are unified.”2 Xavier Zubiri, a Spanish phenom- enologist not yet widely read in English-speaking coun- tries, approaches the issue differently is his seminal work Inteligencia sentiente (“Sentient Intelligence”). This paper ar- gues that perception is an essential aspect of knowledge and that sensing is an essential aspect of perception. How- ever, perception is not identical to either sensation or knowledge. This opens up a space in which perception is a process of change from mere fact to meaningful object. i So let’s start again from the beginning, Theaetetus: try to define knowledge . . . I think that someone knows something when he perceives it; my current impression, at any rate, is that knowl- edge and perception are the same.3 Like his role model Protagorus, Theaetetus believes that to perceive is to know. After responding to Socrates, let us imagine that Theaetetus looks at a tree nearby and sees the greenness of the leaves. He keeps his gaze fixed momen- tarily on the tree before continuing to look at Socrates as he talks. But as Socrates begins his lengthy response, The- aetetus thinks, “I saw the greenness of the leaves, but do I know the tree? Sure, I know a morsel about the tree, but what about the tree itself? If I perceived all there is to per- ceive of the tree, then would I ‘know’ the tree?” Theaetetus, one of Plato’s late dialogues, addresses such a question. If knowledge is really just sense-perception, then knowledge, in the Platonic view, is an illusion, given the variability of individual senses among persons and the fal- libility of the human body, especially its sense organs. At the same time, knowledge is informed by perception. In sections 184 to 186, Plato’s central argument is that a uni- ty—the mind—perceives things.4 Socrates claims that one perceives things by means of sense organs, not with sense organs.5 Sensing might take place in a sense organ like the eyes, but perceiving itself takes place elsewhere. Socrates illustrates this: Yes, it would be peculiar . . . if each of us were like a Trojan Horse, with a whole bunch of senses sitting inside us, rather than that all these perceptions converge on to a single identity (mind, or whatever one ought to call it), with which we perceive whatever there is to be perceived by means of its organs, the senses.6 Perception depends on what the senses deliver to it. Yet without a mind, an individual’s senses would be like the men inside the Trojan Horse: individual and not unified. Since the senses give content to a unified perception of an object, we must say that with our mind we perceive objects through the senses. In Philebus, Socrates adds, “When the soul [i.e. mind] and body are jointly affected and moved by one and the same affection, if you call this motion perception, you would say nothing out of the way.”7 Socrates pictures the mind and the body as actually being moved, not independently but cooperatively, by that which moves it. Perception occurs when sensible aspects of objects cause a response, a move- ment, in the senses and penetrate through to the mind. If an animal had no mind (more accurately “soul” for Plato), even if the animal had a perfectly functioning body with perfectly functioning sense organs, the animal would per- ceive nothing. Plato accounts for the possibility that sense organs could be affected while perception would not: “Some of the various affections of the body are extin- guished within the body before they reach the soul, leaving it unaffected.”8 Though perception is cooperative, moving the body and its sense organs does not entail perception. 47 down the rabbit hole Only when an object’s qualities make it “through” the body to the mind is something perceived. As will be clear with Zubiri as well, Plato observes that sense-perception not only involves arousal of the perceiver’s sense machinery but also a response—a movement—of sorts. There is a pas- sive and active aspect of sensation. Given this setup of the mind and senses, Plato then claims that the mind allows for perceptual judgments and that without the unity of mind, judgments about objects would be impossible. When asked how the mind is able to distin- guish between a sight and a sound, how the mind is able to categorize a sight or sound as such in the first place, Theaetetus responds that it distinguishes these senses with “the faculty that operates by means of the tongue.”9 To be clear, this faculty is judgment, not language itself. It is judgment in a primitive sense, in a way that does not imply an act of conscious reflection or thinking. When the mind perceives “that something ‘is’ or ‘is not’ x,” it makes a pre-reflective judgment about an object, and this judg- ment could be, but need not be, expressed linguistically through a certain faculty that conceptualizes a given qual- ity. Perception is generally more immediate than linguistic formulation. Indeed, Plato’s overall argument is that judg- ments can have a reality in perception that is pre-linguistic because animals—beings with no linguistic capability— still have the ability to make perceptual judgments. With this in mind, Socrates asks Theaetetus: By means of what does the faculty operate which reveals to you the common ground shared by all objects . . . which you refer to when you say ‘is’ [and] ‘is not’ and talk about the other features which came up in the recent questions? . . . By means of what organs does the perceiving part of us perceive them?10 This common ground of “is and is not” is not “existence.” Socrates notes that an object can both be and not be—a statement difficult to interpret as talking about “existence.” Rather, Socrates is talking about judgments in general, judgments like “the dog is brown” and “the dog is not two feet long.” We can say of the dog that it both “is and is not” under this interpretation. The real issue that Socrates presses is that a lamp can “be dim,” “not be white,” “be warm,” and “smell of soot” only if we judge the lamp to have these qualities. I might sense warmth, but for Plato this does not constitute any sort of judgment about the lamp. It is only a feeling of warmth, not a judgment “that the lamp is warm.” Socrates notes that judgments about the senses occur with the faculty that operates “by means of the tongue” in order to unambiguously indicate the mind as the judger, not to indicate that linguistic formula- tion and reflection are necessary for judgment. With the premise that each sense organ has its domain of sensory stimuli, how is it that one is able to judge that an object is warm as opposed to merely sensing that one “feels warmth”? Theatetus answers Socrates: I think it is fundamentally wrong to look for a special organ for these things, analogous to the special organs for the other ob- jects; it seems to me that in every case the mind investigates the common features by means of itself.11 Socrates commends Theaetetus. Plato’s essential move here is that there is something—a notion of what “is” and “is not” mean—which is not present in the organs of sen- sation or the objects of perception but which is neverthe- less part of the process of perception. An ability to judge “is” must originate in the mind, not in the objects of per- ception or any special organ, because one is able to judge that something “is x” or “is not x” regardless of the sensa- tional character—visual, audio, or otherwise—of the per- ception. It is from here that one can judge of an object “that it is warm.” Perception allows one to attribute certain feelings and sights to certain objects, without which one would be stuck with mere “feelings of warmth” and “sights of blue” dangling around without any association with a particular object. For Plato, the notion of “common fea- tures” among objects is properly the domain of the mind. The mind is able to apprehend these features as universal and unified perceptions of objects, not just as episodic feel- ings or sensations. ii With Plato’s argument in mind, let us turn to Heidegger. The main thrust in Heidegger’s philosophy is to under- “It is judgment in a primitive sense, in a way that does not imply an act of conscious reflection or thinking.” 48 elements : : spring 2011 stand what “being” (Sein in German) and “existence” (Ex- istenz in German) mean. Intelligibility and being are inti- mately related for Heidegger, and in many ways Heidegger’s philosophy of being is comparable to Plato’s philosophy of knowing. One of the primary points of con- tact between the two is in their description of perception. Earlier in Theaetetus, Socrates says, “So appearance is the same as being perceived, in the case of warmth and so on. I mean, as each person perceives events to be, so they also are, I suppose, for each.”12 Reading this, Heidegger clings to an analysis of the Greek word for appearance, claiming that what appears is “not any kind of subjective psycho- logical activity or the faculty thereto, e.g. the ‘power of imagination’, but something objective.”13 That which ap- pears in appearance is something distinct from the first- person psychological process of viewing the appearance itself. This is not the only thing which outlines appear- ance, for what appears is “what is present in its pres- ence. . . . It is something that shows itself from itself.”14 So appearance is two things: on one hand something objec- tive and on the other hand something which “shows itself from itself,” something which is “present” to the perceiver. To clarify this formulation of appearance, it is helpful to observe that, as a phenomenologist, Heidegger under- stands the word phenomenon (φαινόμενoν or phainomenon in Greek) by its literal translation as “that which shows it- self.” In Being and Time, Heidegger explains what he is getting at in returning to the original Greek: “Now an en- tity can show itself from itself in many ways, depending in each case on the kind of access we have to it.”15 He reiter- ates: “Appearing is possible only by reason of a showing-itself of something.”16 Heidegger’s words are at first puzzling. Heidegger states that a phenomenon is not a product of a detached mind because the phenomenon shows itself to the mind. More forcefully, the phenomenon is doing some- thing in relation to the mind; it is not just sitting out there in the world waiting to be formed into a conceptual quality by the mind, nor is it somehow manufactured by an iso- lated mind. (This is in contrast to Kant’s conception of phe- nomenon and noumenon. Phenomenon is the act of some- thing showing itself for Heidegger, whereas Kant dissociates the something—the noumenon—from the showing—the phenomenon.) Heidegger notes that ap- pearing happens as a result of a showing-itself of some- thing, of some object, or about some thing. This is what phenomenologists call intentionality. The notion now that “an entity can show itself from itself in many ways, de- pending in each case on the kind of access we have to it” is clearer: only if what appears to the perceiver is distinct from the process of perception can the entity show itself in a different light in each interaction. The process of percep- tion might include arousal, sensation, and response. One apprehends different aspects of what appears with each renewed attempt at fully discovering what appears during such a process. Stated differently, each instance of show- ing makes it possible to know what is shown. Heidegger strengthens the link between perception—a conscious process—and knowledge—a process involving more than momentary consciousness. Heidegger claims: Being is what it is really about, indeed precisely as that, ‘for which the soul itself strives through itself, for itself, and toward itself.’ It is being which in all circumstances is already present and there, not as a thing or any kind of object, but as that which is striven for in authentic striving.17martin heidegger 49 down the rabbit hole “Striving” seems to be an odd thing with which to grasp being itself, but Heidegger insists that it is in a person’s act of striving that perceived objects are even possible to talk about. One strives for something that one does not already have. Striving arises in one’s need (goal-directed desire) for that which one is striving, so Heidegger is claiming that the very being of the perceived object makes sense only in the context of grasping the relationship between a person and the world required to fulfill this need. Without this relationship to the object, the very being of the per- ceived object would never arise because one would have no way of relating to the object. One must (and desires to) comport oneself in a certain way toward an object. In other words, perception is an intentional relationship to the world. The being of the perceived object expressed in this relationship Heidegger labels as the “excess.” The excess comes as “an addition to what is sensed.”18 He insists that this excess is not “more” than the phenomena but a pre- requisite which must be “held up . . . in order that some- thing sensory can be perceived as being.”19 Simply put, our subjective perception itself is the excess, and this excess extrapolates from the appearances of an object. Conse- quently, senses would be left dangling without anything to give them meaning in a perceived object, or more precise- ly, a perceived being. Heidegger introduces the striving-excess-being terminol- ogy to account for the attitude that phenomena are funda- mentally other to the mind. Plato need not do this because he is content that the mind gives rise to perception of an object without a multitude of showings or strivings. Plato expresses that objects themselves indicate—though imper- fectly—something about forms.20 These forms are inher- ently other, outside of a person’s environmental horizon. Heidegger explicitly states that being is contingent upon a personal function of “authentic” striving aroused by a need in the world. The “excess” of Heidegger is analogous to the “is” and “is not” of Plato in that they are both the very pre- conditions for a perceived object to be formed in the mind. Notice in the preceding discussion the distinction between Heidegger’s and Plato’s understanding of how perception relates to what is perceived. Plato claims that sense organs tunnel qualities to the mind which in turn perceives the qualities as a unified object—a perceptual judgment of the object. Heidegger, however, is making a different claim, even though he is ostensibly “reading Plato.” Heidegger claims that phenomena interact with the mind—a percep- tual relation to the object. Phenomena, such as being-blue, opposite-from-being-pleasant, and so on, are perceived as distinct, but the person perceives a single being with these phenomena. In summary, Plato views perception as founded on an “is/is not” judgment of an object, whereas Heidegger views perception as founded on a meaningful relation to “that which shows itself”— phenomena. “Dasein is in such a way as to be something which under- stands something like being.”21 Heidegger’s concept of a person—a Dasein—is directly linked to the capacity to un- derstand being. Dasein perceives being through striving. Plato’s argument would be in jeopardy if he agreed with Heidegger’s Dasein-centered account of perception. Pla- to’s goal, after all, is to challenge Protagorus’ dictum that “man is the measure of all things—of the things that are, that they are; of the things that are not, that they are not.”22 The device with which man measures the world—probes the world—is perception. But, Socrates asks, do not ani- mals also perceive things? Why not say that monkey or hamster is the measure of all things? They both perceive things and measure their surroundings in one way or an- other in order to survive. It now seems that, since percep- tion is knowledge, the entire animal kingdom is the mea- sure of all things. But Plato wishes to assert as a fact that animals do not have knowledge though they do perceive things. Heidegger’s fault lies in that he interprets Socrates’ statement of “judgments of ‘is and is not’” as referring to existence. If Heidegger’s reading were correct, Plato would assent to Protagorus’ dictum above. Man (Dasein) would be the measure of all things if perceptual judgments were existential judgments because only humans (the Dasein) can make existential judgments about the meaning objects have for themselves. In presenting his own philosophy, Heidegger provides an apocryphal reading of Plato’s thought. Heidegger’s phenomenological description, brilliant though it is in illuminating knowledge, does not account for perception as such but, rather, relegates as secondary the fact that people are not the only things capable of per- “Plato’s argument would be in jeopardy if he agreed with Heidegger’s Dasein- centered account of perception.” 