Metanarrative Hunter (Coming this fall to E!)

Three of my favorite articles from this semester were also three that gave me the best sense of the Early Republican culture. There might be more detailed threads to trace through the three articles, but I will refrain from trying to tie these articles together in this space. Rather, I will discuss why I found these articles interesting and what I learned from reading each one.

The first article, "Seduced Innocence, To the Editor of the Philadelphia Monthly Magazine," was found using the search term seduced for class on September 13. Published in The Philadelphia Monthly Magazine in February 1798, this tale is about how a young, moral woman was tricked into giving up her virtue through false marriage. Besides being an intriguing story, the article was interesting for a number of other reasons. First, the author blamed men for all the troubles in the world instead of using women as the stereotypical fall gal. Second, it must have scared the bejezus out of fathers that a man could potentially trick their daughters into a fake marriage and cause them to stray from a virtuous path. Based on the reaction of the "bride" (she repeatedly fainted, followed by behavior labeled as "almost frantic"), this article showed me how serious this virtue thing really was. Whether or not the story was true, it is obvious what the author intended: to scare fathers into keeping a watchful eye over their daughters, regardless of how nice any of her suitors may be.

The second article was found using the search terms treaty and Tripoli for the October 4 class. The article, "Treaty with Tripoli" is not so much an article, but a reprinting of said treaty by order of the President. Appearing in the July 11, 1797 edition of The New Star; a Republican Miscellaneous, Literary Paper, this "article" lays out the Treaty of Tripoli in its entirety. Everything from the provisions for all parties to those who signed the document from both sides. One interesting aspect of this "article" is the fact that the treaty was printed at the request of the President to better enforce the treaty. Another curious little characteristic of this treaty is Article 11, which states, "As the government of the United States of America is not in any way found on the Christian Religion, as it has in itself no character of enmity against the laws, religion or tranquility of Musselmen; and as the said States have never entered into any war of act of hostility against any Mahometan nation, it is declared by the parties, that no pretext arising from religious opinions shall ever produce an interruption of the harmony existing between the two countries." Well, now isn't that interesting. I think you'd be hard pressed to see things like that now in the United States. Finding this treaty opened up my ideas of what constituted diplomacy American identity at the end of the eighteenth century in the United States.

The third article I discuss here was found using the search term Mohammedan for the October 18 class. "Proposed Union of Unitarians & Mohammedans" was published on October 24, 1827 in the Western Luminary. The article is an argument for "cooperation" between Unitarians and Muslims, but the scare quotes are there for a reason. The author's view of unification was really the Unitarian absorption of Muslims and the "correcting" of the Quran to reflect the truth found in the Bible. This union apparently was an event that occurred in England during the reign of Charles II and has been reported (in the article) as true by academics. At first glance, I thought this would be a unique article discussing a cooperative movement between two religions; however, I quickly realized that the cooperation was non-existent and that this article is perhaps an attack on Unitarians by aligning them with Islam.

There aren't many (if any) discernible connections between these three articles (at least none that I could find); however, what I can gather from placing these three side-by-side calls into question the language in the treaty. The first and third articles seem to be so strongly based on religious and moral ideals that are so deeply intertwined in Early Republic society, that the treaty's treatment of religion is curious. If those Barbary pirates that signed the treaty knew anything about the United States, they might have questioned Article 11 (at least I would). The comparison of these three articles only raises more questions, but that is a good thing. I cherish those moments when I come to conclusions that immediately lead to more questions.

Thems Fightin' Words Nowadays

Could you imagine if a politician said what John Adams said? I refer to that nice little bit about how Democracy tricks people, kidnaps them, imprisons them in a brothel, drugs and rapes them, all in an attempt to steal their virtue: "Democracy is Lovelace and the people are Clarissa." Wow. Now most people (and by most people I mean the average person incapable of independent thought who takes everything at face value and blows everything out of proportion)—if they even understood the reference—would freak out: "What? Democracy is bad? Roar, I'm mad. Huff. Puff. Huff and Puff!" I know that much has been said about the common misconception that the United States is a Democracy, so I will avoid repeating the discussion here. What I want to draw attention to is the strong allusion that Adams draws. I struggle to even try to find a contemporary example to substitute for Lovelace and Clarissa that won't get me in trouble, but I think the point is not lost in the original. How carefully would a politician have to word such an allusion today? In our reading throughout this semester, I constantly compared our current moment with the Early Republic and found so many strong connections. There were similarities that we have often discussed in class, but this is one different that I find curious. How much would a current politician have to preface a statement like that? Perhaps one would explain the differences between a Democracy and a Republic, then rattle off a list of focus-group-tested disclaimers that establish the "American-ness" of the politician, followed by an explanation of Clarissa (the audience is most certainly lost at this point, unless the politician has a staff that is able to conjure up a more contemporary example), and finally the bomb is dropped. Unfortunately, all that careful planning is moot since the sound bite that gets played over and over is (and used in opposition ads): "Democracy is Lovelace and the people are Clarissa." No disclaimers this time.

