Men of Inde: Renaissance ethnography and The Tempest

AUDIENCES AND SCHOLARS have long recognized that the plays of Shakespeare allude in various places and various ways to the New World. Many of these allusions are wholly conventional, signalling nothing more than a repetition of standard Renaissance stereotypes about America; among these may be counted lighthearted references to the mineral wealth of the New World in The Comedy of Errors, The Merchant of Venice, Henry the Fourth, Part One, As You Like It, The Merry Wives of Windsor, and Twelfth Night, and metaphors in which love is likened to Amerindian sun worship in Love's Labour's Lost and All's Well That Ends Well.[1] Others, such as the mention of the "strange Indian with the great tool" in Henry VIII (5.3.34), are perhaps equally stereotypical but at the same time more suggestive of familiarity with individual New World natives; long ago Sidney Lee speculated that Shakespeare "doubtless caught a glimpse" of most of the natives of Virginia, Guiana, and New England who were brought to London in the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries.[2] Still others constitute examples of linguistic borrowing, such as "hurricanoes" in King Lear (3.2.2), "potato" in Troilus and Cressida (5.2.56), and, more indirectly, "Setebos" in The Tempest (1.2.373, 5.1.261).[3] Finally, there are dramatic allusions, dependent not so much upon explicit references to the "Indies," "Mexico," or "Bermoothes" as upon situations resonant with contemporary New World associations. A particular abundance of these may be found in The Tempest--at least according to an ever-growing number of critics--and as a result, readings of The Tempest in which the European consciousness of America serves as a contextual ground have become increasingly common in recent years. As Alden T. Vaughan has pointed out, "The 'Americanist' reading" of The Tempest, while "only one of many that have flourished in the past three and a half centuries, . . . has dominated twentieth-century interpretations."[4] Prospero's assumption of rulership, Gonzalo's imagined "plantation," and Caliban's slavery and rebellion are just a few of the facets of this drama that make it, in Leo Marx's words, Shakespeare's "American fable."[5]

Discussion of Shakespeare's sources for The Tempest and for his New World allusions in other plays has taken interesting directions of late, resulting, among other things, in a critical revaluation of conventional source study of the past. No one, of course, denies that a reference such as that in Twelfth Night to "the new map, with the augmentation of the Indies" (3.2.79-80) provides persuasive evidence that Shakespeare had glanced through the second edition of Hakluyt's Principal Navigations (1598-1600), or that certain passages in The Tempest bear strong witness to Shakespeare's acquaintance with Florio's 1603 translation of Montaigne and with the Bermuda narratives of Strachey and Jourdain.[6] But source study relying on parallel passages and grounded on the principle of a writer's acutal familiarity with source texts quickly loses its air of objectivity and shades into varying degrees of speculativeness, as the articles and books of Margaret T. Hodgen and Robert Ralston Cawley clearly reveal? Thus it should come as no surprise that we find more recent commentators abandoning all pretense of demonstrating that Shakespeare "knew" a given text; instead, we discover an increasing interest in models and in informing discursive contexts. Charles Frey, for example, while noting curious parallels between incidents in The Tempest and in narratives of early circumnavigations such as those of Magellan, Drake, and Cavendish, nonetheless points out that

Whether or not Shakespeare had read Eden's narrative of Magellan's voyage, such accounts can inform or illuminate The Tempest because they provide models of Renaissance experience in the New World . . . We need to read the voyage literature, therefore, not necessarily to find out what Shakespeare read, but what Shakespeare and his audience together would have been likely to know--what they would have gathered from a variety of sources.[8]

Similarly, Francis Barker and Peter Hulme, drawing on Julia Kristeva's articulation of intertextuality, argue that what they term "contextualization . . . . differs most importantly from source criticism when it establishes the necessity of reading The Tempest alongside congruent texts, irrespective of Shakespeare's putative knowledge of them, and when it holds that such congruency will become apparent from the constitution of discursive networks to be traced independently of authorial 'intentionality'."[9] In defense of traditional source criticism, I think it only fair to note that even such conventional practitioners as Cawley and Hodgen occasionally advance beyond the stage of unproblematic attribution; Cawley suggests that certain texts which post-date The Tempest are also valuable inasmuch as they "illustrate the general spirit of the times"; Hodgen argues convincingly that if Shakespeare had never read Montaigne's "Des Cannibales," Gonzalo's "plantation" speech might well have been written anyway, perhaps very much as it now exists.[10] Similarly, Maynard Mack cautions us, in discussing the sources of King Lear, against "ignoring larger, admittedly vaguer, but equally cogent influences, which freqently determine the way in which the specific source is used."[11] In short, an awareness of textual "congruencies" is by no means unique to post-structuralist critics. In contrast to their predecessors, however, these critics have much more satisfactorily articulated the theoretical grounds for such an awareness, principally on the basis of discursive networks and practices; and, in addition, they have contended that all texts, whether construed as "poetry, . . . . history, . . . . travel writing," or otherwise, are equally permeable by ideology and by cultural norms and presuppositions.

The discourse most frequently brought forth as an informing context for The Tempest is English colonialism in the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries. Such contextualization, of course, has been more or less implicit in many earlier readings and productions of the play; witness, for instance, the procolonial production mounted in 1904 by Herbert Beerbohm Tree, the anticolonial production by Jonathan Miller in 1970, and the suggestive remarks of such writers as A. L. Rowse, Roberto Fernandez Retamar, and Leslie Fiedler.[12] But only in the past dozen or fifteen years has there been a concerted effort to locate the play explicitly within the complicated network of ideas, preconceptions, goals, schemes, rhetoric, and propaganda that constitutes colonial discourse. Barker and Hulme, for example, see The Tempest as "imbricated within the discourse of colonialism" and Paul Brown writes that the play "serves as a limit text in which the characteristic operations of colonialist discourse may be discerned--as an instrument of exploitation, a register of beleaguerment and a site of radical ambivalence."[13] One of the interesting consequences of this explicit contextualization is that recent critics have found a means whereby to demonstrate the extent to which earlier commentators either occluded or missed altogether the text's "anxieties" about colonialism due to their sympathy-conscious or unconscious--with colonialist ambitions and ideology.[14] In contrast, and without (thankfully) pursuing at length this sort of ad hominem criticism, such writers as Barker, Hulme, and Brown have drawn attention to the ways in which The Tempest illuminates common tropes of colonialist discourse and offers resistance both to procolonial and antihistorical readings. Brown argues, for instance, that Prospero "produces" Caliban as a dangerous and threatening other, and that the containment of Caliban, Stephano, and Trinculo unifies Prospero and Alonso's party in their colonial and aristocratic hegemony.[15] Hulme makes the useful point that "Prospero is [a] colonial historian, and such a convincing and ample historian that other histories have to fight their way into the crevices of his official monument."[16] All three writers demonstrate an acute awareness that "truths" about Caliban, Ariel, and the beginnings of Prospero's rule on the island have too often been conflated with Prospero's own allegations. As Hulme puts it, critics have time and again shown an "uncritical willingness to identify Prospero's voice as direct and reliable authorial statement, and therefore to ignore the lengths to which the play goes to dramatize its problems with the proper beginnings of its own story."[17] In a strange way, then, it would appear that emphatic historical contextualization has allowed recent readers of The Tempest to make valuable contributions to what in the past has emphatically not been considered an activity deeply dependent upon this sort of historical knowledge: reading the play as a play, a dramatic construct that continually comments upon its own existence and assertions through its inherently dialogic nature.

A sampling of the interchanges and dramatic incidents in The Tempest which tend to receive greater attention in colonialist considerations might begin with the following pair of speeches: Stephano's remark to Trinculo that "the King and all our company else being drown'd, we will inherit here" (2.2.174-75), and Prospero's reminiscence to Alonso and others that "most strangely / Upon this shore . . . was [I] landed, / To be the lord on't" (5.1.159-62). The first of these pronouncements is uttered in the presence of Caliban-clearly a more rightful "inheritor" than Stephano, if only on the grounds of prior inhabitation--and both reveal a complete obliviousness to the idea that indigenous non-Europeans might have a legitimate claim to lands upon which Europeans have stumbled. Yet the idea was not foreign to European jurists of the period-Francisco de Vitoria offers one of its classic statements in his De Indiis prior (1539)[18]--and even Francis Drake delayed claiming Nova Albion (northern California) for England until after a ceremony in which the native king "made several orations, or rather supplications, that hee [Drake] would take their province and king-dome into his hand, and become their King . . . . which thing our Generall thought not meete to reject, because he knew not what honour and profit it might be to our Countrey."[19] Stephano's further remark to Caliban, "Trinculo and thyself shall be viceroys" (3.2.108), reminds us that viceregal government was a standard form of colonial rule in Spanish America; and Prospero's command, "Let them be hunted soundly" (4.1.262), follows directly upon the stage direction "Enter divers Spirits in shape of dogs and hounds, hunting them about; Prospero and Ariel setting them on," thereby reinforcing the sense in which the punishment of Caliban and the Neopolitan drunkards recapitulates the many early modern accounts of New World natives being terrorized by dogs.[20]

