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LANDED AND LITERARY: HAMLIN GARLAND, SARAH ORNE JEWETT, AND THE PRODUCTION OF REGIONAL LITERATURES.

In 1894 there appeared in Chicago a little book on literary topics, the manner of whose manufacture bore the marks of a dilettante taste in book-making.... The book should have been printed on birch bark and bound in butternut home-spun, and should have had for cover design a dynamite bomb, say, with sputtering fire-tipped fuse: for the essays which it contained were so many explosions of literary Jingoism and anarchy.(1)

To readers in 1895 familiar with Garland's work and its reception, reviewer C. M. Thompson's analogy between Hamlin Garland's Crumbling Idols (1894) and a dynamite bomb reminiscent of the Haymarket Riot would have seemed like standard critical fare. But if most reviewers of the early Garland found his work too radical and artistically compromised by its focus on social conflict, no one familiar with his writing would have questioned his commitment to the nation and its foundational ideals. For Garland, the exemplary regional writer was above all a devoted American, attempting to realize the principles of democracy and decentralization within broad national frameworks, both literary and political. In this respect, his work was much like that of other local writers dedicated to celebrating rural communities as sites of national promise, where the country would achieve its ultimate fulfillment as a union of diverse cultures. Yet while Garland's regionalism could be likened to a dynamite bomb, most regional writing was described by critics as "quaint" and "picturesque."

Such discrepancies in reception suggest that a common embrace of cultural pluralism among local writers and their readers--and a shared belief in the region as redeemer of the nation--did not always point to the same discourse of nationalism. Regional writing could be adapted to alternative nationalisms; an adequate assessment of the category therefore requires consideration not only of regionalism's coherence, but of its political and aesthetic inconsistencies. This essay juxtaposes several of Garland's early stories with Sarah Orne Jewett's Country of the Pointed Firs in order to explore the nature of an ideological conflict within literary regionalism and its effect on the formal conventions that writers employed and rejected.

To affirm more than one variety of regionalism is to grant the author more agency than she or he might have if such writing were limited to a single set of formal features or a single social logic. My argument assumes that writers like Jewett and Garland made important ethical choices in determining which forms of local solidarity to embrace and which to reject.(2) If they conformed to the generic limits placed on them by the major monthly magazines, they often did so knowingly, providing the sub-national communities that audiences desired while recognizing the possibility of rethinking and rewriting them.(3) Even more significantly, a writer such as Garland avoided the major markets for long stretches of time, publishing his work in alternative venues like The Arena, where the representation of rural communities was not limited to a literary tourism in the service of national incorporation and reunion. Garland's work reveals a literary marketplace that never succeeds completely in homogenizing either its readers or its writers.(4) His support for radical social reform leads him to challenge some of the crucial conventions of late-nineteenth-century realism; in particular, he often refuses to draw any clear distinction between the world that his characters occupy and the world of artistic consumption. It is the merging of these two worlds that Garland sees as a necessary precursor to the realization of his national vision.

In the teleology implied by Jewett's Country, on the other hand, class stratification poses no obstacle to the fulfillment of a national destiny. At the same time, Jewett shares with Garland a common approach toward the question of genealogical inheritance and the role that it is to play in the nation's ultimate redemption. For both writers, national identity in its ideal form is constituted by both loyalty to a community of Anglo ethnic origin and affiliation with a broader racial community of white Americans. Both Jewett and Garland negotiate this identity through their treatments of characters marked as excessively ethnic members of the Anglo folk. Yet the production of these characters and the resistance they present to the regional subject's negotiated identity differ significantly between Jewett and Garland.

In Country of the Pointed Firs, Jewett attempted to distance herself and her contemporary readers from a period when regional and unionist loyalties repeatedly came into conflict. To do so, she needed to restore faith in both a decentralized union, attentive and sympathetic to regional voices, and in local communities that remained open and available to alliances with fellow nationals. Jewett's narrator in Country functions as a kind of model representative of the Jeffersonian state, a well-traveled resident of the city who identifies with the inhabitants of Dunnet Landing and works with them to represent local distinctiveness. Jewett lets us know early on that the narrator has traveled a good deal, and that her wide body of experience has made her more capable of valuing Dunnet for its particularity: "There was something about the coast town of Dunnet which made it seem more attractive than other maritime villages of eastern Maine."(5) What makes Dunnet so delightful to the narrator is precisely its resistance to traveling figures who might attempt to update it. The "unchanged shores of the pointed firs" (2) invite the narrator's love because they promise more experiential contrast than the shores of assimilated maritime villages. Dunnet will allow the narrator to realize her own elastic capacity for inclusion of local difference. Rather than trying to make the residents over in her cosmopolitan image, she sets herself the task of adapting to Dunnet culture for the period of her sojourn. If, at the beginning of the period, she feels as if she "did not really belong to Dunnet Landing" (15), after the Bowden reunion at the end she regrets momentarily that she must "return to the world in which [she] feared to find [herself] a foreigner" (129). As Stephanie Foote has argued and as I will elaborate further, foreignness carries more than one meaning in Jewett.(6) The most apparent one here, however, is that the narrator's potential sense of foreignness in "the world" reflects a successful immersion and temporary transformation over the course of her stay in Dunnet.

From this perspective, Dunnet's embrace of Norman ethnicity appears not only compatible with but necessary to the formation of national alliances across Anglo cultural boundaries. Recent criticism on Country has focused attention on the Bowden reunion scene, in which the narrator celebrates the family's Norman lines of descent, the racial purity of their blood, and their territorial rootedness.(7) Jewett gathers the Bowden tribe in order to reaffirm a common genealogical origin and the importance of reproducing that origin in unadulterated form. For Jewett, however, maintaining the purity of Bowden blood and the continuity of local tradition is both a matter of tribal loyalty and a means of displaying the decentralized cultural character of the nation. By rooting their culture to the distinctive landscape of Maine and to the Norman past, and by guarding against marriages that might dilute the influences of place and blood, the Bowdens exempt themselves from the processes of modern assimilation affecting other villages. They hold out against the power of industry and the patterns of migrations that seem to be turning the world's populations into a single mongrelized mob. In doing so, they allow the narrator to exhibit her own cultural mobility as she adapts herself to a local Anglo community.