50 elements : : spring 2011 ceiving, even though people are the only things capable of knowing. III To address this problem, Zubiri gives an account of “sens- ing as such” not only in humans but also in animals.23 A sensed object causes an “impression” on the sentient be- ing (this includes non-human beings). This impression of what is sensed on that which senses it gives rise to a “mo- ment of otherness.” The moment of otherness occurs as the sentient being recognizes something externally as oth- er. It is this force—this externally-motivated movement— which gives rise to the process of sensing. Sensing is com- prised of three things in a single process.24 The first is the “moment of arousal” or “moment of awareness,” the as- pect which induces action. Then, arousal changes the “vi- tal tone” of an animal, vital tone being the idea that the animal is itself awake and its body, in a certain sense, “on- line.” This is the “tonic modulation.” Finally, the animal responds to this change in vital tone in the “moment of response.” This response is an action of the animal as a whole and not a mere bodily function. Zubiri’s under- standing of sensing is as holistic as Plato’s in that it en- compasses the initial response or movement that a sense impression evokes. This bleeding over of sensing into ac- tion is an intentional move that Zubiri makes, emphasiz- ing a holistic process of apprehension. What is “other”? Zubiri says that impressions are not “of something” at all; the other is that something. The impres- sions, to continue with our earlier terminology, are not in- tentional but, as it seems, brute fact. At the same time, this other is announcing itself to the sentient being through these impressions. This other that is both independent of the sentient being and at the same time making itself pres- ent to the sentient being is what Zubiri calls the “note.”25 The note is situated before the sentient being in the pro- cess just outlined, a unified sensible apprehension of reality. While Heidegger insisted that perception of something “situated” in relation to someone is intentional, Zubiri seems to stake out something even more fundamental than intentionality as the basis of perception. In a word, sensation is the non-intentional basis of perception. This is derived from the fact that, for Zubiri, sensing is not sensing of anything but, rather, an impression. Notes have an autonomy and a content. The sense in which notes are autonomous from the sentient being is so crucial that Zubiri calls this aspect “formality.”26 Formality “modulates” or toggles the content of a note. It is “on the one hand the mode of being situated in the apprehension, but on the other it is that of being situated ‘in its own right,’ of being de suyo.”27 The dual nature of note is both as situated in the world and as acting on the apprehending being. Content depends on the system of receptors that the sen- tient being has—dogs do not see the greenness quality of a tree in the same way that humans do. So the content, given an animals’ set of sense receptors, changes the formality of a note—the way a note is apprehended as an independent entity. The extent to which an animal “formalizes” (appre- hends as autonomous) a note, the more unified and dis- tinct a note becomes: tree-tops, for instance, are more for- malized for a tree-dwelling monkey than, say, a camel. A camel will perceive tree tops as less distinct, less separated from the background of its environment. In humans, col- ors, smells, sounds, and so on are so distinctly formalized, so well-present in their unity, that they are considered “el- emental notes.”28 Unlike the camel that overlooks the tree tops, humans sense things that really “pop” from the back- ground environment—they are thoroughly formalized. These elemental notes are independent but can form “con- stellations of notes.” To quote Zubiri, the apprehension of the constellation of notes: . . .is not simple sensation; it is “perception.” The elemental notes are sensed, the constellations of notes are perceived, etc. An animal not only apprehends sounds, colors, etc., but also apprehends, for example, its “prey.” . . . The formalization, the autonomization of content, now consists in that the unity of independence concerns the constellation itself, and not just one or a few notes arbitrarily selected.29 This makes sense biologically: the function of perception for an animal is not that it might derive enjoyment in see- ing some individual aspect of another large beast but, rath- er, that it might perceive the predator that the large beast is. Animals, for one, interact with constellations of notes as a single independence in their daily survival. For animals, most impressions consist in determining an immediate response; therefore, most impressions in animals are a type of “stimulus” that quickly brings about that the ani- mal sees “a predator” as opposed to, say, “God’s creation.”30 Importantly, intentionality arises at the level of constella- tions of notes—perception—not at the level of elemental notes and impressions—sensation. Zubiri gives a finer- grain analysis of perception than an analysis that focuses on intentionality. 51 down the rabbit hole For humans, most notes or impressions do not determine a response as they do for animals. Rather, people appre- hend notes as signs: “The note apprehended as ‘other’ . . . constitutes what I call sign.”31 Notes signalize reality for hu- mans and responses for animals. Unlike a small animal, a person could view a large beast and derive some aesthetic enjoyment from it: the perception of another animal can be either a perception of “God’s creation” or a perception of “a predator.” People can arrange notes into a constella- tion most appropriate for a given situation. They can ap- prehend notes in their own right—they can apprehend re- ality as such. But even past this fact, humans can apprehend objects in a way which is neither completely contingent upon their “striving” relationship to an object nor relative to the situation in which they encounter the object. Instead of taking “being” as the central term, Zubiri moves both sensing and intelligence to the forefront. Zubiri adopts part of Heidegger’s stress on one’s interaction with the environment as determinate of a given object’s mean- ing. However, Zubiri insists that the many notes—weight, color, smell, and so forth—are really out there. They have being aside from their function and meaning for the intel- ligent being. Zubiri drives this point when he says that “nothing is a meaning-thing de suyo. The real thing appre- hended as something de suyo is not a ‘meaning-thing,’ but what I have called a ‘reality-thing.’”32 I sit here, for in- stance, typing on a surface with mass, shape, electrical conductance, and elemental composition. It interacts with the environment via these features (e.g. it is pulled to the earth because of its mass), but I interact with it simply as a meaning-thing, as a table. The large clump of plant-de- rived carbon is pulled to the earth as a reality-thing, but I interact with a table, a meaning-thing, not with a mere lump of carbon. Zubiri preserves both the de suyo, real nature of objects and the aspect without which perceived objects would lack any meaning whatsoever, devoid of their context in the hu- man world. In distinguishing reality-thing from meaning- thing, Zubiri claims that it does not make sense in the first place to divide the two aspects of notes—the meaning- thing and the reality-thing—in human perception. The reality of the object and my relation to it are intimately con- nected. This is all founded on a set of elementary notes that humans, rather artistically, form into a meaningful or useful collage—the object. iV We should now evaluate to what extent these thinkers actu- ally proposed a theory of perception rather than a theory of objects and a theory of understanding coupled with a paro- chial account of sensing. To what extent has the “trans- forming process” between reality and my understanding of it been accounted for? Socrates imagines a Trojan horse full of men. If people had bodies like such a Trojan horse, what would be the case? The Trojan horse-person would sense notes—blue- ness itself or coarseness itself—but the constellation of notes would never materialize in perception. The notes are only raw starting material for perception; there is nothing to which they can announce themselves if the Trojan horse-person has no mind to which all of the notes can become a constellation. In short, the notes are affecting the body but not penetrating to the mind. There is the arousal part of sensing but not the response part, for it is during the response that the animal as a whole comports itself in one way or another towards that which is noted. The disjointed Trojan horse-person does not stand a chance of doing this. Therefore, the Trojan horse-person ultimately has no intentional relationship to things. What can be made of this state of affairs? Recall Hei- degger’s words: “It is being which in all circumstances is already present and there, not as a thing or any kind of object, but as that which is striven for in authentic striv- ing.” The language here is troublesome. The word “al- ready” suggests that being is just there, “already,” without any need for the perceiver to enter into a relationship with the phenomena (the appearances) as “present” to him. But we know that, in order for something to be present, in or- der for something to announce itself to the perceiver, this relationship must be established in the act of “striving.” So the being is not really “already” present at all. For Hei- degger, it seems that in perception one either has a rela- tionship with the phenomena or one does not. The time before one has such a relationship the appearances are not “already” present. Heidegger would conclude that the Tro- jan horse-person senses nothing at all: the striving rela- tionship is not operative. The issue is not that Heidegger is wrong but that his ac- count falls short: it is just not an adequate account of Zu- biri’s “sensing as such.” We have to be able to talk of sens- ing as such, even when the sensing is so primitive as to lack an object or a unified response. For Heidegger, sens- 52 elements : : spring 2011 ing in a Trojan horse-person paradigm would be anoma- lous because the status of that which is sensed would be indeterminate. Put differently, if the animal loses the func- tion of perception, then it is not possible to talk about stim- uli that are only sensed and not perceived. In Heidegger’s defense, his idea of perception leads to this anomaly be- cause his method is phenomenological to the end, where- as Zubiri is extrapolating past his immediate phenomeno- logical experience. It is not possible for people to consciously reflect on things that are only subconsciously sensed. Sure, it is possible for us to subconsciously sense something, but to give a phenomenological account of something that is not presented in our phenomenological awareness is absurd. Thus, the foundation of Zubiri’s phi- losophy is not strict phenomenology. That said, Zubiri, with his concept of the note, allows us to discuss animal (and subconscious) sensation in the con- text of perception. We are able to talk about the sensations that humans have as well as the sensations that we observe other beings having. As discussed before, according to Zu- biri, animals can sense stimuli which totally determine a response. Most animals are able to perceive things over and above merely sensing them, but some small organ- isms, like an amoeba, sense stimuli which initiate a re- sponse, moving them from normal homeostasis to a dif- ferent overall “vital tone.” When the amoeba senses high temperature, it retracts its pseudopods and moves away. But the amoeba perceives nothing. It senses “warmness,” but it does not judge “that this environment over here is too hot.” When a dog senses high pitched noises, it does not run to the noise in a predetermined way. Rather, it runs to that which produced the noise—the whistle-blow- er. It can perceive “that this thing is the noise-maker.” Sup- pose I sense high temperature, say from a stove. I not only react but also make a world of judgments that go beyond what is sensed. The constellation of notes becomes com- plex. I perceive the stove, but I also perceive that which my clumsy brother did not turn off. I get a burn, and after the perception of pain I can make hyperbolized comparisons to tanning on the surface of the sun to express my percep- tion of pain linguistically. Indeed, my subsequent respons- es become more complex as well. The process of change from reality-things to meaning- things is the outline of perception. Without this joining of the object of perception with the process of apprehension, one’s eyes would see and one’s ears would hear, but all in vain. Heidegger’s fundamental insight that our relation to our surroundings informs our perception makes it possi- ble to talk about knowledge and perception in new ways. With Zubiri’s vocabulary for approaching the problem of sensation as such, we are able to revisit Plato’s text with new respect for how we each relate to the world in incred- ible, but not incomprehensible, ways through both the process and objects of perception. This result provides a framework for both philosophical and biological concepts of sensation and perception. endnotes 1. Carrol (24-25) 2. Heidegger 2010 (115) 3. Plato, Theaetetus (151d-e) 4. The Greek word translated as “mind” (as Robin Waterfield did) is more properly translated “soul.” Though Plato uses other words which more closely approximate “mind,” for the comparative purposes of this essay, I will maintain Waterfield’s translation. 5. Plato, Theaetetus (184c) 6. Plato, Theaetetus (184d) 7. Plato, Philebus (34a) 8. Plato, Philebus (33d) 9. Plato, Theaetetus (185c) 10. Plato, Theaetetus (185c) 11. Plato, Theaetetus (185d-e) 12. Plato, Theaetetus (152c) 13. Heidegger, The Essence of Truth (119) 14. Ibid. 15. Heidegger 2008 (51) 16. Heidegger 2008 (53) 17. Heidegger 2010 (156) 18. Heidegger 2010 (165) 19. Heidegger 2010 (166) 20. Plato, Republic in 1997 (514a-520a). It is wrong to interpret the cave allegory as claiming that our perceptions are completely illusory. Plato intends to show here that they are fundamentally limited and incomplete in respect to human knowledge (as opposed to opinion or viewing, doxa). “We have to be able to talk of sensing as such, even when the sensing is so primitive as to lack an object or a unified response.” 53 down the rabbit hole 21. Heidegger 2008 (39) 22. Plato, Theaetetus (152a) 23. Zubiri (11) 24. Zubiri (13) 25. Zubiri (15) 26. Zubiri (15) 27. Zubiri (24); “de suyo” means, roughly, “from itself” or “out of itself.” 28. Zubiri (16) 29. Zubiri (16) 30. Zubiri (21) 31. Zubiri (21) 32. Zubiri (25) references Carrol, Lewis. Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. New York: Barnes and Noble, 2004. Heidegger, Martin. Being and Time. Translated by John Macquar- rie and Edward Robinson. New York: HarperCollins, 2008. Heidegger, Martin. The Essence of Truth. Translated by Ted Sadler. New York: Continuum, 2010. Plato. Complete Works. Edited by John M. Cooper. Indianapolis: Hackett, 1997. Plato. Theaetetus. Translated by Robin Waterfield. New York: Pen- guin, 2004. Zubiri, Xavier. Sentient Intelligence. Translated by Thomas B. Fowl- er. Washington, DC: Zubiri Foundation, 1999. 54 elements : : spring 2011 Despite the obvious Differences in genre, fantasy anD realism often serve the same purpose in Drama. two outwarDly Different plays, Joe corrie’s In TIme O’ STrIfe anD J.m. barrie’s PeTer Pan, are interestingly similar in the motivations of the writers. cor- rie’s work Deals largely with the real life struggle of a scottish mining community whereas barrie’s chief concern is the loss of chilDhooD innocence. in their plays, both writers attempt to come to terms with their respective points of conflict anD reach a somewhat hopeful resolution. for barrie, this is achieveD by an escape into the realm of fantasy, hereas carrie focuses on utilizing realism to best express the realities of suffering. ultimately, both are stories of human perseverance in situa- tions of strife. Motivations of genre Realism and Fantasy in Scottish Drama benJamin key Drama has the power to control the focus of an audience. A reader might, in the depths of a novel, find his eyes wan- dering from the page or his mind to matters elsewhere. But, while in their seats, the audience belongs to the play- wright, giving the writer great sway. In two Scottish plays —J.M. Barrie’s Peter Pan and Joe Corrie’s In Time O’ Strife —writers take their audience to very different places. Bar- rie creates a fantastical world that serves as an escape for both his characters and audience. The main conflicts of the play are either superficial or allegorical, while the ma- jor tension—namely the loss of innocence as a child pass- es into adulthood—is kept as a quiet heartbeat throughout the entire play. Corrie, on the other hand, possesses no veils in his dramatic arsenal. His work is of and for the people—namely his fellow miners whose lives were worn to the core by the 1926 General Strike. Though both writ- ers successfully address a human conflict, the audience experiences the tension differently due to the formulaic choices of subgenre. But is it fantasy or realism that delves deeper into the human heart? Interestingly, the dissimilar Barrie and Corrie were simi- larly at odds with the conventions of their days. Corrie was of the Modern period, though not a stylistic modernist himself. He wrote simply and made no attempt to experi- ment in form. Though To the Lighthouse was published just a year after In Time O’ Strife was completed, Corrie’s play is more obviously in line with American writers such as Twain or Steinbeck, who told regional stories in more structured and straightforward ways. Similarly, it was said of Barrie in The Daily Telegraph: “Whether one liked his work or not, he owed nothing to anybody or any school. . . . [he was] a man who could see visions.”1 The two men shared a non-conformist literary vision, though their fo- cuses were clearly divergent. 