Other incidents highlighted by situating The Tempest within colonialist discourse might include the initial reciprocity of the relationship between Prospero and Caliban (1.2.332-38); the disagreement among Gonzalo, Adrian, Antonio, and Sebastian as to the nature of the island (1.2.35-58); Trinculo and Stephano's talk of transporting Caliban to Europe in a get-rich-quick scheme (2.2.27-33, 2.2.76-78); Stephano's use of liquor to inspire Caliban's devotion (2.2.82-188); Ariel's exclamation "Thou liest" as a veiled suggestion that he, in fact, is the rightful ruler of the island (3.2.45); Gonzalo's articulation of entrenched European ignorance regarding the wondrousness and variety of the things of this world (3.3.42-49)[21]; Prospero's excessive discomposure upon suddenly remembering Caliban's feeble plot against his life (4.1.139-42); Sebastian and Antonio's comments on buying and marketing Caliban (5.1.265-66); and, above all, the various ways in which Caliban is demonized and his status as a human being mystified or otherwise rendered uncertain. Because this last aspect of the play constitutes my principal subject in the latter half of this essay, I will say no more about it here. I will add, however, that inasmuch as Caliban's attempted rape of Miranda is adduced as justification for his enslavement and proof of his unregeneracy (1.2.344-62), Prospero's "colonial rule" may be said to rely in part upon a rhetorical process of selective forgetting: many men in Prospero's home of Milan might also have attempted to violate the honor of his child, but such behavior would not necessarily have stigmatized them as incapable of civility or wholly irredeemable. Prospero, however, occupies an ideal position from which to "forget" this fact, since Caliban has no cognizance of it and thus no compelling reason to contradict Prospero's characterization of him as one upon "whose nature / Nurture can never stick" (4.1.188-89).

Perhaps the major problem with recent colonialist readings of The Tempest is that they tend to condemn too categorically other readings as ahistorical while remaining dogmatic in their own insistence that, as Barker and Hulme put it, "The ensemble of fictional and lived practices, which for convenience we will simply refer to here as 'English colonialism', provides The Tempest's dominant discursive con-texts" [sic].[22] Rather than positing colonialism as a useful and illuminating discursive frame for the play, critics in this vein imply that The Tempest remains in many important respects unintelligible without the particular historical imbrication which they bring to it. Brown claims, for instance, that Prospero's rule is "after all a colonialist regime on the island," yet in saying so he ignores several crucial facts: there is never any indication that the island is perceived as the permanent property of Milan, there was no initial intent to "plant" or colonize it, and Prospero obviously does not wish to remain there. Brown also asserts that "Stephano the 'drunken butler' and the 'jester' Trinculo obviously represent . . . 'masterless men', whose alliance with the savage Caliban provides an antitype of order, issuing in a revolt requiring chastisement and ridicule."[23] But while this claim is valuable insofar as it extends the political discourse of colonialism so as to include the class discourse of masterlessness, its schematic dogmatism is highly limiting.[24] Even Terence Hawkes, a critic generally more nuanced than Brown in his speculations upon Prospero and Caliban, argues that the "roots" of their relationship "find their true nourishment in the ancient home-grown European relationships of master and servant, landlord and tenant"--which of course is simply a way of abandoning colonialism for another and perhaps less controversial historical contextualization.[25] In short, colonialist readings tend to fail through narrowness of focus just as they succeed through acuity. And while their grounding in historical process and detail prompts fascinating interpretive speculations, moral and sociopolitical agendas often predetermine their conclusions. Hawkes, in the above-quoted passage, remains historicist in method but eschews colonial contextualization in favor of a class discourse undoubtedly more familiar to Shakespeare and equally amenable to contemporary Marxist/materialist interpretation. What I would like to suggest is that one may retain the New World context and the historicist approach without necessarily committing oneself to the near-dogmatism that seems endemic to colonialist readings. Such a strategy has been used recently by Jeffrey Knapp, who, in a book remarkable for its complex presentation of relations between English colonialism and English literature, claims that Shakespeare "wants to recommend American colonies as essential to England's well-being, and essential precisely because of the dangerous treasure those colonies may secure," but adds that in so doing Shakespeare "must 'remove' such motives and even America itself from direct consideration in order to promote the temperate home-bodiedness without which, he believes, a colony cannot last."[26] I propose that the strategy also becomes possible by shifting the contextual ground from the highly politicized discourse of colonialism to the more taxonomic, speculative, polyvalent, and autonomous discourse of ethnography. This is by no means to imply that ethnographic contextualization is apolitical; clearly it is not. But just as clearly, ethnography is connected by no necessary ties to the familiar and seemingly unalterable dynamic of exploration, domination, plantation, surveillance, and containment which--at least according to many recent accounts--constitutes a core structure of the colonialist project.

Obviously, the incidental or inchoate ethnography of the early modern period may be construed as merely one more facet of the vast network of thoughts, words, and deeds that we call "colonialism." David B. Quinn hints at this when he writes that "The earliest stages of contact between Englishmen and non-English cultures were likely to be governed by the desire to define and limit their inferiority (or non-Englishness) and to find ways of forcing them into a new English pattern, reforming them or obliterating them." But Quinn acknowledges that there also existed "the tendency to observe alien cultures for their own sake," and, at least in the case of England and Ireland, "The making of notes, the taking of an interest--scornful or superior, earnest or objective--led from casual observation to some measure of systematic study of Irish life and Irish society, to an elementary ethnology, if not precisely to a social anthropology."[27] The same holds true more generally, I maintain, in the case of Europe and the New World; the accounts of such writers as Ramon Pane, Bartolome de Las Casas, Toribio Montolinia, Alvar Nunez Cabeza de Vaca, Jacques cartier, Diego Duran, Bernardino de Sahagun, Jean de Lery, Arthur Barlowe, Thomas Harriot, and John Smith--to name just a few--exhibit in varying degrees and varying ways the kinds of interest in and description of alien cultures that may be considered legitimately ethnographic.[28] And while Quinn's supposition that this interest can be "objective" is rendered false by the inevitable subjective assimilationism that accompanies the interpretation of any alterological encounter, his larger point remains valid: cultural description separable from overt colonial aims and emanating primarily from curiosity and the desire to record and contemplate the unfamiliar may be found in the Renaissance.[29] The significance of this is that one may utilize early ethnography as a distinct contextual ground within which to locate The Tempest or any other relevant text: colonial discourse, in and of itself, has no intrinsic superiority as a historical frame, but is simply one of many "force-fields" we can "bring to the play to disclose its meanings."[30] I believe an ethnographic contextualization is likely to prove valuable precisely because of its lack of strict connection to political ends. This is not to say that it is wholly dissociated from ideology; we should never forget, for example, that Friar Ramon Pane assembled his ethnographic notes because Columbus commanded him to do so, or that Las Casas, Motolinia, Duran, and Sahagun were zealous Christian missionaries, or that Barlowe and Harriot were employees of Ralegh in one of his grand colonial schemes.[31] At the same time, though, I think we must acknowledge that the documents of these writers--and numerous other texts such as the glossaries of Lery, Smith, and Richard Eden--emblematize a genuine European curiosity about alien cultures that would almost certainly have manifested itself under any historical circumstances.[32] Inasmuch as Renaissance ethnography is primarily a descriptive rather than a manipulative or hegemonic discourse--fully capable of registering curiosity, ambivalence, confusion, and even self-condemnation in representing and attempting to understand the cultural other--using it as a discursive context promises to yield readings less dogmatic or programmatic than those typically brought forth by colonialist critics. In what follows, therefore, I propose to situate The Tempest within the context of this inchoate Renaissance ethnography, and in particular to examine the extent to which Caliban may be perceived as a product of conflicting accounts regarding the savagery or civility of New World natives.

Throughout The Tempest an air of ambiguity surrounds Caliban. His name--almost certainly an anagram of "cannibal"--appears in the First Folio's cast list among the play's human characters (as opposed to its spirits) and above those of Trinculo and Stephano, but he is described there as "a salvage and deformed slave."[33] And when Prospero first mentions him to Ariel in act 1, it is difficult to decide whether the bestial or the human plays a greater role in his constitution:

                                    Then was this island
           (Save for the son that [she] did litter here,
           A freckled whelp, hag-born), not honor'd with
           A human shape.

Although Peter Hulme cites these lines as proof of Prospero's "grudging admittance of Caliban's humanity" and rails against those who seize upon the last six words as "'evidence' of Caliban's lack of human shape,"[34] I think rather that a sense of uncertainty is exquisitely balanced here, that "litter, . . . . whelp," "hag-born" and the parenthetical exception play off against "son" and the main clause in such a way as to reveal Prospero's own deep confusion about Caliban's status. I will argue later that The Tempest moves gradually--almost inexorably--toward affirming Caliban as a man, but I believe that in the play's earlier scenes his status is deliberately mystified. However, unlike many colonialist readers, who interpret this mystification as Prospero's ruse to justify usurpation, I think its presence is due primarily to the genuine uncertainty regarding the human status of cultural aliens that emerges as a pervasive motif in the early modern period. Again and again in the travel literature, ethnographic description reveals a deep-seated ambivalence toward ethnic otherness and perceived savagery, and while this ambivalence is undoubtedly exploited at times by conquerors and colonists, its initial presence does not appear to be a necessary function of the European will to power.