This model of nationality, in which the construction of a particular kind of cultural difference participates in the achievement of an encompassing identity, received a more explicit contemporary promotion in philosopher Josiah Royce's 1908 essay "Provincialism." For Royce, one of the primary "evils" that a "wholesome provincialism" remedies is the "levelling tendency" of modern society:
   Because of the ease of communication amongst distant places.... and because
   of the consolidation and of the centralization of industries.... we tend
   all over the nation, and, in some degree, even throughout the civilized
   world, to read the same daily news, to share the same general ideas. ...
   [P]rovincial pride helps the individual man to keep his self-respect even
   when the vast forces that work toward industrial consolidation, and toward
   the effacement of individual initiative, are besetting his life at every
   turn.... Give man the local community that he loves and cherishes ... and
   you have given him a power to counteract the levelling tendencies of modern
   civilization.(8)


Global migrations and improved communications threaten the world with conformity to a single principle of consolidation, and implicitly with a racial alchemy presided over by the captains of mass culture and industry. In the name of democracy, Royce attempts to reconstruct the regional and ethnic boundaries he perceives to have collapsed in the process of consolidation. Preserving American individualism, and the potential for democratic opposition to popular power, depends on the cultivation of loyalty to smaller groups; once this loyalty has been destroyed, the individual loses his independence and becomes easily "hypnotized" by the popular emotions of "the mob." Given the importance he places on independence, however, Royce must contend with the possibility that his regionalism will lead to the suppression of pluralism and conflicting opinion at the local level. The local mob, after all, could replace the national one. In anxious anticipation of this objection, he makes provincial loyalty function not only as an antidote for mob formation outside the province, but as a guarantor of democratic debate within it: "Compare a really successful town meeting in a comparatively small community with the accidental and sometimes dangerous social phenomena of a street mob or of a great political convention. In the one case every individual may gain wisdom from his contact with the social group. In the other case every man concerned ... may feel ashamed of the absurdity of which the whole company was guilty" (88-89).

Jewett's text reveals a similar anxiety over the form of the local community and the construction of its difference. We have already seen that in relation to Dunnet Landing the narrator figures an elastic nation, based on Jeffersonian principles of union. As her ideal national counterparts, then, the inhabitants of Dunnet represent a particular shade of regional and ethnic loyalty, one that does not seem to conflict with the project of consensus building between white Americans.(9) Local subjects who root themselves too firmly in ancestry and geography forfeit the individualism that Royce emphasizes and the possibility of alliances with subjects like the narrator. Thus, at the beginning of the reunion, Mrs. Todd generously includes those who "aren't kin by blood" but "by marriage" (96), and as a consequence of like-minded generosity, the narrator, whose ethnic origins are never revealed, feels "like an adopted Bowden" (99). The clearest case of a family aberration is Santin Bowden, the militaristic leader of the family procession, whose erratic behavior and violent tendencies are linked by Jewett to the excessive influence of his bloodline. From Mrs. Todd, we learn first that Santin "ain't a sound man, an' [the Union Army] wouldn't have him"(101). Later in the same conversation, Mrs. Todd explains that "our family came of very high folks in France, and one of 'em was a great general in some of o' the old wars. I sometimes think that Santin's ability has come 'way down from then. `Taint nothin' he's ever acquired; 'twas born in him" (102).

This conversation, in which Santin's strangeness points to an identity that is completely inherited rather than at least partially "acquired," segues into a discussion of Mad Harris, another Dunnet resident who belongs to the class of "strange folks" (103). Susan Gillman and Sandra Zagarell have both commented that Jewett's nativism emerges in her comparison of Mad Harris to a "Chinee."(10) But it is crucial to the reunion episode that Santin also gets associated with the Chinese immigrant. Mrs. Todd and the other conversationalists worry that an overly zealous family loyalty is akin to foreign behavior, for it suggests that ancestry, rather than the individual will, is the sole determinant of one's life. That Santin was rejected by the Union Army makes sense in this context, for his limited potential to form alliances with those outside his immediate ethnic family casts doubt on his reliability as a national subject and soldier. As Mrs. Todd informs us just after rendering Santin the product of what is "born in him," he's "got his papers so he knows how to aim a cannon right for William's fish-house five miles out on Green Island, or up there on Burnt Island where the signal is" (102). The point is not that Santin Bowden is intentionally destructive to the broader community's interest, but that his genealogically determined identity may preclude identification and affiliation with those who belong to the extended white national family.

Jewett's negotiation between a scene that celebrates Anglo-Norman ethnic difference unequivocally and one that tempers its role in the constitution of self and community culminates in the narrator's account of her own departure from the reunion:
   I fancied that old feuds had been overlooked, and the old saying that blood
   is thicker than water had again proved itself true, though from the variety
   of names one argued a certain adulteration of the Bowden traits and
   belongings. Clannishness is an instinct of the heart,--it is more than a
   birthright, or a custom; and lesser rights were forgotten in the claim to a
   common inheritance. (110)


On the one hand, "blood is thicker than water" and clannishness is an instinct, much more than a custom that can be acquired. On the other hand, Bowdenness allows for a "certain adulteration of ... traits and belongings," and clannishness is a kind of sentiment, a feeling of attachment rather than a birthright. What, if anything, does blood determine? In a contradiction typical of the reunion scene, we might infer that the Bowden's thick blood confers on its inheritors the very negation of Bowdenness, the capacity to escape from the condition that they are born into. Whether they are Bowdens from birth or, rather, through their affiliations with other white Americans is entirely unclear. Yet this very ambiguity distinguishes the Anglo-Norman from the "Chinee," whose racial inheritance authors his life and relations. In the regionalism of Country, Norman-American ethnogenesis must appear different not only from the "levelling tendencies" of modernity but from the excessive particularity of other ethnic groups; those who, like Santin Bowden, fail to distinguish this as their own inheritance risk the loss of their family claim.

Through her depiction of Santin as a psychologically unsound character, Jewett defines the movement between blood loyalty and unionist affiliation as the mark of a normative identity within Dunnet. If the more reliable Bowdens exclude certain outsiders and tend to the continuity of their heritage, they also participate lovingly in the sketches the narrator composes and in the ongoing story of her travels. While they implicitly reject the racial and cultural amalgamation that characterizes urban America, they avoid limiting Dunnet belonging to the insular ethnicity of a Santin Bowden. Here we might bring back the narrator's fear that upon returning to the "world" she will find herself a foreigner in it. For it is indeed two experiences of foreignness that she fears: on the one side and in relation to the "world," an overly particular Anglo ethnicity, and on the other side, in relation to Dunnet, an immediate reabsorption of an uprooted and mongrelized modern condition. Jewett's novel suggests that American identities can and should emerge from a shifting middle ground, simultaneously rooted in local Anglo traditions and conducive to the formation of a broadly conceived white nation.