1926 general strike in englanD “Though both writers successfully address a human conflict, the audience experiences the tension differently due to the formulaic choices of subgenre.” 57 motivations of genre In Time O’ Strife concentrates its three acts on the Smith family. The action never takes place beyond a central room of the Smith household in the mining village of Carhill, Scotland. The “strife” reflects upon what Corrie refers to in the introductory notes simply as the “mining crisis of 1926.” Corrie himself lived through the crisis, and his fa- miliarity with the events is obvious. That the entirety of the play taking place in one room indicates the types of re- sources that would have been available to Corrie’s unpro- fessional theatre troupe. Yet there is more depth in the one-room setting. Throughout the play, characters come in and out of the room constantly—Smith family members, friends, and enemies alike. The constant interchange in- creases the sense of community; this room is representa- tive of any other in the village. Early in the play, as Jenny and Lizzie discuss school, Agnes Pettigrew enters looking for the girl’s mother.2 The girls do not find it peculiar when a non-family member welcomes herself into their home. This happens constantly. It is not that the Smiths are a particularly central or important family to the village, but rather that this is how any home would be treated. Just as the comings-and-goings of the Smith household are com- mon across the village, so are their troubles. Corrie skillfully makes the audience feel the presence of a crisis beyond the walls of the stage. Chanting is continu- ously heard through the windows, and news flows in con- stantly. Following the death of Agnes, Jean enters the room tearfully: “Oh, Jock, she’s deid! .  .  . That’s an awfu’ sicht doon there; a’ the weans greetin’ like to break their wee he’rts, and Kate tearin’ her hair and cryin’ on her mither to speak.”3 So in this way, without ever leaving the room, the audience is transported around the town. Indeed, by the end of the play one has a very clear image of the village— though perhaps not in a perfect geographic sense. This all adds to the most important element of the play as a whole: community. This is a communal play in every sense. In his own words, Corrie describes how In Time O’ Strife came to be: “Our small group of miner players took it up, and met with such success that we entered the professional ranks with it.”4 The play was written about, for, and to be per- formed by a community. The overarching community is itself a vital character of the play, adding to the realism in a way the modern reader or audience could not fully appreciate. When the play was first performed, the miner crisis would have been ongo- ing. The play becomes something akin to metatheater within the tale of history. It would have been a microcos- mic reflection of what was happening to the people who sat in the original audience. In Time O’ Strife was a play about what was happening literally around the stage at the time it was performed.5 Corrie describes this process in the “Joe Corrie Papers.” He depicts a village with roads “carpeted with mud,” “great wheels turn, halt, and turn again, and the clang of the signals can be heard in every home”—these are the sounds of the mine. He goes on, “In a kitchen in the center of the hamlet a small group of men and women sit with papers in their hands reading aloud. Now and again, a voice bursts into song. They are rehears- ing a play.”6 This scene reflects the atmosphere and action of the very play the villagers are likely rehearsing. Consequently, Barrie does not attempt to accomplish the same realism or communal sense in Peter Pan. Barrie’s in- tent was not to bring his audience into the real world—the world of adults—but rather to let them escape from it. Bar- rie, by all accounts, was much more comfortable in the world of childhood than he was in the real one. He seemed to wish to flee into the lives of children, and in writing Pe- ter Pan, he imposes this desire onto his audience. As An- thony Lane suggests in his New Yorker article: “The child- hood that gripped him most tightly was not his own but that of other people; it is almost as if his own did not exist. The souls around him were like books, ripe for perusal, and he preferred their opening chapters.”7 The title character of Barrie’s masterpiece is a strange, un- natural being. He is an odd man-child, almost entirely self- possessed of absolute recklessness and utter violence. As Lane points out, he enters the play chasing his own shad- ow. Though he is certainly meant to be the physical agent of childhood, it is hard to imagine an actual child being capable of throwing his enemy into the jaws of a waiting crocodile.8 The surprising degree of Peter Pan’s violence further removes the audience from the real world. After “Barrie’s intent was not to bring his audience into the real world—the world of adults—but rather to let them escape from it.” 58 elements : : spring 2011 the jealous (and apparently homicidal) Tinkerbelle con- vinces Tootles, one of the Lost Boys, to shoot Wendy with his arrow as she flies over the tree tops, the character’s re- actions are more akin to childhood playtime than reality. Tootles ridiculously and bluntly laments, “When ladies used to come to me in dreams I said ‘Pretty mother,’ but when she really came I shot her!” Peter’s reactions are similarly odd. “Wendy is dead,” he says simply, with Barrie adding the curious stage direction: “He is not so much pained as puzzled.”9 Yet Wendy soon recovers in time to save Tootles from Peter’s vengeful dagger. In Time O’ Strife, human suffering is quite real. When Ag- nes dies, the pain felt by all involved is palpable. Charac- ters do not come back from the dead, and their survivors do not puzzle at mortality with bemused innocence. That is not to say that Peter Pan is without its tragedies. Though ultimately Peter does save his friends from harm and van- quishes Hook, he ends up losing many of the people he loves (if the boy is, indeed, capable of this emotion). He loses them to adulthood rather than death, to responsibil- ity rather than starvation. By the end of the play, Wendy has decided to return to her Kensington home. The final scene of the original play shows Wendy and Peter a year after their great adventure. Peter returns unchanged, making good on his promise to return each spring. But Wendy “looks a little older” and “flies so badly now that she has to use a broomstick.”10 Her lack of flight is, of course, a meta- phor for her aging. Barrie also suggests that “she does not see [Peter] quite so clearly now as she used to do.”11 As she ages, her ability to live in Peter’s world diminishes. Apparently unsatisfied with his original ending, Barrie added an epilogue several years after the initial publishing of his play. In it, Peter returns to a grown Wendy and her daughter, Jane. The audience watches painfully as Peter realizes that it was not “yesterday” that he was last with Wendy, but rather many years ago. We still see the rem- nants of the odd relationship between the two, but it is hampered by their age distance. Wendy, who still seems to be on some level in love with Peter, asks: “What are your exact feelings for me?” Peter responds quickly and proud- ly: “Those of a devoted son.” Wendy weeps, realizing fully now that Peter Pan is lost to her. She finally explains to the boy: “Peter, I’m grown up—I couldn’t help it! I’m a mar- ried woman Peter—and that little girl is my baby.”12 Pan is an early performance of PeTer Pan 59 motivations of genre horrified, and the scene is heartwrenching far beyond the original ending. This is the play’s conflict, a tragedy which inspired Barrie: children inevitably grow up. Though Wendy is special enough that she can see Peter even as an adult woman, his world is now foreign and forbidden, as interestingly sug- gested by her awkward confession as being married, as if Peter is a potential paramour. The conclusion of this sec- ondary ending is bittersweet. Wendy allows Jane to go forth with Peter. The final lines before the curtain are ut- tered by Wendy: “In this way may I go on forever and ever. . . . So long as children are young and innocent.”13 She is now the mother, which is an element shared by both plays. Here is Barrie’s ultimate conclusion. Though children grow up, childhood fantasy is ageless. It befriends the young while they remain young, and then withers to a memory for adults. Peter Pan himself, the agent and meta- phor for childhood, waits for each generation without tir- ing and with no remembrance of the last. Here we see Bar- rie’s fantasy has given way to human truths that are just as real as Corrie’s. The characters dealt with different trage- dies as well as they could. For a play about childhood, stark realism would seem forced and boring, just as a fantastical story about starving miners would seem inappropriate. The two men experiment with drama at opposite ends of life, but finally come to fundamental human conclusions. In the end, the differences in the plays are reflections of the differences between their respective authors. Both Scots were trapped in worlds they disliked—though they were disparate prisons. Corrie was born into a system of struggle. In the best of times, he watched his family and fellows toil along with him each day for survival. Contrast- ingly, in the worst of times, the miners stayed in their homes, impotent and useless, hoping to outlast the system in search of better lives. Barrie, too, found himself in a world in which he seemed to have no stake. He longed to return to childhood so that he might escape the require- ments of adulthood. Marriage, sex, and responsibly wore on him.14 Amid their stylistic differences, what the two men share is their coping method. Barrie created a timeless character. The opening line to Barrie’s novelization of his play sums up both his great tragedy, and his beacon of hope: “All chil- dren grow up, except for one.”15 Through Peter, Barrie is able to keep childhood alive no matter his age. Corrie, who refused to let fantasy or distraction keep his eyes from the struggle that consumed the lives of his kin, created a play that celebrated human triumph over strife. Largely, the last lines of the play can be regarded as Corrie’s own vision for his work: That’s the spirit, my he’rties! Sing! Sing! Tho’ they ha’e ye chained to the wheels and the darkness. Sing! Tho’ they ha’e ye crushed in the mire. Keep up your he’rts, my ladies, you’ll win though yet, for there’s nae power on earth can crush the men that can sing on a day like this. The words are Jean’s bidding to the miners to sing on as they again plunge into the dank mines. With their songs, they save themselves from a world of struggle. Barrie and Corrie accomplish the same end. They created works to help their audience persevere, to guide others through the darkness of the mines or of adulthood. Their words deliv- ered those who sat in the theatre to a place of dueling con- flict and hope—whether this place was Neverland or the village outside. endnotes 1. Birkin (viv) 2. Corrie 2009 (157) 3. Corrie 2009 (183) 4. Corrie 1985 (170) 5. Truitt (141-42) 6. Corrie 1985 (167) 7. Lane (1) 8. Barrie 2008 (146) 9. Barrie 2008 (11) 10. Barrie 2008 (153-154) 11. Ibid. 12. Barrie 2008 (162) 13. Ibid. 14. Lane (3) 15. Barrie 1985 (1) “The two men experiment with drama at opposite ends of life, but finally come to fundamental human conclusions.” 60 elements : : spring 2011 references Barrie, James M., and Peter Hollindale. The Admirable Crichton: Peter Pan [u.a.]. J.M. Barrie. Ed. with an Introduction and Notes by Peter Hollindale. 3rd ed. Oxford [u.a.] Oxford UP, 2008. Barrie, J. M. Peter Pan. New York: Bantam, 1985. Birkin, Andrew, and Sharon Goode. J.M. Barrie & the Lost Boys. New Haven: Yale UP, 2003. Corrie, Joe. “In Time O’ Strife.” The Edinburgh Anthology of Scottish Literature. Ed. Robert Irvine. Vol. 2. Glasgow: Kennedy & Boyd, 2009. 156-95. Corrie, Joe. Plays, Poems & Theatre Writings. Edinburgh: 7:84 Pub- lications, 1985. Lane, Anthony. “Lost Boys Why J. M. Barrie Created Peter Pan.” The New Yorker 22 Nov, 2004. Web. Truitt, Willis H. “Realism.” The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criti- cisms, 32. 3 (1978): 141-48. JSTOR. Web. 28 Apr. 2010. 61 motivations of genre philosophical investigation into god and the influence god has in the lives of his created beings was a focus for religious thinkers in pre-reformation europe. a whol- ly satisfying resolution still eludes the hearts and minds of theologians and reli- gious people in general. in fourteenth century germany, a mystic by the name of meister eckhart endeavored to uncover the foundation and limits of a human un- derstanding god. a gifted scholar and passionate orator, eckhart traveled through- out the christian realm to spread the word in his sermons and to reveal that know- ing god is far more complicated than ordinary human comprehension. as a preaching friar, eckhart’s writings and scholarship provided a solid foundation for german mysticism, which shaped contemporary philosophy and theology in the rhineland and inspired the philosophical enthusiasm of future generations in germany and abroad. NeariNg god Meister Eckhart’s Theological Mysticism sebastian n. agredo The thirteenth century has been widely regarded as the pinnacle of the Middle Ages, a century that witnessed the vaulting of Gothic architecture to its greatest heights, the success of the medieval universities, and the translation of Aristotle’s texts from Greek. By this point in time, the Holy Roman Empire was in decline as the Papacy began to ex- tend its influence and deepen its “temporal and spiritual authority.”1 This was largely a result of the increased influ- ence of Franciscan and Dominican friars, who, through their missions, championed and widened the reach of Pa- pal power throughout Christendom. This rise ultimately led to a regeneration and vitalization of spiritual life. Al- though the Franciscans were the first to set foot in Ger- many in 1219, the Dominicans were quick to follow. In order to accommodate the promising scholars of the re- gion, the Dominican order established the studium generale in Cologne in 1248, which soon became a pivotal center for learning in all of Europe, boasting lecturers such as Albert the Great and Thomas Aquinas. It was in Cologne that Eckhart, a German noble from Er- furt, studied as a young man. After entering the Domini- can Order in 1278, Eckhart asserted himself as a gifted theologian and philosopher. He was given the honor of studying in Paris, and upon his graduation in 1302, Eck- hart was awarded the title Meister to distinguish himself from friars of the same name and to signify his obvious talent and passion for theology. With this distinction, Meister Eckhart took on the role of Preaching Friar and traveled throughout Christendom to preach. In Germany he spoke in the vernacular of the native people, making him quite popular among the laity. Eckhart’s “captivating personality,” coupled with his sermons concerning the re- lationship between man, the soul, and God, led to the de- velopment of a revolutionary movement known as Ger- man Mysticism.2 As the head of this movement, Eckhart helped to shape the philosophy and theology in the Rhine- land and invigorate the philosophical zeal of future gener- ations in Germany. The works of Meister Eckhart can be separated into two classes: his Latin works and his collection of German ser- mons. His Latin writings are indicative of his identity as a theologian and a philosopher, in which he takes up the doctrines of scholasticism and adopts its “dogmas, its phraseology, and its technique.”3 His form of scholasti- cism coincided with the scholastic tradition of the Church and that of his Dominican order, which affirmed his status as an eminent theologian. In addition to being a philoso- phizing theologian, Eckhart has always been referred to as a mystic, a position which he articulates in his sermons. As a mystic, Eckhart espouses a belief in a personal con- nection between man and God and preaches a faith grounded in this intimate relationship. Considered to be his greatest work, the Opus Tripartitum illustrates Eck- hart’s duality in thought, a marriage of scholastic tradition with mystical devotion. The first two parts of the work, Opus Propositionum and Opus Quaestionum, deal with a systematic approach to theological and philosophical prob- lems, whereas the third, Opus Expositionum, is composed of sermons and biblical commentaries. This work is meant to show how Eckhart was not tied to one school of thought and was not restricted to one audience. Instead, he felt free to approach God and man via two equally valuable styles. In asserting Eckhart’s dual nature as a mystic and logician, Davies insists that when referring to Eckhart, he should be known as a “mystical theologian.”4 As a theologian and philosopher, Eckhart attempted to sys- tematically identify and characterize the natures of God and man. One might summarize Eckhart’s characteriza- tion of God as “God is incomprehensible.”5 Eckhart stress- es repeatedly the “sublimity and majesty of God,” a god who exists so high above his creations that it is impossible for them to accurately understand Him.6 The languages and terms used by mankind to discern, distinguish, and describe material objects cannot possibly be attributed to God because the minds of men are not adequate to “grasp the infinite.”7 Although the entirety of the world is filled with God’s presence and is the product of his glory, man is not able to see Him or give Him a proper name. Although God is concealed in His own existence, man is not left to “complete ignorance.”8 From this core idea, Eckhart em- barks on a mission to characterize the human knowledge of God. He proceeds to identify two kinds of knowledge: the imperfect knowledge of the philosopher, who tries to “Eckhart helped to shape the philosophy and theology in the Rhineland and invigorate the philosophical zeal of future generations in Germany.” 