Take, for example, Richard Johnson's 1609 description of the natives of Virginia near the colony at Jamestown:

[The region] is inhabited with wild and savage people that live and lie up and downe in troupes like heards of Deere in a Forrest: they have no law but nature, their apparell skinnes of beasts, but most goe naked, . . . they are generally very loving and gentle, and do entertaine and relieve our people with great kindnesse; they are easy to be brought to good, and would fayne embrace a better condition.[35]

Here we see a people likened to "heards of Deere" and alleged to have "no law but nature," yet we also hear that they are capable of "great kindnesse" and--like Caliban when he claims that he will "be wise hereafter,/And seek for grace" (5.1.295-96)--desire to "embrace a better condition." Similarly, in the writings of Captain John Smith we encounter such seemingly contradictory portrayals of the Chesapeake Algonquians as that, on the one hand, they are "sterne Barbarians," "fiends," "inconstant Salvages," and "naked Divels," and that, on the other, they "have amongst them such government, as that their Magistrates for good commanding, and their people for due subjection, and obeying, excell many places that would be counted very civill."[36] It is as if the authors of these passages can relinquish neither their wonder at the seemingly "natural" or "bestial" condition of American natives nor their ever-recurring recognition--or suspicion, at any rate--that these people, like Europeans, possess genuine forms of "civility." And while such a comment as Johnson's that the Virginians "would fayne embrace a better condition" may certainly be read within the frame of colonial discourse as a projection of the colonists' desire for defensible hegemony, it also may reflect a more concrete kind of observation--perhaps of the sort we see in Thomas Harriot when he tells us that despite the coastal Algonquians' clear exhibition of spiritual culture, "they were not so sure grounded, nor gave such credite to their traditions and stories, but through conversing with us they were brought into great doubts of their owne, and no small admiration of ours."[37]

Critics who have touched, however perfunctorily, upon the presentation of Caliban as in some way indebted to New World ethnography have tended either to trace a speculative genealogy through specific travel accounts or to allude somewhat unassuredly to the sort of ambivalence reflected in the above quotations. The former inclination has been present at least since the time of Edmund Malone--who claimed in 1821 that Caliban was Shakespeare's version of a Patagonian--and perhaps reached its apogee in Leslie Fiedler's pronouncement that "Caliban seems to have been created, on his historical side, by a fusion in Shakespeare's imagination of Columbus's first New World savages with Montaigne's Brazilians, Somers's native Bermudans, and those Patagonian 'giants' encountered by Pigafetta during his trip around the world with Magellan, strange creatures whose chief god was called, like Caliban's mother's, 'Setebos'."[38] The latter tendency, however, while relatively common, has provoked few interesting observations beyond the rather obvious generality that Caliban's portrayal relies upon a conflation of contradictory descriptions and evaluations of cultural otherness--particularly American otherness. Geoffrey Bullough, for example, writes that "the ambiguity of travelers' opinions about the American natives affects Shakespeare's handling of Caliban," and Peter Hulme goes so far as to say that "Caliban, as a compromise formation, can exist only within discourse: he is fundamentally and essentially beyond the bounds of representation."[39] But few critics have, to my knowledge, explored the ambiguity or the "compromise formation" of Caliban at any length. Many seem inclined, after acknowledging ambivalence, to settle upon rather reductive conclusions; a representative example is the claim that "By every account in the play, Caliban is something less than a man . . . . He is an American savage, clearly humanoid though not fully human."[40]

Two commentators, however, have come close to focusing on the sort of ambivalence to which I want to draw attention. In stressing the distinction between the European views that, on the one hand, "Indian language was deficient or non-existent" and that, on the other, "there was no serious language barrier," Stephen Greenblatt anticipates Tzvetan Todorov's useful schematization of European perceptions of native Americans as either acknowledging difference and concluding inferiority, or acknowledging equality and concluding identity.[41] Greenblatt writes, for instance, that the tensions of this dichotomy "either push the Indians toward utter difference-and thus silence--or toward utter likeness--and thus the collapse of their own, unique identity."[42] And in a slightly different vein, Richard Marienstras has observed that Caliban possesses a "dubious ontological status"; he "can be seen as a complete and irreducible contradiction or, alternatively, as having two positive but separate natures, each stemming from a different scale of values."[43] What Greenblatt and Marienstras do not do, however, is point toward a middle range of perception that either acknowledges difference without immediately concluding inferiority or acknowledges equality without positing identity. Yet we see views within this range expressed implicitly, for example, by various early writers in their recognition and description of distinctly different tribes and social groups among native American peoples:

Alvar Nunez Cabeza de Vaca (1542): The inhabitants of all this region [Malhado] go naked. The women alone have any part of their persons covered, and it is with a wool that grows on trees. The damsels dress themselves in deerskin. The people are generous to each other of what they possess. They have no chief. All that are of a lineage keep together. They speak two languages; those of one are called Capoques, those of the other, Hah. They have a custom when they meet, or from time to time when they visit, of remaining half an hour before they speak, weeping; and, this over, he that is visited first rises and gives the other all he has, which is received, and after a little while he carries it away, and often goes without saying a word. They have other strange customs; but I have told the principal of them, and the most remarkable, that I may pass on and further relate what befel us.

Jean de Lery (1578): Although like other Brazilians [the Ouetaca] go entirely naked, nonetheless, contrary to the most ordinary custom of the men of that country (who, as I have already said and will later expand upon, shave the front of their head and clip their locks in the back), these wear their hair long, hanging down to the buttocks . . . . The Margaia, Cara-ia, or Tupinamba (which are the names of the three neighboring nations), or one of the other savages of that country, without trusting or approaching the Ouetaca, shows him from afar what he has--a pruning-hook, a knife, a comb, a mirror, or some other kind of wares brought over for trade--and indicates by a sign if he wants to exchange it for something else.

Jose de Acosta (1589): It is a popular error to treat the affairs of the Indies as if they were those of some farm or mean village and to think that, because the Indies are all called by a single name, they are therefore of one nature and kind . . . . The nations of Indians are innumerable, and each of them has its own distinct rites and customs and needs to be taught in a different way. I am not properly qualified to handle the problem, since a great many peoples are unknown to me, while even if I knew them well it would be an immense task to discuss them all one by one. I have therefore thought it proper to speak primarily of the Peruvians in this work.

William Strachey (1612): [T]hus it may appear how they are a people who have their several divisions, provinces, and princes, to live in and to command over, and do differ likewise (as amongst Christians) both in stature, language, and condition; some being great people, as the Susquehannas, some very little, as the Wicocomocos; some speaking likewise more articulate and plain, and some more inward and hollow, as is before remembered; some courte us and more civil, others cruel and bloody; Powhatan having large territories and many petty kings under him, as some have fewer.

John Smith (1624): Upon the head of the Powhatans are the Monacans, whose chiefe habitation is at Rasauweak, unto whom the Mowhemenchughes, the Massinnacacks, the Monahassanughs, the Monasickapanoughs, and other nations pay tributes. Upon the head of the river of Toppahanock is a people called Mannahoacks. To these are contributers the Tauxanias, the Shackaconias, the Ontponeas, the Tegninateos, the Whomkenteaes, the Stegarakes, the Hassinnungaes, and divers others, all confederates with the Monacans, though many different in language, and be very barbarous, living for the most part of wild beasts and fruits. Beyond the mountaines from whence is the head of the river Patawomeke, the Salvages report inhabit their most motall enemies, the Massawomekes, upon a great salt water, which by all likelihood is either some part of Canada, some great lake, or some inlet of some sea that falleth into the South sea.[44]

To the extent that these descriptions register plurality and allow a varied yet specific cultural inheritance to the native groups introduced they represent anti-tabula rasa views and thus stand in opposition to such bald and overarching characterizations as Samuel Purchas's that American natives are "bad people, having little of Humanitie but shape, ignorant of Civilitie, of Arts, of Religion; more brutish then the beasts they hunt, more wild and unmanly then that unmanned wild countrey, which they range rather then inhabite."[45] Yet to the extent that they point explicitly to differences among these natives--and implicitly to differences between them and Europeans--they resist both the easy conclusion of inferiority and the more insidious one of identity. In short, they fall outside the polarizing rubric suggested by Greenblatt and Todorov. Rather than countering claims that native Americans are subhuman tabulas rasas by wholly assimilating them into Europeanness, these descriptions--and others like them--allow the natives their difference and in fact stress their cultural diversity. Thus they provide a more subtle contrast than that proposed by Greenblatt, a contrast more relevant, I think, to The Tempest. If we can admit that early modern ethnography allows for an ambivalence not solely between the binary opposites of subhumanity and virtual identity, but also among the range that includes subhumanity, identity, and cultural--but fully human--difference, we can sharpen our account of the way this ambivalence sheds light on the characterization of Caliban.

An interesting way of producing this account lies in situating Caliban within an ethnographic context and then contrasting him with another curiously ambiguous character from English Renaissance drama: the "wild man" Bremo in the anonymous and highly popular play Mucedorus.[46] Caliban has been connected to Bremo before, notably by Frank Kermode in his eclectic genealogy of Caliban's character; but while Kermode points to Bremo's conventionality as a wodewose or salvage man, he does not dwell on the association with Caliban.[47] Yet there is much of interest to focus on, particularly given an ethnographic contextualization.