In pushing Santin Bowden to the margins of her community and pathologizing (as opposed to historicizing) his failure to negotiate ethnic and national identity, Jewett participates in the cleansing of local antagonisms from genteel culture, and, more generally, from the public sphere. Like the party politicians she would have abhorred, she implicitly claims to represent those who have historically been excluded from literature, in this case the "simple folk" of Maine. At the same time, however, she represents--or reproduces--them as accommodating, unpolitical subjects, completely devoid of any hostility toward interests outside the region and unconcerned with their lack of national power. Yet regional writers of the 1890s did not need to conceal social conflict in order to publish and disseminate their work. Understanding Hamlin Garland's early career requires that we locate it within a network of rallies, lectures, and journalism that was publicizing the voices of political discontent during the rise of the Populist Movement.(11) The young Garland both benefitted from radical venues that had already been established and contributed to the short-lived process of increasing their number.

Reviews of Garland's early work and his own correspondence with editors suggest a complex, frequently shifting relationship between author, regional subjects, editors, and readers. In Garland's hands, regional writing could appear in a variety of guises, depending on who, at a given time, was exerting the most influence on him and what options were available to him as a publishing writer.(12) At times, his desire to be published by the major monthly magazines, and his unique position as a transplant in Boston from the rural Midwest, led to genetic local color sketches, described by one reviewer as "quaint, oldfashioned and very sweet."(13) But with the backing of an editor like The Arena's Benjamin O. Flower, who invited and frequently published radical opinion, Garland could also treat fiction as an extension of his journalism and lectures on behalf of Henry George's single tax. According to George's program, the government needed to free land from the control of speculators and monopolists, who often sat on unused plots and drove up prices. Single-taxers argued for a tax policy that distinguished between land and the fruits of labor. Farmers would pay the government for the privilege of occupying land and, in return, reap all the rewards of production. By contrast, the current system was a form of paternalism, for it denied the mass of individuals the opportunity to compete with the landed aristocracy and the captains of industry. The single tax leveled out the playing field without nationalizing property and limiting the rights of the individual.(14)

As a single-tax man writing fiction, Garland needed to reveal both the cruelty of the land system and the fraudulence of the pastoral myths that obscured it. But in doing so, he confronted the predictable criticism that his stories lacked artfulness. The artist had an obligation to improve on life and not simply reproduce its sordid aspects as a photographer might. To editors like Richard Watson Gilder of The Century, realism in its early years bore the contradictory burden of reproducing life and distinguishing itself from the very thing that it reproduced; if a writer could make the mistake of writing fanciful fictions, he could err as well by seeming overly mimetic.(15)

In an attempt to negotiate between art as artifice and art as "the real thing," Garland at times divided his literary representation of the West into opposing categories, so that the West could appear uncontaminated in both its "beauty" and its "significance." As he wrote in Crumbling Idols, "beauty is the world-old aristocrat who has taken for mate this mighty young plebeian Significance."(16) On the one side were the natural attributes of the region, its "seas of ripe grasses, tangled and flashing with dew, out of which the bobolinks and larks sprang";(17) on the other side, the knotted hands of farmers, the weary horses, and the houses devastated by storms. Not surprisingly, women function in this division as metonyms for both the original beauty of the region and its fall into significance at the hands of speculators. Of Lucretia Burns, the farmer's wife in "A Prairie Heroine," Garland writes that "the woman might have sung like a bird if men were only as kind to her as Nature.... The goodness and glory of God was in the very air, the bitterness and oppression of man in every line of her face" (232). In dividing the figure of Lucretia between a natural potential for beauty and an all but actual mined condition, Garland straggles desperately to avoid both the aestheticization of poverty in his work and the impoverishment of aesthetics.

This attempt to separate the region into categories and to avoid a two-sided contamination appears at times as part of a politics of containment in Garland's writing. Garland seems to reflect and reinforce a desire to keep rural subjects circumscribed in their places, walled off by virtue of their inevitable and sordid victimhood in the category of the significant. How, then, might we distinguish at least some of his work from "the strategies of containment" that Amy Kaplan sees as crucial to realism in general? Kaplan argues in The Social Construction of American Realism that the central anxiety informing the texts that she considers is of a history moving so quickly that it eludes representation. The realist writer typically responds with excessive description, employed "to pin down the objects of an unfamiliar world to make it real."(18) Pinning down a familiar social reality requires both the construction of a stable social world and the suppression, or containment, of those "alien" classes that might disrupt it. Whatever their successes, realists struggled to capture and preserve the world as they knew it by managing and controlling class pressures from below.

As the major magazines increased the scope of their representation to include rural communities and urban neighborhoods, such management became crucial to the consumption of the realist text. Writers needed to ensure that the art object transcended the world in which the characters ordinarily moved, and that the act of consumption, therefore, avoided the taint of the localities being depicted. We have already seen, for instance, that Jewett marginalized the character most likely to interrupt the nostalgic cadences of her cosmopolitan narrator and to question her legitimacy as a regional representative. As a consequence, the text itself is defined without challenge by a literariness that escapes the Dunnet characters.