Asimov Would Like Me to Say: "That's funny ..."

For those of you unfamiliar with the Isaac Asimov quote I reference in the title of this post, I will repeat it for you here: "The most exciting phrase to hear in science, the one that heralds new discoveries, is not 'Eureka!' (I found it!) but 'That's funny ..." The following quote from Dobson's and Zagarell's chapter "Women Writing in the Early Republic" provoked a "that's funny" response from me: "[T]he proliferation of magazines specifically addressing female 'domestic' concerns provided opportunities in writing and editing that could take individual women out of the domestic arena" (374). This post is as far from a Eureka moment as one can get—and I'm definitely not heralding anything worthwhile (yet)—but this quote raised some interesting (at least for me) questions about gender roles and authorship. In our reading from last class, we saw how male authorship was defined by masculine values such as earning a living and supporting a growing family. Writing was not a worthy way for a man to spend his time, because he was ignoring his social role; however and I could be grossly misinterpreting our reading for today female authorship appears to have kept women from performing their prescribed social roles as well. I believe someone during the course of last class inquired about whether or not it was okay for a man to write about masculine topics such as participating in the market and earning money. I don't remember the exact answer, but I believe it was determined that regardless of topic, it was unacceptable for Early Republican men to be authors. Why would women be encourage to write to the detriment of their social roles, while men were punished for doing the same thing. I don't want to pull out a "double-standard" card, but i find this incredibly interesting; additionally, do not interpret my questions or anything in this blog as support for Early Republican ideas regarding gender roles. I don't want to say that women had it easy, nor do I say that men were some sort of victim (you shouldn't read until you find the victim anyway, it's a bad habit). Again, there could be something in this week's reading that I completely missed that discusses or expands upon this idea, but I wonder if these contrasting definitions of authorship along gender lines will warrant more attention in our discussion in class. I don't mean to say that a discussion of female authorship will only make sense in context of a discussion of male authorship, but perhaps we will have a better understanding of both if we talk about them together. Lots of disclaimers here...

It's Like the Night Before Christmas, but with Evolution

Twas the day before class and all through the house, not a creature was stirring because no one was home and my cat was asleep. After attending my first conference and presenting a paper using Literary Darwinism on a panel of the same focus, I sat down to read while visions of Darwinian fitness tests danced in my head. Okay, so it's nothing like "A Visit from St. Nicholas," but I thought I would try since it officially becomes Christmastime after Halloween. I really did present a paper, and I really couldn't shake those Darwinian thoughts. This inability to clear my mind probably explains why I was drawn to two specific characteristics of authorship that seemed to dissuade early American men from picking up the pen. It struck me as interesting that two of the major reasons why the role of the early American male author was shunned dealt with ideas of reproduction and survival.

Based on my reading of my reading of David Leverenz's chapter, "Men Writing in the Early Republic," male authorship was seen as an obstacle to sexual reproduction. Leverenz discusses Washington Irving and Nathaniel Hawthorne as examples of that view that male authorship impedes the propagation of one's genetic material: "Irving ... felt a lifelong lack of manliness because he had not married and established a family .... Hawthorne spent twelve years writing solitary tales about the dangers of being a solitary man" (Leverenz 354). A Darwinian reading of those two statements could spawn a nice little paper about the evolutionary role of art as developing cultural values and whatnot, but I'll refrain from going off on a tangent (mostly because it is way too big of an egg to crack for the purposes of this blog and my intellect). An unsuccessful male author (I use the words successful and unsuccessful here as indicators of financial stability) was unable to fulfill his genetic "destiny" so to speak; not only did he spend too much time writing and not copulating, but if the male author did manage to father offspring, he couldn't earn enough money to properly provide for his family. Even if a male author was successful, he still spent too much time writing and not enough time expanding the gene pool or participating in maintaining the physical welfare of society.