Like the Wild Man in Book Four of The Faerie Queene, Bremo lives in a cave in the woods (7.7, 17.94), carries a club (7.5,21,29), and is lustful and cannibalistic (11.16-19, 11.21, 11.25-30, 15.59-60); but unlike Spenser's Wild Man (or, for that matter, the Salvage Man of Book Six), Bremo possesses language and demonstrates an ability to relent and to recognize changes within himself (11.38-54, 15.105). Moreover, he is represented as having the capacity to fall in love (11.37-55, 15.1-55), though exactly what this love means to him remains unclear.[48] Finally, like Caliban, he is poetic, particularly in the description of his immediate surroundings (15.23-55): he knows the forest's oaks, quail, partridges, blackbirds, larks, thrushes, nightingales, springs, violets, cowslips, marigolds, and deer, and if his catalogue strikes us as more conventional and symbolic than realistic, it nonetheless suggests a genuine love of place. Bremo seems, therefore, a rather more attractive character than the standard wodewose or homo ferus, and certainly less violent and lecherous than the type described as common in the late sixteenth century by R. H. Goldsmith.[49] Yet Bremo is duped and then brutally killed onstage by Mucedorus late in the play (17.35-67), and nothing in the response of Amadine or Mucedorus to the murder invites us to regard it as anything more consequential than the slaughter of an offending beast. Bremo is dismissed as a "tyrant" and "wicked wight" (17.68,74); that he has grown progressively more sympathetic and dies in the act of providing instruction to Mucedorus (17.51-67) is utterly forgotten. The play seems to tell us that a wild man, regardless of his apparent capacity for improvement or potential for civility, is subhuman and may be killed without remorse or consequence.

Contrast this with Caliban's portrayal in The Tempest. Like Bremo, who is called a "cruel cutthroat" and a "bloody butcher" (17.6,27), Caliban serves as the target of many dubious allegations: Prospero terms him a "demi-devil" (5.1.272) and a "poisonous slave, got by the devil himself / Upon thy wicked dam" (1.2.319-20); Miranda reviles him as an "Abhorred slave, / Which any print of goodness wilt not take, / Being capable of all ill!" (1.2.351-53). Yet much more than Mucedorus, The Tempest offers forms of resistance to these allegations, both in the speeches of Caliban and in the words and actions of other characters. For every suggestion that Caliban is not fully human, a counter-suggestion emerges that he is; Miranda's dual attitude (1.2.445-46; 3.1.50-52) becomes emblematic of this tendency. Moreover, in opposition to the view that Caliban is devoid of goodness, we have the uncontested claim of Caliban himself that his initial relationship with Prospero was thoroughly reciprocal:

                          When thou cam'st first,
        Thou strok'st me and made much of me, wouldst give me
        Water with berries in't, and teach me how
        To name the bigger light, and how the less,
        That burn by day and night; and then I lov'd thee
        And show'd thee all the qualities o' th' isle,
        The fresh springs, brine pits, barren place and fertile.
        Curs'd be I that did so!

Caliban goes on to point out that he is now Prospero's subject, when earlier he was "mine own king" (1.2.342), and of course Prospero responds to this implied charge of usurpation by making the counter-accusation that Caliban attempted to rape Miranda and thus deserves his subjugation. But if, as Stephen Orgel has suggested, Caliban's unrepentant attitude toward this attempted rape may be partly explained by the fact that "free love in the New World is regularly treated [in Renaissance travel narratives] not as an instance of the lust of savages, but of their edenic innocence,"[51] Prospero's allegation that Caliban is a "slave / Whom stripes may move, not kindness!" (1.2.344-45) loses much of its persuasiveness. Indeed, the problems of subordination and rebellion highlighted by the Prospero/Caliban relationship may be usefully contrasted with the relative absence of such problems in the Prospero/Ariel interdependence; Ariel's nearly perfect modelling of subservience and service ultimately rewarded may be possible precisely because Ariel, quite explicitly, is not human. Such behavior, and such social relations, are far more problematic for Caliban.

Many Renaissance descriptions of New World natives have been adduced as sources or models of the subhuman or near-human element of Caliban's characterization, among them Peter Martyr's depiction of "certeyne wyld men" in Espanola who "neuer . . . wyll by any meanes becoome tame . . . . [and] are withowte any certaine language" and Robert Fabian's portrayal of three Eskimos who "spake such speach that no man could understand them, and in their demeanour like to bruite beastes."[52] But far fewer descriptions have been produced in support of another side of this characterization: Caliban as fully human, though radically different. Giovanni Verrazzano's observation that the native peoples of Florida "did not desire cloth of silke or of gelde, much lesse of any other sort, neither cared they for things made of steele and yron" is perhaps typical of these descriptions in that it serves as an analogue of a specific incident in The Tempest: Caliban's rejection of the "glistering apparel" so attractive to Stephano and Trinculo (4.1.222-54).[53] But there are other anti-tabula rasa ethnographic views available in the Renaissance, views less likely to be seen as pertinent to The Tempest because broader in scope and not as easily associated with particular passages in the play. And I refer not only to the comparatively well-known writings of Las Casas and Montaigne. Jean de Lery, for instance, emphasizes the social harmony of the Tupinamba even as he exposes the conceptual limitations attendant upon his own religious bias: "As for the civil order of our savages, it is an incredible thing--a thing that cannot be said without shame to those who have both divine and human laws--how a people guided solely by their nature, even corrupted as it is, can live and deal with each other in such peace and tranquility."[54] Jose de Acosta describes the Incas' indigenous form of literacy: "Unbelievable as it may seem, the Peruvians made up for their lack of letters with so much ingenuity that they were able to record stories, lives, laws, and even the passage of time and numerical calculations by means of certain signs and aids to the memory which they had devised and which they call quipos. Our people with their letters are commonly unable to match the skill of the Peruvians with these devices. I am not at all certain that our written numerals make counting or dividing more accurate than their signs do."[55] Alexander Whitaker writes that the inhabitants of Virginia are "lustie, strong, and very nimble: they are a very understanding generation, quicke of apprehension, suddaine in their dispatches, subtile in their dealings, exquisite in their inventions, and industrious in their labour . . . . there is a civill government amongst them which they strictly observe"; William Strachey characterizes the elaborate dressing and ornamentation of a Virginian queen as "ceremonies which I did little look for, carrying so much presentment of civility"; and Thomas Harriot, in a passage to which I will return, avers of the Algonquians, "Some religion they have alreadie, which although it be farre from the trueth, yet being as it is, there is hope it may be the sooner and easier reformed. They beleeve that there are many Gods."[56] It is true that Lery's and Whitaker's remarks, like those of Las Casas, emanate from a Christian essentialist perspective; this emerges explicitly in Whitaker's opinion that "One God created us, they have reasonable soules and intellectuall faculties as well as wee; we all have Adam for our common parent: yea, by nature the condition of us both is all one, the servants of sinne and slaves of the divell."[57] It is true as well that Acosta's "Unbelievable as it may seem" and Harriot's "farre from the trueth" disclose the strongly ethnocentric tendencies of these early ethnographic accounts. But some degree of subjective assimilationism is inevitable in any description of a cultural other; the above quotations-and others like them--are remarkable in the degree to which they avoid the easy conclusion of identity and insist upon a measure of difference. And if, as I believe, such views as these played a role in the evolution of Caliban's character, it is not hard to understand why Caliban seems far less "unaccommodated" than Mucedorus's Bremo. Even Bremo's portrayal reveals certain suggestions of contemporary ethnographic influence, but by and large his conventionality as a wodewose preempts the possibility of any lasting ambivalence in his character: like Doctor Chanca's New World natives, whose "bestiality is greater than that of any beast upon the face of the earth," Bremo is essentially less than fully human; like them, easy to kill without remorse.[58] But Caliban, whose depiction relies heavily on Renaissance ethnography--and particularly on the ambivalences I have stressed between the other as subhuman, identical, and human but different--is thereby rendered far less easy to dismiss. If he is a "salvage" man, his savagery is nonetheless treated by Shakespeare with more tolerance and more respect for its potential or concealed civility than is Bremo's by his anonymous creator.

A final word about Mucedorus. The play's Dramatis Personae not only lists the characters but provides instructions for the doubling (and tripling) of parts; thus, for example, Bremo is to be played by the same actor who plays Tremelio and Envy.[591] find this intriguing for several reasons. Tremelio is a would-be assassin, a captain persuaded by the jealous Segasto to kill Mucedorus (6.62-82); in fact, precisely the opposite occurs, Mucedorus killing him in self-defense, calling him a "Vile coward" (6.81). And Envy, a figure who appears only in the induction and epilogue, is constantly reviled by his allegorical counterpart, Comedy, as, among other things, a "monster" (Ind. 16), an "ugly fiend" (Ind. 75), a "hellhound" (Epi. 24), a "Nefarious hag" (Epi. 26), and a "bloody cur, nursed up with tiger's sap" (Ind. 35). In short, the trio of Bremo, Tremelio, and Envy--all playable by the same actor--represents something like a principle of monstrosity or unnaturalness, and these characters' purpose in the play is perhaps indirectly suggested by Comedy's urgent wish that Envy "mix not death 'mongst pleasing comedies" (Ind. 50). In fact, death is present in Mucedorus, and the play becomes more a tragicomedy than a simple comedy treating "naught else but pleasure and delight" (Ind. 51). In spite of the play's happy ending, Envy insists to Comedy, "yet canst thou not conquer me" (Epi. 12) and threatens that in the future he will overthow her by the following strategem:

This implies that if an outcast or "native monster" (Epi. 20) of the sort Envy describes had the linguistic command of a poet, he would represent a true threat to Comedy's complacence; he would have the power of subversion. And while Comedy dismisses this threat as nonsense and easily manages to subdue Envy by the epilogue's end, the description of a poetic "neger cannibal" nonetheless has a strangely prophetic ring for readers familiar with The Tempest. In spite of Caliban's alleged aphasia at the initial contact with Prospero, he learns language--learns it astonishingly well--and this acquisition, perhaps more than any other trait, marks his humanity and signals his potential dangerousness to the intruding Europeans. Envy's threat, with its suggestion that characters like Bremo and the "neger cannibal" are necessary to the workings of comedy even as they endanger its survival and structural integrity, prefigures in a peculiar way Prospero's elusive remark about Caliban: "this thing of darkness I / Acknowledge mine" (5.1.275-76). Comedy cannot thrive without the dangerous potency of Envy: Mucedorus needs Bremo and Tremelio just as The Tempest needs Alonso, Antonio, and Sebastian--and just as Prospero needs Caliban.