The relation between the form of Garland's art and his lower class referent invites an even more striking comparison to Jacob Riis, who was exposing the sordid secrets of the urban underworld in much the same way that Garland was exposing the middle border.(19) In How the Other Half Lives (1890), Riis proposes that the slum can be kept from spreading uptown and contaminating his readers through a program of improvement and supervision. His own camera becomes a model supervisor of slum subjects, kind in its sympathetic treatment of their plight and strict in its expectations of good behavior and complicity. As others have commented, by modern documentary standards Riis focuses a curious amount of attention on the posing that takes place before his pictures are taken.(20) A street urchin, for instance, smiles as he pretends to sleep, gang members enact a robbery "in character" for the sake of the camera, and a homeless man, learning the value of work, agrees to pose for a picture in exchange for a few coins. By contrast, the Chinese find themselves on the bottom of a racial hierarchy because of their "stealth and secretiveness," in effect their resistance to the photographer.(21) For Riis and his viewers, complicity on the part of the slum subjects signals the very possibility of art and aesthetic enjoyment. By demonstrating that his subjects, properly controlled, will consent to the photographer's wishes, Riis suggests that his pictures retain their artfulness in spite of their sordid subject matter, that this sordidness in fact serves the representation by allowing a safe and revitalizing contact with "the real." Conversely, the artfulness of the pictures, their imitation and improvement of real slum conditions, reassures readers that the slum has been properly managed. In Riis's work, aesthetic pleasure depends on the demonstration of a stable and consensual social hierarchy, which, in turn, is often indicated by the acknowledged gap between representation and referent. The staging of "the other half" requires the visibility of the artifice. The text must display not simply the slum, but the slum conforming to the photographer's studio.

As his distinction between "the beautiful" and "the significant" suggests, Garland can seem equally intent on protecting his consumers from contamination by low subjects. Just as Riis displays slum characters who conform to familiar types before his camera, leaving undisturbed both the aesthetic interaction with the reader and the magnificent uptown regions of the city, so too Garland, at times, calls attention to his own textual management of the farmers within the category of "the significant" and to the preservation of beauty in his rendition of the West. In reference to dialect, he writes to his editor Gilder at one point that "it is usually spoken by one whom the child reading feels is illiterate and not to be copied. I believe in general that dialect does not corrupt a child so much as `high falutin language.' The child says to itself. `This man talks funny--The writer knows he talks funny. I mustn't talk as he does.'"(22) Whether dialect corrupts the child and the language depends on the writer's capacity to make it look "funny" or deviant. The writer protects against the vulgarization of his product, his region, and his consumer by displaying dialect stripped of its potential to alter respectable speech.

What Garland concedes in a letter to the editor of Century magazine, however, should not be taken as the key to all of his fiction. In much of his early writing, the ideal artist participates not in the containment of those characters who speak in dialect, but in a social transformation that changes the way in which all Americans speak and think. These subjects do not belong at the low end of a social hierarchy, speaking a language as limited in the range of its utterance and allusion as the "high falutin" tongue of genteel aristocrats. The apparent naturalness of this hierarchy in other representations of the West obscures an underlying perversion of human life and a restless discontent. Garland's preoccupation, then, is often with the unnaturalness of a system that contorts the bodies of farmers, and robs them of cultural interest and access. In a passage from A Son of the Middle Border that echoes the attention he pays to distorted hands in his fiction, he writes of "the hard, crooked fingers" and the "heavy knuckles" he encounters on his first trip West, insisting, with Henry George and William Morris, that "Nature is not to blame. Man's laws are to blame."(23) Speaking again in terms of rights and laws, he argues in "A New Declaration of Rights" that unnatural laws have violated "the right of each man to space.... The need of space is as undeniable as the fact of weight and coherency of our bodies, and to allow any part of a social group, short of the entire membership of that group, to have absolute monopoly of space is a social crime, and human reason revolts against it as against the most vital infringement of the rights of man" (181-82).

What emerges here is the image of a national social body artificially constricted in its most vital parts. In the realm of art, this constriction results in the uneven distribution of consumers. The artificiality inflicted upon the farmer and other victims of poverty leads not only to the deprivation of these unfortunates, but to the deprivation of all cultural production, which suffers from its anemic reception by a small and unrepresentative percentage of the population. Garland makes this point clearly in "The Land Question and Its Relation to Art and Literature": "because of the toil and worry and poverty everywhere the common inheritance of the rising generation ... the artist's best pictures hang on his studio walls, the novelist's best thought is unsold, the dramatist's best play is refused by the manager, and the actor is forced to play the buffoon."(24) In this analysis, the effects of the unnatural economic system return to haunt the American leisure classes in the form of an unnourishing and imitative artistic production.

Garland distinguishes himself as a realist, then, not by a claim that realism democratizes a previously elitist literature, introducing readers to their less visible and less fortunate countrymen. Such claims were made implicitly by the form itself, which--like the political parties of the Gilded Age--could include subjects who had never before figured in the public realm and at the same time afford them only the most nominal representation. Garland's uniqueness lies rather in his conviction that a truly democratic literature, freed from past convention and reflective of contemporary life, depends itself on deep structural changes in history. Realism could only achieve its potential as a democratic form under market conditions brought about by radical social change. Carried to its extreme, such a conviction might have led Garland to abandon fiction-writing for political activism, as art needed first to be enabled by a political and economic restructuring. But given his literary ambitions, the best compromise was often to devote his own fiction to the very causes that would liberate it. If literary production could not alone free itself from the restricted conditions of its reception, it could nonetheless contribute to social and political movements that would do so.

By January 1894, when "The Land Question" was published, the Farmer's Alliance had already grown into the People's Party, a broad-based alliance that included coal miners and factory workers as well as farmers. Garland conveys this new sense of inclusiveness in his 1892 novel A Spoil of Office, which takes the Populist Movement as its primary subject. Ida Wilbur, the novel's radical orator, declares that "the heart and centre of this movement is a demand for justice, not for ourselves alone, but for the toiling poor wherever found."(25) In "The Land Question" essay, and implicitly in many of his stories, Garland ponders the possibility of a Populist alliance that would include the fiction writer. Reciprocity between the artist and a movement of laborers would, of course, mean scrutinizing his own and his readership's relation to the regional subjects he depicted. Achieving the ideal of a democratic author would depend not on containing these subjects narratively, but on revealing their rage and discontent so as to hasten their emergence into the public as landowners and literary consumers. The visibility of the artifice in Jacob Riis's photographs indicated that slum characters were naturally cooperative subjects who would respond to moderate reform by accommodating themselves to the desires of the photographer and his audience. Similarly, Garland's insistence on the instability of the middle border emerged not only in the content of his rhetoric but through the formal strategies he employed.