65 nearing god confine God’s nature through definitions and terms, and the experience of the mystic, who seeks only a spiritual union with God, not an understanding of His characteris- tics. This imperfect knowledge can be achieved, as Eckhart says, in three ways: negation, remotion, and cause. The first, negation, postulates simply that “God is not what men say He is, and that what one does not say of Him is more true than what one says.”9 This alludes to the notion of God’s incomprehensibility. The words of man such as “good,” “just,” “wise,” and “merciful,” when assigned to God, only succeed in belittling His nature and bringing Him down to the level of humans. This is so because hu- man words and concepts born from human minds are necessarily imperfect, and it is an injustice to ascribe im- perfect qualities to a perfect being. Only by understanding what God is not is mankind able to see what He is. For example, by denying goodness to God, Eckhart means to say that God is more good “in the sense in which we can say that man is good.”10 The human standard for goodness is inadequate to be applied to God, who is more good than goodness itself. This concept of negation can also refer to the issue of naming God, who essentially has no name. All the names that human beings can use to identify God are appropriate to Him, but none are perfect enough to suffi- ciently encompass His perfection. The only name fully ap- propriate to him would be “Nothing,” a name which does not insinuate God’s non-existence, but rather symbolizes how He is not a finite being, a “no thing.” In conjunction with the method of negation, Eckhart de- scribes the method of remotion, or eminence. Here, Eck- hart explains a process in which man arrives at some knowledge of God by removing “from his conception of Him everything that He is known not to be.”11 Therefore, God is unchanging in contrast to man’s inclination to change; He is free from human emotion and all the limita- tions that plague the existence of man. The third method that the philosopher utilizes to understand God is that of cause; investigating that there must be a necessary cause to the world in which man is living in. The evaluation of cause and effect that Eckhart alludes to is the same as the ontological proof of an “Unmoved Mover” postulated by Aristotle and the proof of God as the First Cause formu- lated by Aquinas. With Eckhart following in the tradition of Aquinas’ theology, it is no mystery that he developed a similar ideology and consequently arrived at the same con- clusion. As a mystic, however, Eckhart did not require any proof of God’s existence but instead relied on his own ex- perience to provide “overwhelming and indisputable evi- dence.”12 For Eckhart, the denial of God’s existence was as absurd as denying one’s own existence, and yet he still of- fers a rational justification for His existence. Eckhart bor- rows from his predecessor Aquinas by stating that God’s existence belongs to His essence and is included in His definition. In order to emphasize the point that the phi- losopher’s knowledge is incomplete, Eckhart insists that all three methods of knowing God are inadequate, regard- less of their rigorous efforts, and lead only to a “limited and partial knowledge.”13 Thus, the only true method of satisfying one’s desire to know God is to become unified with Him. This is the method of the mystics. Eckhart moves on to explore God’s oneness and the fact that He alone is being. Eckhart frequently stresses the uni- ty of God in comparison to man, who is a composite cre- ation, made up of body and spirit, whereas God is “one and indivisible”; He exists in perfect harmony.14 The human intellect seems to automatically attribute qualities such as goodness, wisdom, and mercy to God. He is none of these writings of meister eckhart 66 elements : : spring 2011 because he cannot be divided, and yet He is all of these because of his oneness and unity within Himself. Our fail- ure to truly recognize God for what He is follows from the imperfection of the human mind and instinctively sup- poses that a division of God into different characteristics exists. The only way that man is able to come close to un- derstanding and comprehending God is to divide Him into different aspects, which themselves are imperfec- tions. One thing to keep in mind, however, is that Chris- tian theologians all hold the belief that God is Three Per- sons in One and that the Three are united through relations. This seems to work against Eckhart’s argument that God is wholly One, but he maintains the stance that the relation exhibited by the Three Persons are not sepa- rate in God’s nature. Rather, they constitute his essence. Even more important to God’s oneness is the fact that God exists. The first attribute that must be applied to God is that He is being: being at its highest, best, and most pure. Eckhart takes it a step further by reiterating that God is not simply being but is actually above being because He is the necessary and first cause of being. God’s creatures possess being because it was bestowed upon them by God, who is being, and, therefore, “being in Him is not the same as being in [creatures].”15 God’s existence is not dependent on anything because being is a part of his existence, but man’s existence is contingent and entirely dependent on God since He is responsible for man’s creation and preserva- tion. Without God’s being and the power that emanates from His existence, man does not have the capacity to ex- ist. If God is being, then he must also be intelligence and truth, Eckhart says. God knows all worldly things because he created them, and His understanding and intelligence is wholly true, without exception. God, in His being, is ab- solute compared to man who lives in a relative existence. Having delimited an approach to God, the next move for Eckhart is to define the nature of man as a composite be- ing, one who is formed of the body and the soul. Concern- ing the relation between body and soul, Eckhart offers the gross misconception that “ignorant thinkers” hold by in- sisting that the soul is in the body.16 Rather, it is necessary to say that the soul contains the body. The body and soul form an entity in which the soul is not located in any one particular piece of the body but is distributed throughout. In the material and earthly world, the soul is bound to the body and requires it in order to be able to act, meaning that when separate from the body, the soul has “neither reason nor will.”17 An interesting notion that Eckhart introduces in regards to the soul is that when in unity with the body, the soul has two distinct faces, each with its own purpose. The first concentrates on the exterior world and the body to which it is attached, and it perceives all creatures. Fittingly, this face has been named the outer eye of the soul. The second face, or inner eye, is oriented towards God and is influenced by His divine light. An integral subject of Eck- hart’s mystical philosophy is that the inner eye is oblivious to this light. The body is able to sustain life because of the soul, which would characterize the act of living as the pow- er of the soul. The soul flows directly from God into the body, thus infusing it with God-given life. This is why hu- man beings, which are manifestations of the unity of body and soul, desire life so much. Life is essentially a gift from God and is therefore something to be desired to the fullest. More powerful than man’s desire for life is the soul’s de- sire to become one with God. Eckhart states that the body received the soul so that it may be “purified,” but in reality the body is a prison that the soul cannot escape.18 Thus, it longs for the end, signified by its unification with God. The unity of the soul with God is the heart of Eckhart’s mystical philosophy, and he develops his views through his sermons. He gives clear instructions for his audience to follow if they are to be successfully endowed with God’s grace and presence. Eckhart describes a special “power” residing in the soul that has the capacity to “be set free,” a power that he calls a “divine spark.”19 This power, like God Himself, has no name or form and is solitary to the point where it cannot be tainted or corrupted by anyone, namely creation. This power is said to exist above the “created be- ing of the soul . . . untouched by any createdness” and therefore exists as one, much like the divine nature.20 This quality of the soul has the capacity to know God, but only under the circumstance that the individual can “do away with himself” and rid himself of everything regarding cre- ation.21 As long as the human being holds on to and adores material things, he will never be able to understand the nature of God. However, this power does not reach out to God, try to grasp the worldly qualities attributed to God such as goodness, or try to understand the magnitude of “The first attribute that must be applied to God is that He is being: being at its highest, best, and most pure.” 67 nearing god God’s goodness. Instead, the power of the soul seeks to go beyond the human conceptions of God and arrive at the heart of His unity, His divinity, and His nature. The single greatest condition that is necessary of the indi- vidual if the soul is to become united with God is a com- plete detachment from “all that is created, not only from the appetites which bind us to created things, but also from the images of created things.”22 Being completely empty of all creatures and fighting against their influence of the soul is the only way to be filled with God. In order for the soul to receive “the All Highest, it must be reduced to nothingness.”23 The person to whom God is reaching out must remove everything from his heart so that he can re- ceive God’s will. Only when he is reduced to nothing can man be filled with everything. Eckhart states that the “whole of human perfection” is to distance oneself from creatures, to be in a state of mind where everything means the same, and to no longer be influenced by emotion or attachment to created objects.24 From the perspective of the reader, it is easy to see why the soul should be united with God, united with His grace, but we must also wonder why God would feel inclined to become one with the hu- man soul. Eckhart answers this question by revealing to us that God too has a desire, a desire to become our sole pos- session in a world of created things. The less love we hold for material objects, the more love we are able to surrender to Him, and the poorer our spirit, the richer it can become through our reception of Him. A peculiar notion that Eck- hart takes up is that all things we thought belonged to us were really only lent to us by God. The things that God has allowed us to borrow from Him include the body, soul, senses, faculties, friends, relatives, and material goods. By accepting this fact, we are able to more easily detach our- selves from worldly desires and give them up for the sake of God and in exchange for a union with Him. As afore- mentioned, the union of soul and God is the fundamental claim of Eckhart’s mystical philosophy, and it is only through this phenomenon that a human being can possi- bly understand the nature of God. In the soul’s desire of Him, we are able to look beyond the realm of the temporal being, past the world of creation that we see, and finally to embrace God’s Divine light. It comes as no surprise that Meister Eckhart’s mysticism came under heavy scrutiny and criticism from Church au- thorities because of the seemingly heretical nature of his claims. The leading figures of the Church, however, misin- terpreted the words of Eckhart and based their condemna- tions on literal interpretations instead of reading into the meaning behind his sermons. Eckhart admits that his ar- guments and propositions might seem heretical and blas- phemous upon first glance, but if his works are “studied with understanding and care,” the reader can come to real- ize the true meaning.25 An example is Eckhart’s claim that “God is neither good, nor better, nor the best.”26 Taken at face value, this clearly gives off the air of heresy. Yet, Eck- hart is simply portraying that finite adjectives such as “good,” “better,” or “best” cannot be applied to a being that is infinite and perfect in every way. Additionally, Christian orthodoxy maintains that a clear distinction be made be- tween God as the Creator and man as the created, even within the context of mystical union. Accordingly, Church leaders did not appreciate that Eckhart advocated man’s ability to become like God and the soul’s capacity to as- sume a divine character. Eckhart’s mysticism also appears to describe a rift between the “spiritual and moral life.”27 If human beings enjoy an inner union with God, then they are no longer bound to do good works. Some of his con- temporaries interpreted the soul’s union with God as a means of elevating human beings above all notions of meister eckhart adopted many of his theological doctrines from thomas aquinas. 