One of The Tempest's most explicit mystifications of Caliban's status lies in Stephano's reference to him as "My man-monster" (3.2.12). Clearly, such a phrase would be less appropriate with respect either to Bremo, notwithstanding his command of language, or to The Faerie Queene's Salvage Man, in spite of his aphasia; but for Caliban--especially at this point in the play--it seems a perfect designation, emblematic of the pervasive ambivalence regarding his condition which the play has created. Stephano utters it early in the second of four scenes in which he and Trinculo appear with Caliban. In the first of these scenes, Trinculo makes the thoroughly ambiguous remark--after coming upon Caliban wrapped in a gaberdine--that in England "would this monster make a man; any strange beast there makes a man" (2.2.30-31); Stephano seconds this ambiguity by alluding to "salvages and men of Inde" (2.2.58) and marvelling that the composite Caliban/Trinculo is "some monster of the isle with four legs . . . . Where the devil should he learn our language?" (2.2.65-67). Interestingly, however, this uncertainty regarding Caliban is mirrored by Caliban's own uncertainty regarding the Neapolitans--especially Stephano. And it is in this pair of corresponding and reinforcing ambivalences that we begin to see perhaps the greatest value of locating The Tempest within an ethnographic context.

Prompted by his drinking of Stephano's sack--itself an action resonant with contemporary New World associations--Caliban exclaims to himself, "These be fine things, and if they be not sprites. / That's a brave god, and bears celestial liquor. / I will kneel to him" (2.2.116-18). This is followed by such exclamations as "Hast thou not dropp'd from heaven? . . . I do adore thee . . . . I prithee, be my god . . . . Thou wondrous man" (2.2.137-64). Like The Faerie Queene's Artegall when he meets Britomart--or the satyrs in their encounter with Una--Caliban "makes religion" of his wonder.[60] It is true that he swears allegiance to Stephano, and true also that this willing subordination is often interpreted as proof of his natural slavishness[61]; but Shakespeare makes it clear that Caliban takes Stephano for a "brave god" (2.2.117) before he promises to be his "true subject" (2.2.125). Thus, notwithstanding the comic mode of the scene or its status as subplot in the play's larger design, Caliban does not necessarily reveal an abject propensity to be a slave. Stephen Greenblatt has written, in a discussion of the Diario, that Columbus occasionally demonstrates a recognition of "reverse wonderment" among the native Americans he encounters in the Caribbean[62]; I would argue that Caliban's behavior here suggests a literary transformation of that wonderment. His subservience, initially, is not that of man-monster to man, but of man-monster to man-god; and while it is in some respects comic, it merits far more than ridicule.[63] We must not forget, for example, that Caliban possesses a concept of divinity of godhead: his references to his "dam's" god, Setebos, make this clear [1.2.373, 5.1.261). And since it is virtually beyond dispute that Shakespeare takes "Setebos" from Antonio Pigafetta's account of Magellan's voyage, it bears noting that in an adjacent passage Pigafetta describes the reaction of a Patagonian native confronted by Europeans: "When he sawe the capitayne with certeyne of his coompany abowte hym, he was greatly amased and made signes holdynge vppe his hande to heauen, signifyinge therby that owre men came from thense."[64] Indeed, the motif of native Americans regarding Europeans as gods appears frequently in the voyagers' accounts.[65] And while this representation, due to its utter one-sidedness, is clearly unreliable as a descriptive characterization, its implicit reliance upon the idea that idolatry can evolve into "true" religion suggests that at its core lies the accurate perception, among European observers, that the native inhabitants of America practiced forms of devotion that could only be categorized as "religious." Thomas Harriet, in a passage quoted earlier, expresses this best:

Some religion they have alreadie, which although it be farre from the trueth, yet being as it is, there is hope it may be the easier and sooner reformed.[66]

The Europeans' very theory of evangelization--or, at any rate, their most successful theory--relied in part upon the premise that what they deemed idolatry was in fact a conclusive indication of humanity and a positive step toward Christian conversion. The ability to confuse men for gods, as Caliban does, is thus a confirmation of the views expressed in the anti-tabula rasa descriptions quoted above. When American natives are represented as overestimating the status of Europeans, they are simultaneously--if indirectly-represented as fully human in status and as possessing cultural forms of their own. They are not blank pages, not unaccommodated.

The emphasis which Shakespeare gives to the ambivalences I have discussed both highlights the play's debt to voyagers' accounts and propels it toward its romantic conclusion. Stephano cannot decide whether Caliban is monster or man; Caliban, equally, cannot decide whether Stephano is man or god. And, as if in sympathy with these uncertainties, Miranda wonders whether Ferdinand is human or divine (1.2.410-20), and neither Ferdinand nor Alonso can initially decide whether Miranda is a maid or a goddess (1.2.422-29, 5.1.185-88).[67] Gradually, however, the uncertainties are resolved, the multiple possibilities collapsed. Prospero assures Miranda that Ferdinand "eats, and sleeps, and hath such senses / As we have" (1.2.413-14); Miranda describes herself to Ferdinand as "No wonder, sir, / But certainly a maid" (1.2.427-28); Ferdinand tells his father that Miranda "is mortal" (5.1.188); and Caliban curses himself for his error: "What a thrice-double ass / Was I to take this drunkard for a god, / And worship this dull fool!" (5.1.296-98). And while no explicit recognition surfaces in Stephano or Trinculo that Caliban is human, there remains the far more significant remark by Prospero that "this thing of darkness I / Acknowledge mine" (5.1.275-76). As Stephen Greenblatt has pointed out, Prospero "may intend these words only as a declaration of ownership, but it is difficult not to hear in them some deeper recognition of affinity, some half-conscious acknowledgment of guilt."[68] Affinity and guilt indeed; many years ago, assuming the persona of Caliban and addressing a composite Prospero/ Shakespeare, W. H. Auden characterized this recognition as follows:

Striding up to Him in fury, you glare into His unblinking eyes and stop dead, transfixed with horror at seeing reflected there, not what you had always expected to see, a conquerer smiling at a conquerer, both promising mountains and marvels, but a gibbering fist-clenched creature with which you are all too unfamiliar, for this is the first time indeed that you have met the only subject that you have, who is not a dream amenable to magic but the all too solid flesh you must acknowledge as your own; at last you have come face to face with me, and are appalled to learn how far I am from being, in any sense, your dish; how completely lacking in that poise and calm and all-forgiving because all-understanding good nature which to the critical eye is so wonderfully and domestically present on every page of your published inventions.[69]

Prospero's acknowledgment may imply that Caliban is what he-Prospero--can become, or what he has in futurum videre within himself, or what his nurture may, in the end, amount to; in any of these cases, his remark hints at the same interpenetration of the conventionally savage and the civil suggested by the portrayal of The Faerie Queene's Salvage Man. Perhaps Prospero is also implicitly admitting that Caliban possesses a perceptive subjectivity and thus stands in a dialogic relationship with him. At all events, this acknowledgment--coming as it does from the character who, more than anyone else, has been responsible for the mystification of Caliban's status--goes far toward finally drawing Caliban within the bounds of humanity.

Throughout The Tempest we look at Caliban much in the way that Renaissance explorers must have looked at New World natives. In some ways he seems bestial; but in others--among them his intimate knowledge of the isle, his initial nurturing of Prospero and Miranda, his later resentment of Prospero's rule, his capacity for forming warm attachments, his vulnerability, and his dreamy, reflective poetry--he seems entirely human. Above all, there is his decision, late in the play, to "be wise hereafter, / And seek for grace" (5.1.295-96).[70] Perhaps this means that he will seek Christian prevenient grace--the divine favor of God--or perhaps the pardon or indulgence of Prospero.[71] But in this particular instance, the word "grace" need not necessarily refer either to divine dispensation or human forgiveness; it could be being used in the alternative sense of "virtue," as it is twice elsewhere in the play (3.1.45, 5.1.70) and in such other instances as Donne's famous lines about "man, this world's vice-emperor, in whom / All faculties, all graces are at home" or the moment in Macbeth when Malcolm speaks of "The King-becoming graces" and mentions, among other traits, "justice," "temp'rance," "lowliness," "Devotion," and "patience" (4.3.91-94).[72] Caliban, in vowing to "seek for grace," may very well be vowing not submission (and thus containment by the dominant culture) but rather an independent project of self-betterment; the virtue he may be seeking is that of proper judgement, so that in the future he will not again make his past mistake of confusing humans and gods. In any case, though Shakespeare never explicitly resolves the matter of Caliban's status, he suggests--to the extent that he gradually allows the play's other uncertainties about character identity to dissolve into thin air--that Caliban, like Ferdinand, Miranda, and Stephano, is a fully human being. And this suggestion is reinforced by The Tempest's thorough contradiction of Prospero's allegation that Caliban is ineducable, "a born devil, on whose nature / Nurture can never stick" (4.1.188-89); the same could be said, after all, of Antonio and Sebastian, neither of whom--unlike Caliban--show any sign of repentance for their conspiracy, though both have had the advantage of more refined and extended nurture. One might even argue that Caliban, in his initial and fully reciprocal relationship with Prospero, exhibits a nurture that, far from failing to "stick" to his nature, lies at is very essence.