The nature of these strategies is revealed most clearly in a passage from "Up the Cooly," where Howard McLane, an East Coast actor who returns to his native Midwest, recognizes the performance that his family puts on for him and questions its legitimacy:
   A casual observer would have said, "What a pleasant bucolic--this little
   surprise-party of welcome!" But Howard with his native ear and eye had no
   such pleasing illusion.... He knew that, like the smile of the slave, this
   cheerfulness was self-defence; deep down was another self.(26)


Like Riis, Garland stages a kind of minstrel show, in which "low" characters comply to ideas of them held by outsiders. What we get in Garland's minstrelsy, and what is missing in Riis's, however, is this "deep down" other self which finds itself compromised by the performance. Garland's characters transform themselves into the set pieces of a "pleasant bucolic," but they do so without relinquishing the bitterness and despair that characterize their daily lives. They participate only partially in the aesthetic uplift that leaves them stuck on the farm with only the compliments of the "casual observer" to show for it. Garland authorizes his narration here not by focusing attention on the artistry that frames his "low" subjects, but by foregrounding the self that both resists the outsider and appears misplaced within "the bucolic." In his work, the social discontent of the Midwestern farmer--the part of the farmer that defies placement in artistic categories--constitutes the "authenticity" of the representation. Likewise, through the apparent realness of the other self, the concealment of the writer's mediation, Garland conveys the implacable social ferment of the middle border. If these characters "sit still" for the regional artist, they do so with half a self and only temporarily.

To assume that readers of regionalist texts have always desired an apparent identity between the work of art and the object as it precedes the artistic encounter, then, is to understand the genre ahistorically. Many of Garland's contemporaries expected writers to display their control over the potential agents of social change by dressing them up aesthetically, and by representing this uplift as fully consensual. Yet Garland presents his audience with an authenticity that denies its own staging entirely, with "low" subjects who appear insufficiently defined as art and hence poorly contained for the reader. In "Up the Cooly," Grant McLane returns his brother Howard's gaze in an accusing manner, forcing Howard and the story's reader to confront a self that mistrusts and withdraws from the East Coast actor: "They stood and looked at each other. Howard's cuffs, collar, and shirt, alien in their elegance.... As they gazed in silence at each other, Howard divined something of the hard, bitter feeling which came into Grant's heart, as he stood there, ragged, ankle-deep in muck" (52). Howard and the reader are presented with a sociological problem that demands engagement, rather than an art object that invites distraction. As one contemporary reviewer put it, "the reader has an uneasy, ever-present feeling that [the stories in Main-Travelled Roads] are written not so much for him as at him. `Here is a pretty state of affairs,' they seem to say between all their lines, `for which our author holds you personally responsible.' What are you going to do about it?"(27) Through the form of his fiction, Garland enacts the proper relations between the observers of the Populist uprising and the participants. The artist and the reader, like others who claimed to know and represent regional subjects, were obligated to facilitate social change, not restrict it for a compromised aesthetic benefit. By reducing the signs of artistic application so that readers confronted the realness of rural discontent, he attempted to make his own representation conform to a history in motion.

As the "Land Question" suggests, it is this history in motion that Garland often depends upon for the full deliverance of the art work. In his own terms, "the beautiful" can only emerge in history when the characters who make up "the significant" are no longer contained within the category by either the conditions of the speculator or the methods of an imitative artist. True beauty, commensurate with the evolution of history and art, hinges not on the suppression of farmers and their leaders, but on a national transformation initiated and undergone by them. It depends ultimately, in other words, on the collapse of the two categories altogether. "The fictionist of to-day sees a more beautiful and peaceful future social life, and, in consequence, a more beautiful and peaceful literary life," he writes in Crumbling Idols (43). Garland envisions a future when rural characters like Grant McLane, with unhindered access to Western nature and to the world of art, have become cultural producers and consumers themselves, so that culture, in turn, is fully informed by autochthonous lives and realities.

In the world as he finds it, however, migration often seems the most viable option for the young farmer. Thus Bradley Talcott, the protagonist of A Spoil of Office, reflects on his own part in an inevitable demographic trend: "Everywhere was a scramble for office--everywhere a pouring into the city from the farms and villages.... Did it not all spring from the barrenness and vacuity of rural life?" (221). With the farmer mired in perpetual debt, the bond that tied man to the soil was anything but consensual; the farmer had become the slave of the land rather than its willing partner in acts of artistic and agricultural creation. Like "the plodding Swedes and Danes" in feudal Europe, rural subjects who remained at home had "no share in the soil from which they sprung" (A Son of the Middle Border, 368). By denying these subjects the chance to own their own land and to cultivate it profitably, speculators and government officials were forcing young farmers to become either slaves in effect or immigrants in their own country.

In Josiah Royce's assessment, the solution to this problem of internal migration was the cultivation of a "wholesome provincialism" (62). Citizens needed to develop a strong sentimental attachment to locality, so that they either remained in the place where they were born or conformed as quickly as possible to the dominant ethic of their new community. For "it is not on the whole well when the affairs of a community remain too largely under the influence of those who mainly feel either the wanderer's or the new resident's interest in the region where they are now dwelling" (69). Royce directs his comments against urban aspirants exactly like Garland, who were rejecting the terms of their local settlement, and not only migrating, but disrupting life in their adopted communities by publicizing the reason for their migration. Royce's insistence on provincialism belies his concern over the management of an expanding and incorporating nation, attempting to include and at the same time control diverse populations. By disseminating an ethics of rootedness, government officials and other administrators of region could organize and contain local populations without restricting them legally to a given territory.(28)

As Jewett's Country of the Pointed Firs reveals, this territorialization of local populations served not only to keep undesirable rural subjects away from the metropolitan centers of power but to preserve the distinctiveness of local Anglo cultures. Mass migrations from country to city jeopardized the integrity of preindustrial white communities that vacationers like Jewett's narrator viewed as essential symbolic resources. These communities rooted the nation in its own past and its own territory while at the same time affirming its historical progress and imperial mission. Despite their potential for historical maturation, regional subjects needed to stay at home more often, so that the nation's travelers, enervated by modern living, could renew themselves through affiliation with indigenous "folk." In Garland's early work, however, staying at home has no regenerative benefit for either the self or the nation. The conditions imposed by the speculator bind farmers to the soil and render them vulnerable to natural disasters and to processes of bodily perversion. As we have already seen, the convergence of farmer and land becomes wholly artificial and coercive, determined not by laws of nature which entitle all citizens to space, but by the laws of man which force the farmer to work on land that he has no share in. Moreover, as the farmer is the crucial mediator between the people as a whole and its territory, it is not only the regional subject who becomes alien to the soil, but the entire national culture. For Garland, the primary site of denaturalization is not the city, where Jewett and Royce would locate it, but the regional districts, where the sentimental attachment between citizen and soil has been ruptured.