68 elements : : spring 2011 good and evil and therefore absolving man from sin. This was not Eckhart’s intention. As with other mystics, Eck- hart was inclined to “despise the world,” so he called for a detachment from the desire for worldly possessions and supported a concerted effort to look inward for the grace of God.28 In addition to German mysticism being a revolutionary religious movement, it played a unique role in the advance of the German cultural tradition. From the point of view of literary history, Eckhart’s vernacular prose is of great im- portance. Latin was the traditional language of theology in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, but Eckhart broad- ened the scope of understanding and spoke to the German people in their native tongue. In order for the people to understand his ideas, Eckhart had to coin German words to express theological concepts. He had to invent a “vo- cabulary of mysticism.”29 By using German, he was able to address the laity and to express the ideas and interests of the peasantry. The influence of his religious ideas and ver- nacular prose is evident in the ideology of Martin Luther, the champion of the Protestant Reformation in Germany. Luther was the first to transcribe the Bible into a form of German spoken by a majority of the population and subse- quently was able to expose the Scriptures to a large audi- ence. Eckhart’s view of an inner and intimate relationship with God corresponds to some of the religious beliefs that Luther spread throughout the Reformation. Luther be- lieved that salvation and redemption are a gift of God’s grace and that justification is solely an act of God. Accord- ing to Eckhart, the only gift from God is Himself and man must learn to see God in all works. In regards to justifica- tion, Eckhart states that “our blessedness does not lie in our action, but in the way we allow God to act in us” and “our fulfillment lies not in our action but in His.”30 Like Eckhart, Martin Luther recognized how the material world of creation had corrupted the Church and caused it to sway from the central themes of Christianity. A more introspec- tive perspective on faith, like that of the soul’s union with God, was necessary. Interestingly, for an extended period of time in the Middle Ages, he and his writings had fallen rather far into obscu- rity. A century after his death he was commonly remem- bered as a dangerous and heretical friar, more famous for the papal condemnation of his writings than the writings themselves. This did not mean, however, that his influence ceased; it lived on through his pupils, fellow German mys- tics, and in the work of theologians who referenced his writings. With the resurfacing of Eckhart’s sermons and the revival of “religious consciousness” in the nineteenth century, a renewed scholarship of Eckhart’s works made an effort to rediscover the phenomena of spiritualism and mysticism.31 An edition of Eckhart’s sermons published by Franz Pfeiffer created a new-found respect for Eckhart, hailing him as “the father of German philosophy, a mystic of the foremost rank, a great master of German prose, a central spirit of mysticism, and the greatest the Middle Ages had produced.”32 The admiration of Eckhart went so far as to warrant members of the Nazi government want- ing to use his texts as propaganda, even though his words were vastly misinterpreted and taken out of context. Never- theless, Eckhart had a positive influence on several mod- ern German philosophers: Hegel, who claims he inspired Idealism; Nietzsche and Schopenhauer, who make re- spectful mention of him; and Heidegger, who admits that Eckhart served as an inspiration for his own philosophy of Being. Meister Eckhart was an invigorating force in the four- teenth century and fostered the spread of German mysti- cism in the Rhineland. Although he faced heavy criticism during his lifetime, Meister Eckhart’s work undoubtedly shaped the tradition of German literature and Christianity. eNdNotes 1. Clark 1970 (3) 2. Clark 1970 (10) 3. Clark 1970 (18) 4. Clark 1970 (7) 5. Clark 1957 (27) 6. Clark 1957 (26) 7. Ibid. 8. Ibid. “Although he faced heavy criticism during his lifetime, Meister Eckhart’s work undoubtedly shaped the tradition of German literature and Christianity.” 69 nearing god 9. Clark 1957 (27) 10. Ibid. 11. Clark 1957 (28) 12. Clark 1957 (30) 13. Clark 1957 (31) 14. Clark 1957 (32) 15. Clark 1957 (33) 16. Clark 1970 (57) 17. Ibid. 18. Clark 1970 (60) 19. Davies (30) 20. Davies (31) 21. Ibid. 22. Davies (8) 23. Davies (39) 24. Eckhart (56) 25. Clark 1970 (17) 26. Ibid. 27. Clark 1970 (9) 28. Clark 1957 (21) 29. Clark 1957 (22) 30. Davies (51) 31. Clark 1970 (26) 32. Clark 1970 (30) refereNces Clark, James M. The Great German Mystics. New York, NY: Russell & Russell, 1970. Clark, James M. Meister Eckhart. New York, NY: Thomas Nelson and Sons LTD, 1957. Davies, Oliver. Rhineland Mystics. New York, NY: Crossroads Publishing Company, 1989. Eckhart, Meister. Wandering Joy: Meister Eckhart’s Mystical Philosophy. Translated by Reiner Schürmann. Great Barrington, MA. Lindisfarne Books, 2001. 70 elements : : spring 2011 Following the holocaust and the nuremberg trials, the international community sought to “break with the past” and establish a system oF accountability. this paper explores the development oF international law and international legal organiza- tions Following the nuremberg trials, their historical and legal role, as well as the challenges their legacy has Faced. as global atrocities have historically evinced, crimes against humanity, war crimes, and genocide have not ceased to be a reality in the modern world. unFortunately, the politics oF the international arena sometimes lead states to act according to their interests rather than to curtail and punish gross violations. regardless oF skeptics’ assertions about the “Failure” oF interna- tional law Following nuremberg, it is undeniable that despite the Few Flaws in the way that states deter and punish crimes, the post-nuremberg order demonstrates the international community’s commitment to pursuing justice and matters oF human dignity. The Nuremberg Trials Precedent For International Law dianna michelle martínez Jean-Paul Sartre once noted that “the fact of genocide is as old as humanity,” but the legal term and consequences are “relatively new.” The right to state sovereignty had histori- cally been upheld over the right to intervene in other states for the purpose of protecting foreign individuals’ rights. Not until after the horrific crimes committed during the Holocaust, when Nazi Germany’s wartime behavior was so “unprecedented and horrifying,” did the international community see the need for a system of criminal punish- ment.1 It set up the Nuremberg Trials, ultimately paving the way for an innovative system of international criminal law that, while facing challenges, would seek to hold any and all individuals accountable for inhumane actions in which they might participate. As an Allied triumph over the Nazis became the most like- ly outcome of World War II, and as news of the atrocities committed by Nazi Germany spread, the soon-to-be-victors began to consider how they would bring the Nazi war criminals to justice.2 Nuremberg was selected as the loca- tion for the trial given its symbolic value within the Nazi regime, as well as the practical aspect of having one of the sole remaining courthouses in post-war Germany.3 Though some states proposed having a case overseen by a civilian court, or even carrying out summary executions, President Harry Truman pushed for an internation- al military tribunal which would give each individual a full and fair trial. In the trial of the major Nazi war criminals, the Al- lies sought to convict these individuals on four sepa- rate charges. These charg- es included “crimes against peace,” which con- sisted of the “planning, preparation, and waging wars of aggression” in vio- lation of international trea- ties.4 The second charge was that of “war crimes,” which was defined as “crimes against civilians and prisoners of war” in violation of the laws of war as stipulated in the Hague and Geneva Conventions.5 Thirdly, they devised an additional “conspiracy” charge in order to cover those who did not “get their hands dirty.” Additionally, they sought convictions for “crimes against humanity,” which dealt with numerous types of “assault on civilians,” particularly murder and persecution of indi- viduals “based on race, religion or national origin.”6 The charge was designed to cover all assaults committed against civilians outside the sphere of “war crimes.” In do- ing so, the Allies emphasized the desire to ensure that the world would no longer “turn a blind eye to crimes against civilians” solely because the perpetrator was a sovereign state.7 The Allies thus met in 1945 in order to codify the definition of this sweeping, innovative charge under the London Charter as: Murder, extermination, enslavement, deportation, and other inhumane acts committed against any civilian population, before or during the war; or persecutions on political, racial, or religious grounds in furtherance of or in connection with any crime within the jurisdiction of the International Tribunal, whether or not in violation of the domestic law of the country where perpetrated.8 deFendants awaiting trial in nuremberg 73 the nuremberg trials For the first time in history, there was a public and interna- tional acknowledgement that: . . .individuals had a right to be treated with a minimum civility by their own governments a right which all other governments had a correlative duty to uphold by trying the torturers who fell into their hands [and by setting up international courts to hold them accountable.] 9 With this single paragraph, the London Charter declared that citizens of the world had “rights never before recog- nized,” rights which would prevail even against heads of state and top officials.10 This is considered the fundamen- tal legal legacy of Nuremberg, accompanied by the equally important creation of a process to ensure that human rights are universally protected. While groundbreaking in nature, Nuremberg also had its share of shortcomings and criticisms. Particularly, the trial was seen as the epitome of victor’s justice. The crimes committed by the Allies, especially those of the Soviet Union, went ignored, thus detracting from the tribunal’s credibility.11 It was also criticized for allegedly implement- ing laws retroactively. In spite of these critiques, it is im- portant to note that, ultimately, Nuremberg’s problems were less significant than its contributions to advancing the international rule of law.12 Robert H. Jackson, the Chief Prosecutor for the United States at Nuremberg, contended that the trial represented a significant “break with the past,” setting “new bench- marks for all people’s behavior by replacing the law of force with the force of law.”13 As Jackson said at the begin- ning of the trials, “as we pass a poison chalice to the lips of these defendants, we pass it to our lips as well.”14 He noted that they were to represent a new stage in the history of equity among the states. These changes would also serve to govern their behavior and international standards in the future, emphasizing the intent to create an objective sys- tem of international criminal law. The French prosecutor at Nuremberg, Champetier de Ri- bes, noted how the crimes committed by Nazi Germany were “so monstrous, so undreamt of in history through the Christian era up to the birth of Hitlerism,” that the term ‘genocide’ had to be coined in order to describe these events.15 The Nuremberg Charter, however, had insisted upon a “nexus between the crime against humanity and the international conflict,” negating any accountability for atrocities committed outside the sphere of war.16 There- fore, no legal foundation existed for crimes committed in the absence of armed conflict. According to the principle of nullum crimen sine lege, no crime could be punished without its being part of a previous penal law. For these reasons, the final judgment in the Trial of the Major War Criminals at Nuremberg could not use the term ‘genocide’ to describe the crimes committed. After the trials, however, it became evident that the crimes prosecuted were “very much consecutive of genocide.”17 Many feared that future crimes would go unpunished be- cause of the possibility of crimes committed outside the context of war. In an effort to prevent this from occuring, Cuba, India and Panamá initiated the process to define and declare genocide an international crime. Just a few months after the Nuremberg trials had concluded, Resolu- tion 96 (I) was adopted unanimously and without debate, thereby modifying the “unfortunate legacy of Nuremberg jurisprudence” of the nexus between genocide and armed conflict.18 This Resolution, which constituted the founda- tional basis for the 1948 Convention, defined genocide as: . . . the denial of the right of existence of entire human groups, as homicide is the denial of the right to life of individual hu- man beings; such denial of the right of existence shocks the conscience of mankind, results in great losses to humanity in the form of cultural and other contributions represented by these human groups, and is contrary to moral law and to the spirit and aims of the UN.19 The Nuremberg trials established a definition and prece- dent for jurisdiction over “crimes against humanity.” In the wake of these changes, numerous other initiatives con- tinued the legacy of Nuremberg in international law. Par- ticularly worth noting is the international community’s ratification of the Convention on the Prevention and Pun- ishment of the Crime of Genocide in 1948. Combined with the Nuremberg Trials, the Genocide Convention nar- rowed the gap between “crimes against humanity” and “genocide” by cementing and codifying the idea of gross human rights violations both within and outside the con- text of armed conflict. The trials’ conclusions were a significant driving force, as well as a model, for the signing and ratification of the Genocide Convention of 1948, the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, the Nuremberg Principles of 1950, the Geneva Conventions of 1949, and the Convention on the 74 elements : : spring 2011 Abolition of the Statute of Limitations on War Crimes and Crimes against Humanity in 1968. Besides leading to the ratification of further agreements and the definition of more juridical obligations in international criminal law, the Nuremberg trials also set the precedent for the creation of ad hoc international criminal tribunals, which eventual- ly led to the establishment of a permanent international criminal tribunal, the International Criminal Court (ICC), in the late 1990s. The Nuremberg trials became a model for the subsequent tribunals set up in Tokyo, former Yugoslavia, and Rwanda, with the Tokyo tribunal constituting the most immediate example of an ad hoc tribunal following Nuremberg. The Tokyo War Crimes trial prosecuted 28 high-ranking Japa- nese officials for war crimes committed during World War II. Though all of them were found guilty of committing war crimes, the entire imperial family was exonerated in order to “preserve the image of the emperor” who had agreed to Japan’s unconditional surrender as a way to en- sure “better political cooperation” with the Allies.20 This politicized decision provoked criticism, especially since the war had been waged under Emperor Hirohito’s name, and only a trial would have determined if he was in fact a “puppet or a puppeteer.”21 Most telling of the increas- ing politicization of international law in the era was the United States’ desire to preserve Japan’s “stability and strength” by not “humiliating Japan” with the consequenc- es of prosecuting its emperor.22 With political consider- ations successfully overshadowing the need to provide ef- fective accountability, the United States forged a strategic alliance. Following these trials, there was a significant period of time that was distinguished by an absence of trials. The fact that there were no military tribunals set up between 1946 and the mid-1990s does not represent an absence of human rights violations in war crimes, but rather the start of the Cold War and realpolitik, which was dominated by the hypocrisy of signing numerous documents but failing to engage in any meaningful enforcement action. In this period, the accountability component of the movement stalled, whereas gross violations did not; Lebanon, Viet- nam, Cambodia and Indonesia, among many others, suf- fered grave atrocities while other states ignored their new- ly established obligations. This led some to note sardonically that the Genocide Convention was “unneces- sary when applicable and inapplicable when necessary.”23 This inaction during the Cold War, despite the internation- al community’s stance to fight unilateral aggression, reaf- firmed as the basic feature of international relations that “states pursue interests defined in terms of power.”24 Therefore, states act according to their interests, and not in response to “abstract legal, moral, ethical, or altruistic principles,” as these two frequently clash.25 Throughout this period, states did just that, prioritizing their interests above protecting rights. This prioritization contributed greatly to the unfortunate limitation of international law during this period. In the post-Cold War new world order, attempts to “capital- ize on the Nuremberg legacy” led to the establishment of international tribunals at The Hague and at Arusha to punish perpetrators of crimes against humanity during “genocidal conflicts” in former Yugoslavia and Rwanda.26 After “more than four decades of marginalization,” once the world faced the horrors that took place in Rwanda and Yugoslavia, the Convention arose as an “imperative legal tool for the prosecution of individual offenders in situa- tions where its applicability was unchallengeable.”27 After almost half a century of silence, the international commu- nity finally resumed pursuit of individual responsibility and accountability.28 The International Military Tribunal at Yugoslavia (IMTY), established in 1993, focused on the Serbian-run concentra- tion camps, where Muslims and Croats were incarcerated during the war. Yugoslav President Slobodan Milosevic “The fact that there were no military tribunals set up between 1946 and the mid-1990s does not represent an absence of human rights violations in war crimes, but rather the start of the Cold War.” 75 the nuremberg trials was considered the primary figure responsible for both the war and the atrocities in the Balkans but was not immedi- ately tried following the establishment of the IMTY since he was “the most valuable to the U.S. in their campaign for a peace agreement.”29 The Clinton administration contin- ued to support Milosevic’s rule until 1998, when his “repu- tation began a downslide,” eventually resulting in his ar- rest and subsequent trial. 