Despite these evolutionary tendencies, it should be noted that men still tried to become authors. Authorship must have had some important (dare I say instinctual?) role in human society that must be fulfilled. We all have our reasons for why art is vital, and I would be the last person to say that any one of these reasons is invalid, but the question remains: Why? Why keep pursuing this profession if it goes against one's own thoughts, beliefs, and tendencies? We've discussed this question (or at least a version of it in class), and I am still curious to get closer to the root of the developing role of authorship in the Early Republic. Yeah, I'm sorry for the title. I lured you in with visions of sugar-plums and I gave you an adjective noun of adjective plural noun. Boom! This post just got META! Thanks John Barth!

99.44% Pure!

For some reason a link came up to this video and I always get sentimental about Ivory soap because my namesake, Peter Dimitroff Simes was an Ivory soap cutter for most of his life (In addition to making me think about my ancestors, it raises a really probing question about soap). Great-grandpa Peter came to the United States from Bulgaria (rumor has it that he deserted the Bulgarian army just before WWI, because they marched the soldiers off to battle with swords and no guns; he also ran into his father for the last time while deserting, but that's another story) around 1918, settled in lovely Cincinnati, Ohio, and got a job at Proctor & Gamble cutting ivory soap. He worked there until he died in 1962; his death certificate even states "soap cutter" as his profession (I know because I've seen it!).

Peter D. Simes c. 1935 (left to right), great-uncle Peter Herman Simes, great-aunt Bernadette Simes, great-grandma Christina Simes (née Bunthoff), and great-uncle Frank as a toddler.

If you want to blame someone for having to interact with me on a weekly basis in this class, then blame Ivory soap (or Proctor & Gamble by extension), because that soap-cutting job led to my grandfather becoming a dentist; a career which helped him send my father to school; my father the engineer then helped me get to where I'm at today. Don't blame them, blame Ivory. However, you can't stay mad at it for long because after all, it floats!

Ivory Soap bar c. 1940s. There is a chance (albeit slim) that great-grandpa Peter cut this bar of soap.

On Sibylline Leaves, Political Saturnalia, and Death

Today I have a lot of random thoughts that popped up as I read for today. Most of what follows could best be classified as unfinished thoughts (if you're nice). After reading Andie Tucher's chapter "Periodical Press: Newspapers, Magazines, and Reviews," a few things caught my eye. First, I feel less bad about the "press" that Americans are delighted to read about today, because apparently it's always been pretty bad. It seems that the American public has always concerned itself with all that they should not waste their time reading, and that brings me comfort. I wonder if I'm having my generational moment when I claim that things were better in the good old days. When I was younger kids read more and paid more attention to texts. Did they really? Has my experience with books altered the way I view the differences between the generations. Unfortunately, I think that it has kept me from trying to understand how young people read now and prohibited me from trying to find the good in what is happening today with regards to literacy. As books and printed pages gradually become "Sibylline leaves" (as fellow Ohioan Dr. Daniel Drake recalls), does the quality of what we read diminish or has it simply transformed into something new? Regardless, I am confident that something good will come of this transition, and I only hope that I am part of what happens next.

Watch out Martin! It's the W.H.H. Express!

I feel better about the state of politics today, because nothing has changed. Again, I will claim that what is really exceptional about the United States is the fact that we are still here and we made it through the muck of the nineteenth century. I like how selling "the sizzle, not the steak" began with the election of 1840 and has become the dominant means of getting a candidate elected today. I think the Sizzler should have jumped in on this somehow and started a cheeky advertising campaign talking about how they are more than just the sizzle. Wait, nevermind ... Sizzler does just sell the sizzle. In order for them to sell the steak, they would actually need to sell something identifiable as steak. As dire as the news cycle makes everything seem, I think that it is simply the status quo. As much as the status quo displeases me, it has managed to get us through to this point. I'm not about to uproot two hundred years of mediocre tradition to try something new, because it would probably mean that I would have to work more.

Now on to a fun topic: death. It seems that Tucher describes the lifespan of periodicals much as one would a living organism: "By 1820, Tennessee and Kentucky had given birth to some one hundred thirty newspapers between them, of which fewer than thirty were still living" (396). She goes on to state to discuss the hard knocks of magazine life: "[B]y the end of the century, out of perhaps a hundred attempts, only two had lived as long as eight years. Most had died within a year of their founding" (397). I'll blame this observation on ignorance. Tucher could just be using the correct vocabulary when discussing this topic, but even if she is, there could be something gleaned from this usage. What does it say about us if we refer to our printed materials as living beings? What does that say about us if we don't? Does that idea transfer over to electronic media? Sadly, there seem to be more questions than answers when it comes to this idea of print as a living entity (at least for me).