Garland presents this moment of rupture most clearly in "Up the Cooly." Fairly early in the story, we learn that the McLane family has fallen from a previous condition of harmony sustained by an organic relation between the two brothers and the natural landscape:
   It was the place where [Howard] was born. The mystery of his life began
   there. In the branches of those poplar and hickory trees he had swung and
   sung in the rushing breeze, fearless as a squirrel. Here was the brook
   where, like a larger kildee, he with Grant had waded after crawfish, or had
   stolen upon some wary trout, rough-cut pole in hand. (64)


The early postbellum stage of Western settlement figures the promise of Jeffersonian agrarianism, each farmer in possession of his own land, families bonded together by the healthful influences of nature. But the union between the brothers, and between the brothers and the land, never fully materializes. After the death of their father, Howard leaves home, perhaps sensing the imminent collapse of the agrarian dream, and the family fails to pay back its mortgage. Most importantly, the loss of the family homeland leads to its repossession by a German family that does not speak English. As the McLane family is displaced and re-placed by the aberrant conditions of the Midwest, the entire region becomes peopled by aliens. In the arborescent terms that often depict cultural identity as a natural product of geography, Americans do not grow from Midwestern soil.(29) Not only do the Germans remain linguistic outsiders, but the effects of this cultural infertility extend to English speakers like Grant, who is anything but enamored of his country's history and territory. In response to Howard's attempts to help out on the farm, Grant informs him that if he "had to come here and do it all the while, [he] wouldn't look so white and soft in the hands.... Singular we think the country's going to hell" (61-62). Forced to farm against his will, Grant despises the soil that has unnaturally blackened and enslaved him.

The great travesty for Garland is that both Grant and the German family have enormous potential to become fully naturalized citizens. If active citizenship requires economic conditions that permit the natural landscape to function as an inspirational agent, it demands, in addition, subjects whose ancestry makes them capable of such inspiration. In "Among the Corn Rows," another story from Main Travelled Roads, Garland signifies the capacity for a Scandinavian woman's territorial assimilation by pointing to "the high cheek-bones of her race" and "their exquisite fairness of color" (106). He addresses the question of ancestry more explicitly in Crumbling Idols. Musing over his prediction that the West will produce "the original utterance of the coming American democracy," he writes that he "might adduce arguments based on the difference in races" and "speculate upon the influence of the Irish and Jews and Italians upon New York and Boston, and point out the quicker assimilation of the Teutonic races in the West" (134). In these passages, Garland treats those races typically associated with the city as biologically indisposed to Americanization. Not surprisingly, urban ethnics appear as key figures in "Up the Cooly," Garland's saga of national alienation. Responding to Grant's criticisms of his fine clothing, Howard decisively rejects his brother's lifestyle and limitations by declaring himself a patron of "Breckstein, on Fifth Avenue" (61). Breckstein, like the "Jew salesman" (45) referred to in A Spoil of Office, is not only a perpetual alien to American soil, but an agent of denaturalization, in effect the urban counterpart of the land system.(30) Howard's ability to negotiate in German with the new owners of the land and his ultimate failure to buy back the farm testify to his urbanization, his contact with foreigners, and--insofar as he is an actor--to the uprootedness of American artistic production.

If migration to the city presents the problem of too much racial and cultural mixing in "Up the Cooly," remaining on the farm threatens to render its victims incapable of all unions across lines of descent. At one point during Howard's return trip, a cousin Rose comes to visit and explains her own failure to marry: "Most all the boys have gone West. That's the reason there's so many old maids" (71). When Howard suggests that some young people must come around to court her, she responds, "Oh, a young Dutchman or Norwegian once in a while. Nobody that counts.... and when you consider that we're getting more particular each year, the outlook is--well, it's dreadful!" (72). While Howard makes the mistake of doing business with Germans in their own language, Rose fails to acknowledge the capacity of Teutonic immigrants for assimilation. Taken to its extreme, Rose's "particularity" will lead to a defiant abstention from the process of forging and perpetuating nationally useful unions, and to the degeneration of American-born Westerners. Rather than allowing her own genealogical stream to converge with and be rescued by a tributary, Rose prefers to maintain her stream's separateness and to let it dry up--in effect, to terminate the life of her people. In a world suffering from a shortage of space, the various Anglo-Saxon national groups become competitors rather than partners in the cultivation of American soil, each group coveting its own plot of impoverished land and living independently from others. Such competition results ultimately in artificial divisions of territory, and, as signified by Rose's fallowness, in the failure of cultural, agricultural, and biological regeneration.

Rose's "particularity" comments most powerfully on the nature of Grant's alienation. We learn early on that the two brothers descend from Puritan ancestry on the one side and Scotch on the other, and that Grant "had more of the Scotch in his face than Howard" (54). The physical contrast between the two brothers is especially evident at the end of the story: "The two men stood there, face to face, hands clasped, the one fair-skinned, full-lipped, handsome in his neat suit; the other tragic, sombre in his softened mood, his large, long, rugged Scotch face bronzed with sun and scarred with wrinkles that had histories, like sabre-cuts on a veteran, the record of his battles" (87). Here Grant's biological difference becomes legible in combination with the scars and wrinkles that farm life has inscribed on his face, as if his life experience brings out the Scotchness of his features. Just as the system of land distribution fails to make Americans out of Germans, so too it reverses the course of American assimilation and produces Scotch ethnics out of naturalized citizens.

As Peter Onuf has argued, the mythical power of the West for its believers lay in its capacity to erase sectional identities that stood in the way of unionization.(31) Garland challenges this myth through the character of Grant, giving us a West that produces, rather than erases, sectional opposition to the nation-state. Grant's own name testifies to the belief of his father in the legitimacy of Northern victory and the cause of reunion. Despite the father's attempts to perpetuate his unionist sympathies, however, the son rejects them decisively. When Howard returns to the West with a bundle of presents, Grant responds to his gift--a copy of "General Grant's autobiography for his namesake" (70)--by pushing it aside and reading his newspaper. This gesture sheds light on the Scotchness of his features. By calling attention to Grant's ancestry and racial characteristics, Garland locates him in a tradition of anti-union defiance that had its supposed origin in Scotland and its American manifestations in the South. Under the current land system, angry sectionalism could rear its head wherever the state conspired with the speculator.