30 The IMTY brought charges of war crimes and crimes against humanity but made no mention of genocide, even in the trial of former President Milosevic. The difficulty of establishing the intent to destroy groups of people pres- ents a judicial problem in charging genocide. In addition to the impossibility of proving Milosevic’s intent, interna- tional politics also played a crucial role in the way the situ- ation in Yugoslavia took place. Neither the United Nations, nor any other states, intervened in the crisis until it had “spiraled out of control,” thus emphasizing the inability of the international penal process to prevent and restrain these atrocities.31 When it came to Rwanda a few years later, the absence of an immediate response continued to represent a “portrait of a reluctant international community.”32 Many now de- pict the case of Rwanda as the epitome of the failure to prevent genocide and the “culmination of many years of cynical indifference and willful blindness to the plight of the Rwandan people.”33 Once the killings of Tutsis by the Hutu militia had begun in early 1994, U.S. and European policymakers insisted on withdrawing peacekeeping offi- cials and refrained from labeling the slaughter as “geno- cide” to defuse any pressure to act.34 As this was happening, the West opted to focus on the Yu- goslav trial, “the most violent conflict in Europe since World War II,” while the “far removed” conflict of Rwanda took place.35 It wasn’t until six weeks later, when 800,000 Tutsi and Hutu moderates had already died, that the Secu- rity Council finally acknowledged genocide was taking place in Rwanda. The United States, however, continued its stance of not addressing it as ‘genocide,’ with Secretary of State Warren Christopher stating that there was no “magic” behind the mere action of saying those words.36 using excess soviet arms, the rwandan patriotic Front, a militant rebel group, initiated the slaughter oF hundreds oF thousands oF tutsis and hutu moderates. 76 elements : : spring 2011 Though just labeling it as such would not have sufficed to solve the situation that was taking place in Rwanda, there was great need to use the term in order to bind the states to act. By avoiding the term “genocide,” states manipulated the system of international criminal law that was estab- lished, opting to find loopholes in order to selectively inter- vene. By failing to acknowledge the events as consequen- tial of genocide, the United States and other states refused to recognize and accept their responsibility to the Rwan- dan people. Although Rwanda “was not as closely tied to their national interests as [was] the former Yugoslavia,” Security Council members finally acknowledged that they “had to respond” to the situation in Rwanda. 37 In 1994, on the same day as the Yugoslav tribunal issued its first indictment, and as the Tutsi slaughter had essentially come to an end, the UN established the International Criminal Tribunal for Rwan- da.38 Contrary to the Yugoslav tribunal, the charge of geno- cide was systematically used against the perpetrators that were tried, including former Prime Minister of the care- taker government, Jean Kambanda. His trial was particu- larly important, insofar as it set the precedent of refusing to allow or grant heads of state immunity from prosecu- tion for genocide. This judgment had ramifications for the 1998 extradition of former Chilean head of state Augusto Pinochet from the United Kingdom, and the 1999 indict- ment and subsequent transfer of Slobodan Milosevic. The Rwandan tribunal has been met with some criticism, despite the indictment of a former head of state. The tribu- nal, which has a multimillion-dollar budget, had complet- ed only 4 trials with 48 other cases pending between 1994 and 2000.39 It has also been criticized for only focusing on “high-profile defendants” while ignoring the crimes com- mitted by lower level individuals and locals.40 The original actions, or non-actions, against the atrocities were also pointedly criticized, with many blaming the United Na- tions and the United States for what constituted a “pre- ventable genocide.”41 Though these two trials represent a “return to the model of Nuremberg” and the ways in which the international penal system can work, the inability to thwart these acts of geno- cide indicate that several obstacles remain and must be overcome in order to fully implement the prevention pro- mulgated by the Genocide Convention and related agree- ments.42 The issue of preventing genocide is currently considered a “blank sheet,” given the ambiguity surround- ing how states can impede genocide.43 The real challenge of preventing genocide is the problem of distinguishing between “garden-variety ethnic conflict” and signs of a possible looming genocide. The scope of the international community’s fight against genocide is further problematic, as “selective justice” has been a challenge since the Nuremburg trials. This consists of the complaint that with the creation of ad hoc tribunals, only a few of the guilty individuals are punished, while others are left unmolested or prosecuted in lesser courts with smaller punishment. The argument put forth by the Rome Statute of the ICC is that with the creation of a per- manent court, the problem of selective justice, as well as that of impunity and “tribunal fatigue,” would be re- solved.44 Besides being selective in regard to the individuals that are prosecuted, critics argue that the ad hoc tribunals, as well as the ICC, are “unfairly selective” as to whom they iden- tify as criminals. They choose to target individuals from particularly unpopular states, while essentially giving oth- ers a “free pass.” This explains why states like the United States and China have remained essentially unmolested for their violations of human rights, while states like So- malia, Rwanda, and Colombia have been criticized for their actions. Many argue that this problem was also present at the time of the Nuremberg Trials with its implementation of a “vic- tor’s justice.” The trial was silent on Allies’ crimes such as the Hiroshima bombings and the Soviet Union’s pogroms, focusing exclusively on the Axis’ misdeeds during World War II. This remains the case today when it comes to more recent trials, given criticisms that anti-Serb and anti-Hutu biases prevailed in the Yugoslavian and Rwandan trials. The fact that few Bosnian Muslims, Croats, or Kosovars were prosecuted in international tribunals, and that no Tutsis were put to trial for criminal acts conducted during the Civil War further supports this idea. The problem of impunity, which left retribution for such crimes “to history or to God,” was not limited to the United States’ post-World War II decision to exempt Emperor Hi- rohito from trial, but extended to other amoral leaders.45 Barbaric rulers of recent times, even when they are over- thrown from power, have found themselves able to “live happily ever after” under the protection of other unethical governments.46 These include Paraguay’s Alfredo Stroess- ner, Chad’s Hissène Habré, guilty of killing more than 77 the nuremberg trials 40,000 during his rule, and Uganda’s Idi Amin, all of whom lived comfortably in neighboring states following their tyrannical rule. While the political landscape remains problematic, chang- es in the method of selecting individuals for prosecution has resulted in a more effective trial process. In 1999, Chile’s former dictator, General Augusto Pinochet, trav- elled to London under the assumption that previous inac- tion by the international legal community would protect him. At this point, he was unaware that “as an outgrowth of Nuremberg, a new legal concept known as universal ju- risdiction” would allow any nation to arrest and prosecute someone for crimes against humanity.47 After a lengthy extradition-request process, the House of Lords’ ruling to extradite Pinochet to Spain for trial represented a “signifi- cant triumph of the Nuremberg legacy” since it success- fully demonstrated that no individual is above the law.48 This precedent began to be invoked during the trials of former heads of state, the first of which was Chad’s Hissène Habré. There are also a few institutional obstacles when it comes to ensure that human rights violations and crimes are prosecuted. Tribunals rely on national agencies to make arrests. This has led to problems in the extradition of war criminals, allowing some key indictees in the Yugoslavia and Rwanda cases, and some more recent culprits such as Sudan’s President, to remain “fugitives” without having been tried yet. To further complicate the situation, indi- viduals can no longer be tried in their absence, as was done in Nuremberg, further requiring states to extradite and try these war criminals. The problem of “intent” further hinders the prosecution of human rights atrocities. With respect to determining whether or not “genocide” is in fact taking place, a neces- sary element is the presence of an “intent to destroy, in whole or in part . . . a group.”49 It is both challenging and complicated to distinguish between what constitutes a purely military objective and what is in fact a genuine de- sire to destroy a group. This expenditure of time prolongs the process of stopping an ongoing genocide. This issue is currently at play in Darfur, which simultane- ously embodies both the lack of a response and the contin- ued need for the international community to act. Though the ICC indicted Sudanese President Omar al-Bashir on war crimes and genocide charges in 2008, it has no juris- diction to investigate the crimes without United Nations approval since Sudan is not a signatory to the Rome Stat- ute. Importantly, the atrocities committed in Darfur have garnered much attention in the international community. Though state entities might not be initiating any juridical or military action, mass media coverage as well as de- nouncements of the atrocities by organizations and indi- viduals have received are reminders of the prevalence of universal human rights in the global consciousness. Al- though obstacles to taking action might remain, Nurem- berg’s legacy has ensured that these matters of war crimes and genocide achieve international recognition, promote awareness, and advocate responsibility toward human rights. Some theorists call this the “CNN Factor,” in which pressure on states is intensified as the media and individu- als campaign for involvement.50 Some contend that how the situation in Darfur unfolds will ultimately be the “lit- mus test for the viability of the system of international criminal justice launched at Nuremberg.”51 The International Criminal Court is a potentially perma- nent tribunal to prosecute individuals for genocide, crimes against humanity, war crimes, and crimes of aggression, thus representing the institutionalization of Nuremberg and therefore the de-politicization of international law. It is critical to note that the ICC is an “armless, legless giant that needs artificial limbs to act and move. These limbs are state authorities . . . if they fail to carry out their responsi- bilities, the giant is paralyzed, no matter how determined its efforts.”52 With the United States, China, and Russia opposed to its creation, the road to de-politicizing the in- ternational judicial process has been paradoxically domi- “Nuremberg’s legacy ensured that these matters of war crimes and genocide achieve international recognition, promote awareness, and advocate responsibility towards human rights.” 78 elements : : spring 2011 nated by international politics, which essentially paralyzes this “giant.” The fact that the ICC would be able to exercise its jurisdiction when national courts are unwilling or un- able to do so makes states vote “arrogantly” against the ICC, concerned that its creation would lead them to lose sovereignty to an international legal body.53 The Nuremberg trials played a prominent role in the elab- oration and the enforcement of international criminal law, especially when it comes to the relative successes of hold- ing individuals accountable for human rights violations.54 Many people might be cautious or critical about the legacy of Nuremberg, highlighting the unfortunate role that poli- tics play from time to time in the sphere of international law. Others might choose to focus on those flaws that un- derlie the system, such as that of the possible lack of im- partiality, victor’s justice, and the seeming inability to pre- vent or deter genocide.55 While it is important to acknowledge that Nuremberg is by no means a “perfect trial” or a “perfect precedent,” it was groundbreaking in many respects and played a crucial historical and legal role in more ways than one.56 The conflicts and bloodshed that continue in Iraq, the for- mer Yugoslavia, Somalia, Rwanda, Afghanistan, Burundi, Liberia, Sierra Leone, Colombia, the Congo, Chechnya, Indonesia, and Sudan are “grim reminders that interna- tional law continues to fail us all” and that there is still room for improving the system.57 While international law continues to face challenges and has significant room for improvement, it is in no way a complete failure. The ratifi- cation of documents in the decades following Nuremberg has demonstrated that the international community is open and willing to engage in a discussion of human rights and seeks to continue improving upon the system it created more than sixty years ago. As a turning point for individual responsibility and state sovereignty, Nuremberg played a crucial role in the estab- lishment of a system of accountability and represented a driving force in the modern international criminal justice system.58 Its contributions in the form of precedence and resulting conventions and resolutions are important affir- mations of human dignity, more so than empty promis- es.59 The fact that war criminals are being held account- able for their actions and that the international community is conscious of the need to enforce international norms indicates that international criminal justice is workable.60 Besides noting what Nuremberg has meant in terms of in- ternational law, it is important to recall the historical legacy of the trials. By delving into the details concerning the atrocities committed by Nazi officials, the trials left an in- disputable historical record of the events that took place during the Holocaust. Though eventually there will be no human voice to provide an authentic, first person account of the genocide, the tortures, gas chambers, and the con- centration camps, Nuremberg provided a record of the na- ture of the Holocaust that will continue to live on as part of its legacy.61 If summary executions had followed the wars, rather than full, fair trials such as those that took place, there would have been no record, no legal precedent for all subsequent conventions and cases, and thus no Nurem- berg legacy.62 Whereas it might be easy to contend that crimes against humanity have not stopped, one must also pose the more complex question of how many war crimes have not been committed because of Nuremberg. When individuals now mention “Nuremberg,” the word has come to transcend the meaning of a mere time and place in history. “Nurem- berg” has come to represent a “commitment to justice.” Additionally, the international community has embraced the higher standards of law and due process stemming from Nuremberg.63 From a legal, historical, and moral per- spective, Nuremberg’s legacy is one of great importance and of significant implications. Even considering its short- “The Nuremberg trials played a prominent role in the elaboration and the enforcement of international criminal law, especially when it comes to the relative successes of holding individuals accountable for human rights violations.” 