Placing The Tempest within an ethnographic context goes far toward explaining why Caliban cannot be discarded in the way that Bremo is, for example, in Mucedorus. Caliban is not merely a "wild man," a sinister, shadowy figure derived from European folklore and medieval tradition; he remains far more complex and distinct, and though his portrayal certainly reveals bestial elements, it is also vivified by an acknowledgment of the existence of culturally alien humans across the ocean. Like the ambivalences of New World ethnography, the ambivalences of The Tempest gradually move toward human inclusiveness. And this levelling tendency, which shows the failings of aristocrats as well as the virtues of an alleged "demi-devil," bears a resemblance both to movements in other late plays of Shakespeare and to the ideals of what might be referred to as "Montaignesque pastoral"--a more radical pastoral than that typical of Spenser, more informed by the speculative and critical spirit that characterizes the Essais. As the whoreson and the Bedlam beggar must be acknowledged in King Lear (1.1.24, 3.4.28-180) and the strange Tupinamba in Montaigne's "Des Cannibales," so, too, must Caliban.

I wish to express my gratitude to Joanne Altieri, David Berington, and Charles Frey for reading and carefully responding to earlier drafts of this essay. I have learned much from their acuity and generosity.

1. See Err. 3.2.132-37, MV 1.3.19-20, 1H4 3.1.166-67, AYL 3.2.88-89, Wiv. 1.3.69-72, TN 2.5.13-14, LLL 4.3.218-21, and AWW 1.3.204-7. All quotations from the plays and poems of Shakespeare are drawn from The Riverside Shakespeare, ed. G. Blakemore Evans, et el. (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1974). I have retained the brackets indicating editorial choices among variant readings.
2. Sidney Lee, "The American Indian in Elizabethan England," Elizabethan and Other Essays, ed. F. S. Boas (London: Oxford University Press, 1929), 285. Lee claims that Shakespeare's "strange Indian" was in fact the New Englander known as "Epenow" who was exhibited about London--for money--in 1611 (284).
3. For "hurricano," see also Tro. 5.2.172; for "potatoes," Wiv. 5.5.19. "Hurricane" is derived, through Spanish, from the Arawakan word "hurakan," according to Peter Hulme in Colonial Encounters (London: Methuen, 1986), 95; see also Hulme's "Hurricanes in the Caribbees: The Constitution of the Discourse of English Colonialism," in 1642: Literature and Power in the Seventeenth Century, ed. Francis Barker, et al. (Colchester: University of Essex Press, 1981), 77, 9n. "Potato," according to the OED, is derived from the Haitian (i.e., Taino) "batata"; Richard Eden (1555) and John Hawkins (1565) are cited as having used variant forms. "Setebos," as Tempest commentators have long known, comes from Antonio Pigafetta's account of Magellan's circumnavigation in 1519-22; two Patagonians who were deceived and captured by Magellan's men "cryed vppon theyr greate deuyll Setebos to helpe them" (Richard Eden, The Decades of the newe worlde or west India [London, 1555; Ann Arbor: University Microfilms, 1966], 220).
4. "Shakespeare's Indian: The Americanization of Caliban," Shakespeare Quarterly 39.2 (Summer 1988): 137. See also Alden T. Vaughan and Virginia Mason Vaughan, Shakespeare's Caliban: A Cultural History (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991); chapters 2, 5, and 6 provide excellent overviews of various "Americanist" readings of The Tempest.
5. "Shakespeare's American Fable" is the title of chapter 2 of Marx's The Machine in the Garden (London: Oxford University Press, 1964).
6. The first volume of the second (and enlarged) edition of Richard Hakluyt's Principal Navigations was accompanied by a world map based on the Mercator projection. Further evidence that Shakespeare knew this collection of travel narratives is suggested by a speech of one of Macbeth's Witches: "Her husband's to Aleppo gone, master o' th' Tiger" (1.3.7); we read in "The voyage of M. Ralph Fitch .. in the yeere of our Lord 1583" of "a ship of London called the Tyger, wherein we went for Tripolis in Syria: & from thence we tooke the way for Aleppo" (The Principal Navigations, Voyages, Traffiques and Discoveries of the English Nation [London, 1598-1600; New York: AMS Press, 1965], 5: 465). William Strachey's account of the 1609 Bermuda shipwreck of the Sea Venture, bound for the new English colony at Jamestown, is titled A True Repertory of the Wrack and Redemption of Sir Thomas Gates; it was first published in Purchas's Hakluytus Posthumous (London, 1625), but circulated in manuscript around London in 1610. Silvester Jourdain's account of the same voyage, A Discovery of the Barmudas, Otherwise Called the Isle of Devils, was published in London in 1610.
7. See Hodgen, "Montaigne and Shakespeare Again," Huntington Library Quarterly 16 (1952): 23-42, and Cawley, "Shakspere's Use of the Voyagers in The Tempest," PMLA 41 (1926): 688-726. Cawley greatly extends and further catalogues his study of source material in The Voyagers and Elizabethan Drama (Boston: MLA, 1938) and Unpathed Waters (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1940).
8. "The Tempest and the New World," Shakespeare Quarterly 30.4 (Winter 1979): 34.
9. "Nymphs and reapers heavily vanish: the discursive con-texts of The Tempest," Alternative Shakespeares, ed. John Drakakis [London: Methuen, 1985), 196. Barker and Hulme cite Kristeva's Le Texte du roman (The Hague, 1970) as their source for the concept of intertextuality. In a separate work, Hulme quotes Charles Frey approvingly as a critic who "rejects the idea of an autotelic text" in favor of careful study of The Tempest's "discursive milieux" (Colonial Encounters, 93).
10. Cawley, "Shakespeare's Use of the Voyagers," 688n; Hodgen, "Montaigne and Shakespeare Again," 40.
11. King Lear in Our Time (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1965), 49.
12. On the Beerbohm Tree and Miller productions, see Virginia Mason Vaughan, "'Something Rich and Strange': Caliban's Theatrical Metamorphoses," Shakespeare Quarterly 36.4 (1985): 390-405, Trevor R. Griffiths, "'This Island's mine': Caliban and Colonialism," Yearbook of English Studies 13, ed. G. K. Hunter and C. J. Rawson (London: Modern Humanities Research Association, 1983), 159-80, and Anthony B. Dawson, Watching Shakespeare (New York: St. Martin's, 1988), 231-41. See also, for a discussion of earlier productions, Michael Dobson, "'Remember / First to Possess his Books': The Appropriation of The Tempest, 1700-1800," Shakespeare Survey (1991): 99-108. Rowse writes that "perhaps in the subconscious corridors of the mind we think of what happened to the redskins" (The Elizabethans and America [New York: Harper, 1959], 197-98); Retamar argues, in the tradition of Jose Marti and Frantz Fanon, that The Tempest aids us in articulating a Marxist critique of European and Yankee imperialism in Latin America: Ariel is a Gramscian intellectual and Caliban a symbol of the oppressed proletariat ("Caliban: Notes Toward a Discussion of Culture in Our America" [1971], in Caliban and Other Essays [Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1989], esp. 39-45); Fiedler claims that by the end of The Tempest, "the whole history of imperialist America has been prophetically revealed to us in brief parable: from the initial act of expropriation through the Indian wars to the setting up of reservations, and from the beginnings of black slavery to the first revolts and evasions" (The Stranger in Shakespeare [New York: Stein Day, 1972], 238). See also Dominique Octave Mannoni, Prospero and Caliban: The Psychology of Colonization (New York: Praeger, 1956); Philip Mason, Prospero's Magic (London: Oxford University Press, 1962); D. G. James, The Dream of Prospero (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1967); Harry Berger, Jr., "Miraculous Harp: A Reading of Shakespeare's Tempest," Shakespeare Studies 5 (1969): 353-83; John Gillies, "Shakespeare's Virginian Masque," English Literary History 53 (1986): 673-707; and, most recently, Jeffrey Knapp, "Distraction in The Tempest," in An Empire Nowhere: England, America, and Literature from Utopia to The Tempest (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1992), 220-42.
13. Barker and Hulme, "Nymphs and reapers," 204; Paul Brown, "'This thing of darkness I acknowledge mine': The Tempest and the discourse of colonialism," Political Shakespeare, ed. Jonathan Dollimore and Alan Sinfield (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1985), 68.
14. "Anxiety" in this sense is drawn from Barker and Hulme, 198. Barker and Hulme offer a critique of Frank Kermode's introduction to the Arden Tempest (London: Methuen, 1954), 195-96. See also Terence Hawkes's remarks on the English critic Sir Walter Raleigh in That Shakespeherian Rag (London: Methuen, 1986), 51-72, and Meredith Anne Skura's brief mention of G. Wilson Knight in "Discourse and the Individual: The Case of Colonialism in The Tempest," Shakespeare Quarterly 40.1 (Spring 1989): 46.
15. Brown, "'This thing of darkness'," 53.
16. Hulme, Colonial Encounters, 125.
17. Hulme, Colonial Encounters, 124. Richard Marienstras makes a similar point when he argues that because Prospero knows more than any other character, spectators "see and judge events from his point of view"; he adds, however, that "it is not possible, in the conflict between [Prospero] and Caliban, entirely to eliminate or discredit the reasoning of the latter" (New Perspectives on the Shakespearean World [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985], 171).