Grant's failure to transcend his own ethnic and regional limits invites a comparison to Jewett's Anglo ethnic, Santin Bowden. Just as Santin is ill-equipped to attain a position among other Union soldiers, so Grant has become incapable of reconciling with his brother. By forfeiting individual agency to genealogy and geology, so that social relations become wholly determined by these factors, both Grant and Santin Bowden fail to differentiate themselves sufficiently from foreign subjects. For Jewett and Garland, constructing an inspired regional identity meant negotiating between the general and the particular in order to avoid the taint of foreignness. On the one side lay the threat of the "incomprehensible monster" (Royce, 98), the mongrelized mob that could eliminate any trace of Anglo origin; but in identifying too strongly with a given place and with the genealogical inheritance that its loyalists sometimes claimed, the citizen risked abandoning relations of consent and particularizing the self in an altogether ethnic way.

In Jewett's Country, the formation of a regional identity that defines itself against both the urban mob and an isolating Anglo ethnicity goes relatively unobstructed. As the narrator returns to Dunnet Landing and reintegrates herself into the local community, so too the residents come to accept and embrace her. Jewett accounts for Santin Bowden's flawed identity by attributing it only to his own strangeness, as if Nordic blood surfaced a bit too powerfully in this one genetic accident. By contrast, "Up the Cooly" actively thwarts characters and readers intent on retrieving a well-negotiated regional identity. In the middle border of this story, the total estrangement of the two brothers from each other and from the land that once united them appears as inevitable as the integration of the narrator in Jewett's novel. Under the national conditions in which Garland writes, strangeness has become the norm. The unionism of white farmers like Grant and the rootedness of cultural producers like Howard await a land system that enables ownership.

"Up the Cooly" ends with the two brothers gripping each other by the hand, even as Grant is refusing Howard's offer to buy back the family farm. Despite the chasm that separates them, the fates of the two brothers are intertwined, as if the one relies on the other to create the necessary conditions for their ultimate redemption. Prior to the collapse of the People's Party, Garland advocated an alliance between artists and laborers, realism and Populism, that would contest the project of nationalization as it was being pursued by industrialists, speculators, politicians, and genteel editors. If he ultimately abandoned his protest message and relinquished his ideal of a people both landed and literary, his fiction testifies to the viability of that ideal at the end of the nineteenth century. Garland's early work should remind us that nationalism in the United States rarely amounts to a single movement and that regionalism as a category of literary production could accommodate more than one variety of it. In the literary world of the 1890s, the multiple logics of nationalism led to crucial formal differences between regionalist texts. Unlike many of his peers, Garland gives us characters who resist the "scenes" and "roles" composed for them by outsiders and refuse to be read as raw material for the art work. If they pose, they do so reluctantly, insisting all the while that they be seen in the unpleasant context of their daily lives. Stories like "Up the Cooly" avoid distinguishing between the spaces in which the lower classes moved and the spaces of artistic consumption. For it was precisely the separation between these two realms that Garland wished to challenge, both through art and through politics.

To argue that Garland revised certain conventions of regional writing in order to contest the dominant version of United States nationalism is not, however, to celebrate his work as nobly oppositional. If agrarian dissent has suffered frequently from a nativist orientation, Garland's work is no exception. In some of his most polemical fiction, he directs his message of protest not only against speculative landowners and governmental institutions, but against Jews and other urban immigrants who seem equally capable of turning naturalized American citizens into foreigners. Nevertheless, his work prevents us from viewing regionalism as a static and uniform mode of writing, fixed in place by the urban-identified readers and editors of the major monthlies. Those who treat it as such overlook the various contexts in which it was produced, and its capacity to articulate competing ideologies. They forget that regionalism could assume new and at times disturbing shapes on the fringes of culture, where Populist nationalism and fiction converged.

Notes

(1) C. M. Thompson, "New Figures in Literature and Art: Hamlin Garland," The Atlantic Monthly 76 (December 1895): 840-44, repr. in The Critical Reception of Hamlin Garland 1891-1978, ed. Richard Boudreau, Charles L. P. Silet, and Robert E. Welch (Troy: The Whitson Publishing Company, 1985), 28.

(2) In pointing to these choices, I am complicating the idea that the late-nineteenth-century literary celebration of local culture was only a means of naturalizing the project of bourgeois nationalization. According to critics such as Richard Brodhead and Amy Kaplan, local communities came to function as communal resources for the incorporating nation, allaying anxieties over sectional conflict by facilitating the construction of a shared national narrative with "rural `others' as both a nostalgic point of origin and a measure of cosmopolitan development" (Kaplan, 251). See Brodhead, "The Reading of Regions," in Cultures of Letters (Chicago: Univ. of Chicago Press, 1993), 107-41, and Amy Kaplan, "Nation, Region, and Empire," in The Columbia History of the American Novel, ed. Emory Elliott (New York: Columbia Univ. Press, 1991), 240-66. For a study that points to the limitations of this approach, see Nancy Glazener, Reading for Realism: The History. of a U.S. Literary Institution, 1850-1910 (Durham, NC: Duke Univ. Press, 1997), 189-94.

(3) June Howard makes this point in "Unraveling Regions, Unsettling Periods: Sarah Orne Jewett and American Literary History," American Literature 68 (1996): 365-84. Reading "A Late Supper," Howard demonstrates Jewett's capacity both to work outside the local color form and to participate in "the creation of the canonical regionalist Jewett" (371).

(4) Nancy Glazener raises the question of the major market's control over the consumption of regionalism as well. In this way, she extends the work of feminist scholars like Marjorie Pryse and Judith Fetterley, who argue that women writers often distinguished themselves from male local colorists by refusing to "hold up regional characters to potential ridicule by eastern readers" (xii). For Glazener, what distinguishes particular regionalists is not simply their treatment of character, but their potential appeal to readers with overlapping feminist and Populist sensibilities--readers who would have compared the plight of rural housewives to that of farm laborers feeding the nation. See Glazener, 189-228, and Judith Fetterley and Marjorie Pryse, Introduction to American Women Regionalists 1850-1910, ed. Judith Fetterley and Marjorie Pryse (New York: W.W. Norton, 1992), xi-xx.