79 the nuremberg trials comings, Nuremburg’s achievements during 1946 con- tinue to define a global sense of justice, responsibilities, and rights to this day. eNdNoTes 1. Griech-Polelle (13) 2. Fraser (124) 3. Griech-Polelle (13) 4. Henry T. King (8) 5. Ibid. 6. Ibid. 7. Ibid. 8. Schabas (36) 9. Robertson (xiv) 10. Ehrenfreund (121) 11. Wolfe (443) 12. Cooper (18) 13. King (10) 14. Ibid. 15. Schabas (38) 16. Schabas (543) 17. Schabas (10) 18. Schabas (46) 19. Ratner & Abrams (352) 20. Maogoto (104) 21. Ibid. 22. Maogoto (106) 23. Schabas (544) 24. Maogoto 237 25. Ibid. 26. Robertson (xvii) 27. Schabas (545) 28. Maogoto (237) 29. Ehrenfreund (154) 30. Ibid. 31. Maogoto (164) 32. Maogoto (179) 33. Ibid. 34. Maogoto (182) 35. Ibid. 36. Ibid. 37. Maogoto (185) 38. Maogoto (180) 39. Maogoto (190) 40. Maogoto (193) 41. Maogoto (192) 42. Maogoto (193) 43. Schabas (546) 44. United Nations. 45. Robertson (204) 46. Ibid. 47. Ehrenfreund (128) 48. Ibid. 49. Schabas (94) 50. Falk (123) 51. Tomuschat (844) 52. Maogoto (203) 53. Wolfe (434) 54. Ratner & Abrams (190) 55. Ibid. 56. Cooper (17) 57. Maogoto (240) 58. Maogoto (99) 59. Maogoto (238) 60. Ibid. 61. Ehrenfreund (139) 62. Ibid. 63. Ehrenfreund (153) refereNces Cooper, Belinda, ed. War Crimes: the Legacy of Nuremberg. New York: TV Books, 1999. Ehrenfreund, Norbert. The Nuremberg Legacy. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000. Falk, Richard. “Accountability and the Legacy of Nuremberg,” in War Crimes: The Legacy of Nuremberg, ed. Aleksander Jokic (Oxford:Blackwell Publishers, 2001). Fraser, David. Law after Auschwitz. Durham: Carolina Academic Press, 2005. Griech-Polelle, Beth, ed. The Nuremberg War Crimes Trial and its Policy Consequences Today. Munich: Nomos, 2009. Human Rights Watch. “US: Hold Torturers Accountable.” February 4, 2008. http://www.hrw.org/en/news/2008/02/04/ us-hold-torturers-accountable (accessed May 11, 2010). Jokic, Aleksandar, ed. War Crimes and Collective Wrongdoing: A Reader. Oxford: Blackwell Publishers, 2001. King Jr., Henry T. “The Spirit of Nuremberg--Idealism,” preface to The Nuremberg War Crimes Trial and its Policy Consequences Today, by Beth A. Griech-Polelle (ed.) (Munich: Nomos, 2009), 8. Maogoto, Jackson Nyamuya. War Crimes and Realpolitik. Boulder: Lynne Rienner Publishers, 2004. Ratner, Steven R., and Jason S. Abrams. Accountability for Human Rights Atrocities in International Law: Beyond the Nuremberg Legacy. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001. Robertson, Geoffrey. Crimes Against Humanity: The Struggle for Global Justice. New York: WW Norton & Company, 2000. Schabas, William A. Genocide in International Law. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000. Shane, Scott. “Waterboarding Used 266 Times on Two Suspects,” New York Times. April, 19, 2009. http://www.nytimes. com/2009/04/20/world/20detain.html?_r=1 (accessed May 3, 80 elements : : spring 2011 2010). Stoltzfus, Nathan, and Henry Friedlander, eds. Nazi Crimes and the Law. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008. Tomuschat, Christian. “The Legacy of Nuremberg.” Journal of International Criminal Justice 4 (2006): 830-844. http://jicj. oxfordjournals.org/cgi/reprint/4/4/830 (accessed May 11, 2010). United Nations, “Rome Statute of the International Criminal Court,” http://untreaty.un.org/cod/icc/general/overview.htm. Wolfe, Robert. “Flaws in the Nuremberg Legacy.” Holocaust and Genocide Studies 12, no. 3 (Winter 1998): 434-453. http://hgs. oxfordjournals.org/cgi/reprint/12/3/434?maxtoshow=&hits=1 0&RESULTFORMAT=&fulltext=Nuremberg&searched=1&FIR STINDEX= 0&resourcetype=HWCIT (accessed May 10, 2010). 81 the nuremberg trials “The Free Soil Party looked and acted like a major political party with rallies and speeches given by prominent political men, such as Benjamin Butler and John Van Buren.” For a political party that existed For less than a decade, the Free soil party had a tre- mendous impact on american politics in the late 1840s and early 1850s. it swung the 1848 presidential election, brought the issue oF the westward expansion oF slavery to the ForeFront, and paved the way For abraham lincoln and the republican party to achieve national prominence in 1860. although it Floundered on issues involving race and Failed to put Forth a strong party platForm encompasssing issues beyond slavery, the Free soil party proved to be one oF the most inFluential third parties in american history. this article Focuses on the history and legacy oF the Free soilers. the Free Soil party Turbulent Times and Minority Politics dennis F. murphy When Lewis Cass obtained the 1848 presidential nomina- tion of the Democratic Party and the New York State Dem- ocratic convention refused to endorse the Wilmot Proviso, many members of the party separated to form the Free Soil Party in that same year. Basing its formation on the rejec- tion of slavery extension into the western territories, the Free Soilers propelled themselves onto the national stage with a controversial issue in the hopes that some support- ers of the two major political parties might be drawn away to support the values and ideals of this new third party. The Free Soil Party had a tremendous effect on American poli- tics in the late 1840s and early 1850s, opening the door for anti-slavery parties in the future. Even though the Free Soil Party enjoyed only a brief run on the national stage, it greatly influenced the major parties’ stances on slavery, de- termined the outcome of the 1848 Presidential Election, and brought about the rise of the Republican Party in 1854 culminating in Abraham Lincoln’s election in 1860. In the early 1840s, there grew a demand among northern radicals for a strong anti-slavery voice in the White House. Slavery was a controversial issue during this time due to the possibility of its expansion into the new western terri- tories. The presidential election year of 1844 proved to be the starting point for many of these radicals in forming an anti-slavery political party. As Eric Foner points out in his book on anti-slavery activity prior to the Republican Party, in the year 1844, “Martin Van Buren, who was universally expected to be the Democratic candidate for president, was deprived of the nomination because of his opposition to the immediate annexation of Texas as a slave state.”1 Many of Van Buren’s supporters were furious with the southern wing of the Democratic Party, and they were convinced that Van Buren lost the nomination because of the party’s desire to appease voters. Even though James Polk won the nomination and the presidential election for the Demo- crats in 1844, the Van Burenites within the party “resented what they considered southern efforts to force pro-slavery views upon the party as a whole.”2 During Polk’s adminis- tration, many northern Democrats felt that Polk was con- trolled by the southern wing of the party. In 1847, these thoughts turned into political action as the Democrats split over the Wilmot Proviso. The New York Van Burenites, more commonly known as Barnburners, “walked out of the Democratic state convention when the pro-administra- tion Hunkers refused to endorse the principle of the non- extension of slavery.”3 In 1848, at the Buffalo Convention, many of the northern Democrats joined with additional dissenters from the other political parties to form the Free Soil Party, supporting Martin Van Buren in the 1848 Presi- dential Election. The Free Soil Party was split into two groups: those, like Preston Scott, who strongly believed in the anti-slavery cause and those, like Van Buren, who were mainly “interested in challenging southern domination of the Democratic party.”4 The Free Soilers felt that Lewis Cass, the Democratic presidential nominee in 1848, would act just like Polk in the White House, constantly catering to the southerners’ interests. Even with the desire to halt the expansion of slavery into the territories, many of the members of the newly formed Free Soil Party encountered difficulty crafting a platform and explaining to Americans their reasons for separating from the major parties. Salmon Chase, however, led the way in forming an anti-slavery platform for the Free Soil Party. At the Buffalo Convention, Chase “restated his con- stitutional-historical argument that the founders had in- tended to make slavery a local institution, and that the fed- eral government was barred by the Fifth Amendment from creating the condition of bondage anywhere in its jurisdic- lewis cass, the democratic nominee in 1848 85 the Free soil party an 1848 campaign poster For the Free soil party’s presidential candidate martin van buren and his running mate, charles F. adams 86 elements : : spring 2011 tion.”5 Since the federal government controlled the territo- ries, Chase’s statement was intended to assert the constitu- tional elimination of slavery in the territories. While the Free Soil Party used the anti-slavery position as its rallying cry during the election, James Bilotta points out in his book about race in the Free Soil and Republican Parties that the Free Soil Party stood for eliminating slavery in the territories but not in the south. Resolution Two of the Free Soil Party platform declared that the goal of the party was “to limit, localize and discourage slavery . . . in all the ter- ritories of the United States.”6 In another resolution of the platform, the Free Soilers said, “Let the soil of our exten- sive domain be kept free for the hardy pioneers of our own land, and the oppressed and banished of other lands, seek- ing homes of comfort and fields of enterprise in the new world.”7 Bilotta maintains that the Free Soilers accepted- slavery so long as it stayed in the south. Even though such may have been the belief of many men within the Free Soil Party, outsiders treated it as the anti-slavery party since it attracted members from the ex-Liberty Party as well as people splitting off from the Whigs, referred to as the Con- science Whigs. In addition to discussions about slavery, Free Soilers at the party convention in 1848 also “included several resolutions dealing with internal improvements, tariffs, and homestead legislation.”8 In the northern newspapers, the Free Soil Party enjoyed much support for its crusade to eliminate slavery in the territories. By centering its platform against slavery, the Free Soil Party both helped and hurt its cause. On the one hand, very few people in the northern states opposed an anti-slavery campaign, so the north generally supported the cause. On the other hand, the Free Soil Party was based upon one cause, and it failed to address other pertinent issues during the election. Even so, many northern news- papers supported the party, publishing articles expressing fear for the free white man. The Buffalo Daily Republic, during its report on the 1848 convention “attacked Demo- cratic Party regulars by noting in bold letters: ‘Behold the Traitors to the White Man and to Freedom.’”9 Many north- ern newspapers published articles expressing fear for the free white man if he had to deal with southern slave planta- tions in the west; thus, as a result, these newspapers threw their support behind the Free Soil Party. The Liberty Press, the Free Soil newspaper of Utica, New York, described the south as “ ‘polluted,’ because it had ‘insisted on the right to spread over that young and fertile soil (the free West) the curse which has cursed the whole South and is fast sinking the nation.’”10 These northern newspapers played an im- portant role in gathering support for the Free Soil Party. As Bilotta argues in his book, he believes that race was used to assemble support for the party, claiming, “From the above sampling it is evident that the leaders of the anti-expan- sionist movement in the Northeast employed the theme of race to secure support for their Free Soil philosophy.”11 Even if the leaders of the party believed in the superiority of whites over blacks, they stressed the importance of a free west to such an extent that the publicity and attention on their party focused solely on anti-slavery, which was a cause gaining momentum at this time in the north. For the Free Soilers, the election of 1848 proved to be their best showing on the national stage. Using the slogan, “Free Soil, Free Labor, Free Speech, Free Men,” as its rally- ing cry, the Free Soil Party looked to make slavery the main issue in the 1848 Presidential Election.12 The Democrats, running Lewis Cass, and the Whigs, running Zachary Tay- lor, knew that whichever party best avoided the slavery is- sue would be the winner. Since the Free Soilers took a strong stand on the slavery issue, Cass felt compelled to make some statement about slavery since many of his for- mer party members were in the Free Soil Party. Cass made it clear that he supported the people of each individual ter- ritory to decide for themselves about slavery; and even though he did not avoid the slavery issue like Taylor did, “any stand on slavery was open to attack.”13 Cass was heav- ily criticized for his stance on slavery since it was impos- sible to appeal to both the northern and southern Demo- crats in his party when taking a stand on the issue. Even with a short amount of time to get organized, the Free Soilers managed to mobilize voters and develop a strong election strategy to put up a fight in 1848. The Free Soil Party “carried on a spirited campaign fully consonant “The Free Soil Party was based upon one cause, and it failed to address other pertinent issues during the election.” 87 the Free soil party with the usual style and energy levels of the major parties,” managing to “put up candidates for a number of offices throughout the North, including several governorships and seats in Congress.”14 The Free Soil Party looked and acted like a major political party with rallies and speeches given by prominent political men, such as Benjamin But- ler and John Van Buren. In one of their pamphlets, the Free Soilers called Cass a “Northern man with Southern principles” and Taylor a “Southern man with Southern principles,” with each of them being “utterly unworthy [of ] the suffrage of a free people.”15 The Free Soil Party tried to persuade northerners that both Cass and Taylor would be controlled by the south once in the White House. Even though Van Buren finished third in the presidential election, the Free Soil Party achieved several milestones for third parties in America while directly affecting the out- come of the election. Van Buren and the Free Soil Party received ten percent of the popular vote with just under 300,000 votes. Both of these figures were all-time highs for parties principally advocating for the anti-slavery move- ment. Additionally, Van Buren was able to steal much of the vote Cass expected to receive in the Northeast. For ex- ample, “Van Buren’s strong vote in New York handed Tay- lor the state’s 36 electoral votes, and when the electoral college met, Cass lost by precisely 36 votes” in the overall election.16 Clearly, Cass suffered from the lack of the Barn- burners’ votes in New York and other Northeastern states. Although the Free Soilers did well on the national level, they suffered on the state level due to generally less orga- nized campaigns. A pattern emerged where it became clear that the party benefited greatly from having a big name on its national ballot. Many men who voted for Van Buren in previous elections remained loyal to him in 1848. Furthermore, as a detriment to the Free Soil Party, many of the Free Soilers believed that “having accomplished much of their purpose in Cass’s defeat, and in the humiliation of those who had brought Van Buren down four years before, it was time to return to their natural political home.”17 Many of the members of the Free Soil Party had united under the common theme of revenge, and with this re- venge having been achieved in Cass’s defeat in 1848, the Free Soil Party lost some of its momentum for the upcom- ing years as party members left to return to the two major political parties. Maintaining party organization and enthusiasm in the years following the 1848 Presidential Election became the most difficult hurdle for the Free Soil Party to overcome. The Free Soilers had successfully emerged on the national scene with one strong stance on a controversial issue. Now, they had to develop their stance into some sort of national policy. Unfortunately for the Free Soilers, “the party itself existed primarily as a collection of state coali- tions, not all of which acted from the same motivations and none of which could draw on the excitement of a pres- idential campaign in the years between 1848 and 1852.”18 The Free Soilers had difficulty explaining to people on a local level that slavery was not just a national issue, and this difficulty resulted in few local victories for the party in between the presidential elections. Further damaging the Free Soil campaign was the Compromise of 1850 that es- sentially ended the debate over how the slavery issue would be decided in the western territories. The only common ground among the different coalitions within the Free Soil Party “was simply preventing the extension of slavery.”19 Many of the members of the Free Soil Party, including Van Buren, were happy with the Compromise of 1850, ulti- van buren’s eFFect on the vote distribution resulted in the triumph oF a third party. 