18. Vitoria writes that the title to possession of a given territory, when based upon the discovery of that territory, is legitimate in certain cases (prior lack of inhabitation, for instance); but such a title is not legitimate in most parts of America: "the barbarians were true owners, both from the public and from the private standpoint. Now the rule of the law of nations is that what belongs to nobody is granted to the first occupant . . . . (quoted in Stephen Greenblatt, Marvelous Possessions [Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1991], 61).
19. "The famous voyage of Sir Francis Drake into the South sea," Principal Navigations, 11: 121-22. Apropos of this, Louis B. Wright has accurately observed that "the doctrine that particular regions [of the New World] had been set aside until such time as Englishmen might need to emigrate . . . helped to create an English version of the belief in Manifest Destiny which profoundly influenced colonial enterprise in the seventeenth century" (Religion and Empire [Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1943], 85-86).
20. See, for example, Las Casas's The Spanish Colonie (London, 1583; Ann Arbor, University Microfilms, 1966) sig. A4, and Montaigne's "Of the Caniballes" [The Essayes of Michael, Lord of Montaigne, trans. John Florio [London: 1603; New York: Modern Library, 1933], 166--67). Sister Corona Sharp argues in her article "Caliban: The Primitive Man's Evolution" that "Shakespeare could hardly have missed hearing about [Las Casas'] The Spanish Colonie, and the numerous passages in this work that are analogous to portions of The Tempest are worth noting" (Shakespeare Studies 14 [1981]: 279). See also Skura's "Discourse and the Individual," 51.
21. On this, compare Montaigne in "Of Coaches": "Our world hath of late discovered another (and who can warrant us whether it be the last of his brethren, since both the Damons, the Sibylles, and all we have hitherto been ignorant of this?) no lesse-large, fully-peopled, all-things-yielding, and mighty in strength, than ours" (Essayes, 821).
22. Barker and Hulme, "Nymphs and reapers," 198. Skura points to this limitation in colonialist readings when she writes that "the exploitative and self-justifying rhetoric [of colonialism] is only one element in complex New World discourse" ("Discourse and the Individual," 54).
23. Brown, "'This thing of darkness'," 60, 52-53.
24. For a useful and balanced critique of Brown's article and the view that Shakespeare endorsed the colonial project, see Deborah Willis, "Shakespeare's Tempest and the Discourse of Colonialism," Studies in English Literature 29 (1989): 277-89. See also Russ McDonald, "Reading The Tempest," Shakespeare Survey 43 (1991): 15-28, esp. 15-17.
25. Hawkes, That Shakespeherian Rag, 3.
26. Knapp, An Empire Nowhere, 235.
27. The Elizabethans and the Irish (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1966), 20.
28. Jack Beeching observes in his introduction to Hakluyt's Voyages and Discoveries (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1972) that "Shipmen breaking in upon more primitive, hitherto untouched societies for the purpose of trade had a faculty of observing and recording curious customs with the lack of prejudice which distinguishes the anthropologist, who is their historical legatee" (12); while the claim that these accounts reveal a "lack of prejudice" is certainly naive, Beeching's point is still pertinent.
29. On Renaissance ethnography see, among other studies, Margaret T. Hodgen, Early Anthropology in the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1964); two articles by John Hawland Rowe: "Ethnography and Ethnology in the Sixteenth Century" (Kroeber Anthropological Society Papers 30 [1964]: 1-19) and "The Renaissance Foundations of Anthropology" (American Anthropologist 67 [February 1965]: 1-20); Michael T. Ryan, "Assimilating New Worlds in the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries," Comparative Studies in Society and History 23.4 (October 1981): 519-38; Caroline B. Brettell, "Introduction: Travel Literature, Ethnography, and Ethnohistory," Ethnohistory 33.2 [1988]: 127; and Mary B. Campbell, "The Illustrated Travel Book and the Birth of Ethnography: Part I of De Bry's America," in The Work of Dissimilitude, ed. David G. Allen and Robert A. White (Newark: University of Delaware Press, 1992), 177-95.
30. Charles Frey contrasts the idea of "sources" with that of "linguistic and narrative force-field[s]" in "The Tempest and the New World," 33. Alden T. Vaughan cites Frey's article, along with Stephen Greenblatt's "Learning to Curse: Aspects of Linguistic Colonialism in the Sixteenth Century" (in First Images of America, ed. Fredi Chiappelli, 2 vols. [Berkeley: University of California Press, 1976], 2: 561-80), as a forerunner in "the new interest in historical contexts" ("Shakespeare's Indian: The Americanization of Caliban," 151n).
31. Indeed, Stephen Greenblatt has brilliantly argued that what appears in Harriot's Briefe and true report to be "a conversation among equals, as if all meanings were provisional, as if the signification of events stood apart from power" is in fact "part of the process whereby Indian culture is constituted as a culture and thus brought into the light for study, discipline, correction, and transformation" ("Invisible Bullets," in Shakespearean Negotiations: The Circulation of Social Energy in Renaissance England [Berkeley: University of California Press, 1988], 36-37). I am, I suppose, more sanguine than Greenblatt in my conviction that Renaissance ethnography, by and large, is only haphazardly tied to colonial aims; one encounters, I believe, abundant instances of relatively disinterested description.
32. Eden, "The Indian language," in Decades; Lery, History of a Voyage to the Land of Brazil, trans. Janet Whatley (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1990) chap. 20; Smith, A Map of Virginia (London, 1612), in The Complete Works of Captain John Smith, ed. Philip L. Barbour (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1986) 1: 136-39. See also Jacques Cartier, "The language that is spoken in the Land newly disouered, called new Fraunce" and "The names of the chiefest partes of man, and other wordes necessarie to be knowen," in A Shorte and briefe narration of the two Nauigations and Discoueries to the Northweast partes called Newe Fravnce, trans. John Florio (London, 1580; Ann Arbor: University Microfilms, 1966), 27, 79-80. Stephen Greenblatt contends that "In Cartier, as in almost all early Eurpean accounts, the language of the Indians is noted not in order to register cultural specificity but in order to facilitate barter, movement, and assimilation through conversion" (Marvelous Possessions, 104); while there is certainly a good measure of truth to this, I think that such documents as Carrier's and Lery's glossaries inevitably do register cultural specificity and difference, thereby both demonstrating European interest in the other and providing a discourse in which that interest may perpetuate itself.
33. As Skura points out, these words appear in the Folio's "Names of the Actors"; Shakespeare may or may not have written them ("Discourse and the Individual," 48).
34. Hulme, Colonial Encounters, 114.
35. Nova Brittania (London: 1609), in Tracts and Other Papers, Relating Principally to the Origin, Settlement, and Progress of the Colonies in North America, ed. Peter Force, 4 vols. (New York: Peter Smith, 1947), 1 (6): 11.
36. The Generall Historie of Virginia (London, 1624), in The Complete Works of Captain John Smith, ed. Philip L. Barbour (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1986) 2: 152, 183,189, 198, 125-26.
37. A briefe and true report of the new found land of Virginia (London, 1588), in Virginia Voyages from Hakluyt, ed. David B. Quinn and Alison M. Quinn (London: Oxford University Press, 1973), 70.
38. Edmund Malone, The Plays and Poems of William Shakespeare, 21 vols. (London, 1821) 15: 11-14; Leslie Fiedler, The Stranger in Shakespeare, 233. Sidney Lee also points to the varied ethnographic roots of Caliban, including the Guianans described by Ralegh, but he curbs his enthusiasm enough to recollect-unlike Fiedler--that there were no "native Bermudans" ("The American Indian in Elizabethan England," in Elizabethan and Other Essays, ed. F. S. Boas [London: Oxford University Press, 1929], 263-301).
39. Bullough, Narrative and Dramatic Sources of Shakespeare (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1975) 8: 257; Hulme, Colonial Encounters, 108, See also Robert Ralston Cawley, who argues that Caliban is not a melange of types but a representation of the changing attitudes toward native Americans held by the colonists ("Shakspere's Use of the Voyagers in The Tempest," PMLA 41 [1926]: 719n); Sister Corona Sharp, who writes that Caliban's character "took shape under the influence of conflicting opinions held on the American Indians during Shakespeare's lifetime" ("Caliban: The Primitive Man's Evolution," 267); and Karen Flagstad, who adds that "the savage Caliban conflates contradictory stereotypes" ("'Making this Place Paradise': Prospero and the Problem of Caliban in The Tempest," Shakespeare Studies 18 [1986]: 221).
40. Bernard W. Sheehan, Savagism and Civility: Indians and Englishmen in Colonial Virginia (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1980), 85, 87.
41. Greenblatt, "Learning to Curse: Aspects of Linguistic Colonialism in the Sixteenth Century," 574; Todorov, The Conquest of America (New York: Harper & Row, 1984), 42-43.
42. Greenblatt, "Learning to Curse," 575.
43. New Perspectives on the Shakespearean World (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985), 169-70. I disagree with Marienstras, however, when he asserts that Caliban's uncertain status "gives the reader a feeling of instability that remains with him through to the end of the play" (170).
44. Cabeza de Vaca, Relation of Nunez Cabeza de Vaca, trans. Buckingham Smith (New York, 1871; Ann Arbor: University Microfilms, 1966), 82; Lery, History of a Voyage to the Land of Brazil, 29; Acosta, How to procure the salvation of the Indians, excerpted in John Howland Rowe, "Ethnography and Ethnology in the Sixteenth Century," 16; Strachey, Historie of Travell into Virginia Britannia, excerpted in The Elizabethans' America: A Collection of Early Reports by Englishmen on the New World, ed. Louis B. Wright [Cambridge, Mass: Harvard University Press, 1965], 215; Smith, Generall Historie, in The Complete Works of Captain John Smith 2: 119.
45. "Virginias Verger," in Hakluytus Posthumous, or Purchas His Pilgrimes (London: 1625), 20 vols (Glasgow: J. MacLehose & Sons, 1905-7) 19: 231.
46. All quotations from Mucedorus (London, 1598) are drawn from Drama of the English Renaissance, ed. Russell A. Fraser and Norman Rabkin, 2 vols. (New York: Macmillan, 1976), 1: 463-80. Mucedorus was published in seventeen separate editions between 1598 and 1658. It was performed by the King's Men in 1610 "before the King's majesty at Whitehall on Shrove-Sunday night" (Fraser and Rabkin, 463); thus Shakespeare probably knew the play, and may have acted in it.
47. Introduction to the Arden Tempest (London: Methuen, 1954), xxxviii-ix. Norman Rabkin writes that "Bremo the wild man is something of a forerunner of Caliban, suggesting the interest of an age of exploration in the phenomenon of natural man while ensuring that the play remains fairy tale" (Introduction to Mucedorus, 463).
48. Bremo's encounter with Amadine in scene 11 reveals obvious similarities to the conventional motif of the wild man's transformation to civility in the presence of a beautiful and virtuous woman. But this particular encounter is presented, I think, as a more sentimental and less thoroughly transforming experience.
49. Goldsmith, "The Wild Man on the English Stage," Modern Language Review 53 (1958): 481-91.
50. This speech, with its indication of Caliban's intelligence and appreciation of Prospero's gifts, echoes numerous accounts of New World natives, among them James Rosier's 1605 description of Indians along the New England coast: "They seemed all very civil and merry, showing tokens of much thankfulness for those things we gave them. We found them then (as after) a people of exceeding good invention, quick understanding, and ready capacity" (A True Relation of the Most Properous Voyage Made This Present Year 1805 by Captain George Weymouth, excerpted in The Elizabethans' America, 149). On Weymouth's voyage, see Sidney Lee, "The American Indian in Elizabethan England," 282.
51. Orgel, introduction to the Oxford Tempest (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1987), 34. Sister Corona Sharp takes this view even further in calling the attempted rape "Caliban's failure in European sexual ethics" ("Caliban: The Primitive Man's Evolution," 273). And Paul Brown asserts that Caliban's "inability to discern a concept of private, bounded property concerning his own dominions is reinterpreted as a desire to violate the chaste virgin, who epitomizes courtly property" ("'This thing of darkness I acknowledge mine': The Tempest and the discourse of colonialism" 62). See also Orgel's "Shakespeare and the Cannibals," in Cannibals, Witches, and Divorce, ed. Marjorie Garber (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1987), 55.
52. Martyr, Decades, decade 3, bk. 8, p. 134; Fabian, in Hakluyt, Principal Navigations 7: 155. The three Eskimos Fabian describes were brought by Sebastian Cabot to England from the North American Arctic in 1502 and presented to Henry VII. See Sidney Lee, "The American Indian in Elizabethan England," 270.
53. "The relation of John de Verrazzano a Florentine, of the land by him discovered in the name of his Majestie. Written in Diepe the eight of July 1524," in Hakluyt, Principal Navigations 8: 433.
54. Lery, History of a Voyage, 158.
55. Acosta, How to procure the salvation of the Indians, 17.
56. Whitaker, Good Newes from Virginia (London: 1613; New York: Scholars' Facsimiles and Reprints, 1936), 26-27; Strachey, Historie of Travel into Virginia Britannia (London: 1612), excerpted in The Elizabethans' America, 212; Harriot, A briefe and true report (London: 1588), in Virginia Voyages, 68.
57. Whitaker, Good Newes from Virginia, 24.
58. Diego Alvarez Chanca, a Spanish surgeon, accompanied Columbus on his second voyage to the West Indies (1493-96) and wrote about the natives in his "Letter addressed to the Chapter of Seville" (Four Voyages to the New World: Letters and Selected Documents, trans. and ed. R. H. Major [Gloucester, Mass.: Peter Smith, 1976], 66).
59. Alan C. Dessen discusses this role-doubling as "a means to call attention to structural or thematic analogies" in "Conceptual Casting in the Age of Shakespeare: Evidence from Mucedorus," Shakespeare Quarterly 43 no. 1(Spring 1992): 67-70.
60. The Faerie Queene, ed. Thomas P. Roche, Jr. (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1981), 4.6.22 and 1.6.7-19.
61. Marienstras, for example, writes that Caliban "rushes into servitude even when striving for freedom" (New Perspectives, 175).
62. Greenblatt, Marvelous Possessions, 77.
63. For a fascinating and sustained example of native Americans confronting Europeans whom they cannot, at first, satisfactorily categorize, see Diego Duran, The Aztecs: The Indies of New Spain (New York: Orion, 1964), esp. chap. 69-74. Duran claims, for instance, that Moteczoma and his ministers plotted various strategies of resistance to Cortes and the other conquistadors even while alluding to them as immortal beings: "'I do not know' [said Moteczoma] 'what measures to take to prevent these gods from reaching the city or seeing my face. Perhaps the best solution will be the following: let there be gathered enchanters, sorcerers, sleep-makers and those who know how to command snakes, scorpions and spiders, and let them be sent to enchant the Spaniards. Let them be put to sleep, let them be shown visions, let the little beasts bite them so that they die.' . . . 'O powerful lord' [responded Tlillancalqui] 'your decision seems good to me, but if they are gods who will be able to harm them? However, nothing will be lost in the attempt'" (276).
64. Martyr, Decades, 219.
65. Drake's men found that the Miwok natives of California "supposed us to be gods, and would not be perswaded to the contrary" (Richard Hakluyt, "The famous voyage of Sir Francis Drake into the South sea," Principal Navigations 11: 119). And Thomas Harriot writes of the Indians near the Roanoke Colony, "some people could not tel whether to thinke us gods or men" (A briefe and true report, 73). See also Cawley, The Voyagers and Elizabethan Drama, 385-88. In one of the classic English fictions dealing with the encounter of European and native American, Daniel Defoe exploits this motif in portraying the relationship between Crusoe and the "savage" Friday: "I believe, if I would have let him, he would have worshipped me and my gun" (The Life and Adventures of Robinson Crusoe, ed. Angus Ross [Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1965], 214).
66. Harriot, A briefe and true report, 68.
67. On connections between Miranda and the American native Pocahontas, see Morton Luce's Arden edition of The Tempest (London: 1902) 169-70; Geoffrey Bullough's Narrative and Dramatic Sources 8: 241; and Jeffrey Knapp, An Empire Nowhere, 240-41.
68. Greenblatt, Shakespearean Negotiations, 157. See also Skura, "Discourse," 66; Knapp, An Empire Nowhere, 239; and Lynda E. Boose, "The Father and the Bride in Shakespeare," PMLA 97.3 (1982): 341. When Ferdinand speaks to Prospero of "our worser genius" as a force that can potentially "melt . . . honor into lust" (4.1.27-28), he perhaps anticipates Prospero's "thing of darkness" speech inasmuch as he suggests that a principle of wildness or savagery lies within all humans.
69. "The Sea and the Mirror," in The Collected Poetry of W. H. Auden (New York: Random House, 1945), 387-88.
70. In claiming that he will "be wise hereafter, / And seek for grace" (5.1.295-96), Caliban is almost certainly not speaking ironically; the tone of self-annoyance in which he castigates himself for taking the drunkard Stephano for a god and worshipping the "dull fool" Trinculo (5.1.297-98) seems strongly to preclude this.
71. On prevenient grace, see article 10 of the Church of England's thirty-nine articles (1571): "The condition of man after the fall of Adam is such, that he cannot turn and prepare himself, by his own natural strength and good works, to faith and calling upon God: Wherefore we have no power to do good works pleasant and acceptable to God, without the grace of God preventing us, that we may have a good will, and working with us, when we have that good will" (from Thomas Rogers, The Faith, Doctrine, and Religion, Professed and Protected in the Realm of England . . . Expressed in 39 Articles [Cambridge, 1607; rpt. New York: Johnson Reprint Corporation, 1968], 103). If Caliban is capable of seeking prevenient grace, the presumption is strong that he is fully human.
72. Donne, "An Anatomy of the World: The First Anniversary" (11. 161-62) in John Donne: The Complete English Poems, ed. A. J. Smith (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1973), 274. See also As You Like It, 3.2.11 and 3.2.17, and Hamlet, 4.7.21. The OED defines this meaning of "grace" as "In persons: Virtue; an individual virtue; sense of duty or propriety" (2.13b).

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By WILLIAM M. HAMLIN