88 elements : : spring 2011 mately deciding to leave the rebellious party. With the threat of the extension of slavery essentially decided by the Compromise of 1850, the Free Soil Party began to decline and lose the momentum that it had built in 1848. With members defecting from the party following the 1848 Presidential Election and the passage of the Compro- mise of 1850, the Free Soil Party was in poor shape for the 1852 Presidential Election. With the party holding its con- vention in Pittsburgh, the “leaders moved in an atmo- sphere of suspicion and mutual distrust.”20 The conven- tion elected John P. Hale as its presidential candidate in 1852 on a platform of universal abolition as opposed to just preventing the western expansion of slavery. As the party platform was passed, “most of the resolutions dealt with severing the federal government from all ties with slavery and placing ‘the exercise of its legitimate and constitution- al influence on the side of freedom.’”21 Since it experienced massive defection in the years leading up to the election, the Free Soil Party faired poorly in the 1852 Presidential Election. The vote total dropped in every state when com- pared with the 1848 election results. Hale managed to get only about half as many votes as Van Buren did. The result that hurt the Free Soilers the most was the fact that “in no state did the Free Soilers hold a balance of power between major parties. They were left with nothing, literally, with which to bargain.”22 The Free Soilers suffered from the fact that their relatively large, broad base of support from 1848 had dwindled down significantly in 1852 with most of the ex-Democrats leaving the Free Soil movement to re- turn to the Democratic Party. In 1854, with the passage of the Kansas-Nebraska Act, pol- itics and political parties in America were thrown into chaos. The Kansas-Nebraska Act and the violence resulting from the concept of popular sovereignty changed the anti- slavery movement “from the loose coalition exemplified by the Free Soil Party, to a sectionally more unified and pow- erful third party that quickly came to political dominance in the free states of the North and West.”23 It would seem like an act such as the Kansas-Nebraska Act would rein- vigorate the Free Soil movement and party, but the Act was so polarizing that it actually resulted in a new, much better organized Republican Party in 1854. As elections in Kan- sas deciding whether the state would be a slave or free state reduced the territory to violence, opponents of the Kansas- Nebraska Act “issued a call for the organization of a new political party and suggested that ‘Republican’ would be the most appropriate name.”24 Radical leaders led the Re- publican cause looking to end political compromise over slavery. At this time, the Free Soil Party was hurting from massive defection following the 1852 Presidential Election, and its leaders were not prepared for another massive anti- slavery crusade resulting from the passage of the 1854 Act. Thus, after the passage of the Kansas-Nebraska Act, “radi- cals in every northern state fought to strengthen the Re- publican Party, to give it a more comprehensive program than mere non-extension, and to keep the issue of slavery in the political forefront.”25 One former Free Soiler, Salm- on Chase, showed great interest in the radical tone of the Republicans as he helped to write the inaugural addresses for two newly elected Republican governors in Iowa and Michigan in 1855. With the Republicans gaining in popu- larity as the main opponents to the Democrats, the Free Soil Party declined significantly as most of its members joined the newly formed Republican Party in 1854. Even though the defection of many members to the Re- publican Party in 1854 essentially ended the Free Soil Par- ty, several other important factors, both ideological and organizational, brought about the demise of the party. The party suffered from weak organization, and “in every state but New York, Free Soilers relied almost solely upon the emotional and moral appeal of their ideology to attract vot- ers.”26 Rallying voters behind the cause of prohibiting slav- ery in the territories worked well in 1848 because the issue was at the forefront of American politics with the recent treaty with Mexico. The major effect of rallying people be- hind one issue is that “[anti-slavery] tended to confine the party’s strength to areas where antislavery sentiment was already strong. In districts where hostility to slave exten- “With the Republicans gaining in popularity as the main opponents to the Democrats, the Free Soil Party declined significantly as most of its members joined the newly formed Republican Party in 1854.” 89 the Free soil party sion was less outspoken, Free Soil gained only a weak foot- hold.”27 In order to gain power during the years in between the presidential elections, the Free Soilers had to form co- alitions with other major political parties. Coalitions proved difficult to do with poor organization and no real focus within the party as members realized that their only common bond was preventing slavery from entering the territories. Additionally, many members “found it hard to give up their past party loyalties,” as former members quickly returned to the two major parties.28 Continuing to hurt the Free Soil cause were its relationships with blacks in America. The Free Soil Party focused its platform on preventing slavery from extending to the territories, but it never addressed the issue of slavery already existing in the south. In an address to other Free Soilers in 1847, John Van Buren said, “In behalf of the free white laborers of the North and South, in behalf of the emigrant from abroad… we protest against the extension…of an institution, whose inevitable concomitant is the social and political degrada- tion of the white laborer.”29 The Free Soilers were not about to allow the cause of total black emancipation onto their party platform. As a result, many black abolitionists denounced the Free Soil Party, and the Free Soilers did not receive much support from free blacks in the north and west. Even with its relative failure to achieve its goal of stopping the extension of slavery into the territories during its run as a third party between 1848 and 1854, the Free Soil Party left a lasting legacy in American politics. Many of the orig- inal members of the party went on to have long political careers, where they brought their ideas from the Free Soil Party to the national stage. Salmon Chase was the most successful Free Soiler as he “went on to serve well as Lin- coln’s Secretary of the Treasury,” and he “later became Chief Justice of the United States during the critical Re- construction period.”30 In addition to Chase, other former Free Soilers enjoyed political success, as Charles Sumner was a powerful member of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee, Joshua Giddings and John P. Hale “both be- came diplomats,” and Samuel Tilden “was governor of New York when he narrowly missed becoming president in 1877.”31 In terms of political ideology, much of the Free Soil platform from 1848 was carried over to the Republican platform in the 1850s as both party platforms demanded that slavery be excluded from the territories. At the time, the Free Soil Party “helped open the slavery question, forced it before the nation in political debate, and thus laid the basis for future northern politicians to form a broad antislavery party.”32 The Free Soil Party helped to open the door for the Republican Party to take up the anti-slavery cause and to unite anti-slavery advocates across the coun- try to form a national party. By opening the door, the Free Soilers laid the groundwork for the success of the Republi- can Party in organizing its members into a national politi- cal party. Although their impact and legacy may not be apparent on the national stage, minor parties play a necessary role in American politics. Minor parties play an important role in pushing and pressuring major parties to take political stands and adopt issues current with the times. In some presidential elections, both major parties may decide to ig- nore certain controversial issues, believing that taking a stand on these issues will tip the scale in the favor of their opponents. The Free Soil Party in 1848 almost single- handedly forced Cass to take a stand on the issue of slavery in the territories. When Cass commented on the slavery issue, support was overwhelmingly thrown to Taylor and the Whigs in what was supposed to be an even closer pres- idential election. Minor parties can also play the role of a spoiler in elections, especially on the local and state level. Even though a minor party may lose the election, it may take away enough votes from an opposing major party to allow the other major party to win. This is exactly what happened with the Free Soilers and the Democrats in New York, where the Whigs won the state because the Demo- crats lost so many votes to the Free Soilers in the 1848 Presidential Election. Even though minor parties play less of a role in American politics today, these smaller parties can still pressure major parties into adopting certain ideas once in power, and they can “steal” votes from the major “The Free Soil Party focused its platform on preventing slavery from extending to the territories, but it never addressed the issue of slavery already existing in the south.” 90 elements : : spring 2011 parties on the local and state levels. While the Free Soil Party did not stay relevant on the national stage for a long period of time, its influence in defining the role of a minor party continues to be felt in modern American politics. endnoteS 1. Foner (150) 2. Foner (152) 3. Foner (152-153) 4. Foner (153) 5. Foner (83) 6. Bilotta (98) 7. Ibid. 8. Ibid. 9. Bilotta (115) 10. Bilotta (116) 11. Bilotta (117) 12. Mayfield (119) 13. Mayfield (122) 14. Silbey (200) 15. Ibid. 16. Mayfield (123) 17. Silbey (202) 18. Mayfield (127) 19. Mayfield (189) 20. Mayfield (179) 21. Mayfield (180) 22. Mayfield (182) 23. Bilotta (192) 24. Foner (127) 25. Foner (128) 26. Mayfield (184) 27. Ibid. 28. Mayfield (186) 29. Bilotta (99) 30. Mayfield (189) 31. Ibid. 32. Mayfield (190) reFerenceS Bilotta, James D. 2005. Race and the Rise of the Republican Party, 1848-1865. Bloomington, IN: Xlibris Corporation. Foner, Eric. 1970. Free Soil, Free Labor, Free Men: The Ideology of the Republican Party Before the Civil War. London: Oxford University Press. Mayfield, John. 1980. Rehearsal for Republicanism: Free Soil and the Politics of Antislavery. Port Washington, NY: Kennikat Press. Silbey, Joel H. 2002. Martin Van Buren and the Emergence of Amer- ican Popular Politics. New York: Rowman & Littlefield Publishers, Inc. 91 the Free soil party Benjamin Key is a member of the College of Arts and Sciences class of 2011, majoring in Political Science and English with a concentration in Creative Writing. Originally from Norfolk, MA, his research interests span from Developmen- tal and Constitutional political studies to English literature. His Senior Honors Thesis is a collection of short stories written under the direction of the English department. “Motivations of Genre: Realism and Fantasy in Scottish Drama” was written during a semester abroad at the University of Edinburgh. Dianna michelle martÍnez is a member of the College of Arts and Sciences class of 2011, majoring in Political Science and minoring in International Studies and French. In the spring of 2009, she took Prof. Dietrich’s course, “Hitler, Churches, and the Holocaust,” for which she wrote this paper as a way to incorporate her interests in history, politics, and law. She was born in San Juan, Puerto Rico. Dennis f. murphy is a member of the College of Arts and Sciences class of 2011, majoring in History and Political Science. Origi- nally from San Francisco, California, Dennis wrote this research paper for a political science course on Ameri- can interest groups and political parties. Besides having a passion for U.S. History, especially during the Civil War and post-World War II eras, he also enjoys working as executive producer for the student-run news and variety show, BCTV, and he can be seen playing all different kinds of intramural sports, hoping to win a cham- pionship before he graduates. seBastian n. agreDo is a member of the College of Arts and Sciences class of 2011, majoring in Philosophy and minoring in German Studies. Sebastian’s article was inspired by his interest in German history and philosophy, strongly rooted in Meister Eckhart’s ideas. He is most grateful to Prof. Jean-Luc Solere, for whose “Medieval Philosophy” course he wrote this paper in his sophomore year. After graduation from Boston College, Sebastian plans to obtain a master’s degree in bioethics and eventually hopes to enter a Ph.D. program in bioethics or philosophy. matthew richey is a member of the College of Arts and Sciences class of 2012, majoring in Theology and English. He is also a member of the Boston College Honors Program. This paper is the result of his Summer 2010 Advanced Study Grant project, “The Greeks in Egypt: Cultural Contact in the Eastern Mediterranean,” the research for which was undertaken at the British Museum’s Department of Ancient Egypt and Sudan. He is most interested in ancient societies’ perceptions of the past, both with regard to themselves and to other cultures. anDrew tareila is a member of the College of Arts and Sciences class of 2011, majoring in English. This paper, written for Prof. Kevin Ohi’s graduate seminar on Walter Pater and Oscar Wilde, sparked Andrew’s interest in aesthetic theory. He is currently writing an Honors Thesis that analyzes connections between late Victorian aestheticism and the poetry of Wallace Stevens. After graduation, Andrew plans to travel and teach for a year while applying to Ph.D. programs for continued work on modernist aesthetics. He is grateful for the opportunity to work with Ohi, whose attention to Andrew’s writing continues to inspire him. r. Brian tracz is a member of the College of Arts and Sciences class of 2012, majoring in Biology and Philosophy. His focus is on molecular and cognitive neuroscience with an interest in the philosophy of science and philosophy of mind related to these fields. He is especially interested in synthesizing continental and analytic approaches to philoso- phy of mind to work beyond the analytic/continental divide. Brian enjoys playing piano and has an interest in the aesthetics of music. He is grateful to Fr. Gary Gurtler, S.J. for his assistance and support in the writing of this article. ellen zatKowsKi is a member of the College of Arts and Sciences class of 2012, majoring in History. She wrote this article for Prof. Reinburg’s course on the Study and Writing of History, which focused on witch trials of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Ellen plans to pursue either history or education at the graduate level following Boston College, hoping to expand upon her interest in either research or teaching. Author BiogrAphies miners During striKe at newDigate colliery © Hulton-Deutsch Collection / CORBIS. scene from peter pan By jm Barrie with captain hooK anD Duel © Gwen Watford Collection / Lebrecht Music & Arts / CORBIS. mei, BernaDino (1615-1676) © Scala / Art Resource, NY. writings of meister ecKhart Nicholas Cochran-Caggiano / John J. Burns Library, Boston College. nuremBerg war crime trial / DefenDants © akg-images / Alamy. congolese government solDier in north Kivu, congo © Eddie Gerald / Alamy. campaign Banner for martin van Buren anD charles francis aDams © Everett Collection Inc / Alamy. lewis cass with his autograph © North Wind Picture Archives / Alamy. martin van Buren © Hulton Archive. 54 56 65 63 70 73 83 82 85 List of Artwork pharaoh amasis DepicteD as sphinx © Araldo de Luca / CORBIS. statue in BoDrum turKey of heroDotus or heroDotos of halicarnassus © Robert Morris / Alamy. green siltstone heaD of a King © The Trustees of the British Museum. 19th-century print of scene from the picture of Dorian gray © CORBIS. sarony, napoleon (1821-1896) © Adoc-photos / Art Resource, NY. Death of Dorian gray © Mary Evans Picture Library / Alamy. guilty verDict at the salem witch trials in massachusetts Bay colony 1692 © North Wind Picture Archives / Alamy. letter from cotton mather to william stoughton Nicholas Cochran-Caggiano / John J. Burns Library, Boston College. heiDegger, martin © INTERFOTO / Alamy. 11 13 14 23 24 27 33 36 46 This journal was printed using 100% renewable energy and zero VOC inks.