(5) Sarah Orne Jewett, The Country of the Pointed Firs and Other Stories, ed. Mary Ellen Chase (New York: Norton, 1982), 1. Hereafter cited parenthetically.

(6) Stephanie Foote's discussion follows the conflicting meanings that attach to the "categories of stranger and native" (39) over the course of the novel. See Foote, "`I Feared to Find Myself a Foreigner': Revisiting Regionalism in Sarah Orne Jewett's The Country of the Pointed Firs," Arizona Quarterly 52, no. 2 (1996), 37-61.

(7) See, in particular, Sandra Zagarell's "Country's Portrayal of Community and the Exclusion of Difference" and Susan Gillman's "Regionalism and Nationalism in Jewett's Country of the Pointed Firs" in New Essays on "The Country of the Pointed Firs," ed. June Howard (Cambridge: Cambridge Univ. Press, 1990), 39-60 and 10118. These essays revise the critical assessment of Jewett's matrifocal communities, which have been celebrated unequivocally in the recent past by feminist scholars. Zagarell continues her excellent work on Jewett in "Crosscurrents: Registers of Nordicism, Community, and Culture in Jewett's Country of the Pointed Firs," Yale Journal of Criticism 10 (1997): 355-70. Seeking to bridge "apparently antagonistic readings" (355) of Country without collapsing them into one another, Zagarell in this essay reads the Bowden Reunion scene as informed by two overlapping but conflicting registers: a nativist nationalist one and an inclusive, maternal one.

(8) Josiah Royce, "Provincialism," in Race Questions, Provincialism, and Other American Problems (1908; Freeport, NY: Books for Libraries Press, 1967), 74, 79. Hereafter cited parenthetically.

(9) This tension in Jewett's work between a communal model that makes genealogy or language the condition of membership and one that privileges the political participation of its members reflects what Eric Hobsbawm describes as a world-wide "merger of state patriotism with non-state nationalism" (93) at the end of the nineteenth century. See E. J. Hobsbawm, Nations and Nationalism Since 1780: Programme, Myth, Reality (Cambridge: Cambridge Univ. Press, 1990). See also Werner Soller's Beyond Ethnicity: Consent and Descent in American Literature (New York: Oxford Univ. Press, 1986), which considers the dialectical relation between two types of group formation, or ethnogenesis--one founded on alliances of consent, the other determined by genealogy, or lines of descent. It should be stressed, however, that consensus building in Jewett is a race project in its own right, insofar as the merging of different Anglo genealogies leads to a community defined, in part, by its inherited whiteness.

(10) See Zagarell, "Country's Portrayal of Community," 47; Gillman, 111.

(11) For more on the cultural awakening that attached to the Populist movement, see Lawrence Goodwyn's Democratic Promise: The Populist Moment in America (New York: Oxford Univ. Press, 1976), and Alan Trachtenberg's account in The Incorporation of America (New York: Hill and Wang, 1982), 173-81.

(12) The most exhaustive criticism of Garland's fiction remains Donald Pizer's Hamlin Garland's Early Work and Career (Berkeley: Univ. of California Press, 1960), which gives an account of the influence that editors such as Richard Watson Gilder of The Century and Benjamin O. Flower of The Arena had on Garland's publication history. On the reception of Garland's work from its first publication to the early 1980s, see James Nagel, Introduction to Critical Essays on Hamlin Garland, ed. James Nagel (Boston: G. K. Hall, 1982), 1-31. An interesting reevaluation of Garland is offered by Bill Brown in "The Popular, the Populist, and the Populace--Locating Hamlin Garland in the Politics of Culture," American Quarterly 50, no. 3 (1994): 89-110. Brown argues that Garland's shift to popular Westerns toward the end of the century was not a "fall" from realism, but a reimagining of the "populist possibility" (106).

(13) "Recent Fiction," The Critic 21 (September 3, 1892): 118. The review is of "A Little Norsk," which first appeared in The Century as "Ol' Pap's Flaxen." This was the only one of Garland's early books that consistently received favorable reviews. See Pizer, 109-10.

(14) Garland speaks most clearly about the single tax and its potential to cure the nation's ills in "A New Declaration of Rights," The Arena 14 (January 1891): 157-84; hereafter cited parenthetically.

(15) See Miles Orvell, The Real Thing: Imitation and Authenticity in American Culture, 1880-1940 (Chapel Hill: Univ. of North Carolina Press, 1989). Orvell distinguishes between this phase of realism, which he links to a "culture of imitation," and a subsequent phase, which belongs to a "culture of authenticity." According to Orvell, the realists of Garland's era participated in a culture-wide celebration of the machine's capacity to produce imitations. See, in particular, Orvell's comments on the Victorian interior (55-60) and on early photography (73-102).

(16) Hamlin Garland, Crumbling Idols: Twelve Essays on Art Dealing Chiefly With Literature, Painting and the Drama (Cambridge: Harvard Univ. Press, 1960), 50. Hereafter cited parenthetically.

(17) "A Prairie Heroine," The Arena 4 (July 1891): 231. Hereafter cited parenthetically.

(18) Amy Kaplan, The Social Construction of American Realism (Chicago: Univ. of Chicago Press, 1988), 9.

(19) Eric Sundquist suggests connections between slum literature and regionalist fiction, both of which reveal "American psychological space ... being mapped and marketed." See Sundquist, "Realism and Regionalism," in The Columbia Literary. History of the United States, ed. Emory Elliott (New York: Columbia Univ. Press, 1988), 502-3.

(20) Miles Orvell understands this practice of posing in Riis as a comment on the premises of photography in the "culture of imitation"; Riis posed his subjects in order to make them conform to "a metonymic typology of the urban slums" (97).

(21) Jacob Riis, How the Other Half Lives: Studies Among the Tenements of New York (New York: Dover Publications, 1971), 78.

(22) Hamlin Garland, letter to Gilder, undated: "There is this saving clause about dialect ..." Century Manuscript Records, Manuscripts and Archives Division, The New York Public Library. Astor, Lenox and Tilden Foundation.

(23) Hamlin Garland, A Son of the Middle Border (New York: Macmillan Company, 1920), 363. Hereafter cited parenthetically.

(24) Hamlin Garland, "The Land Question and Its Relation to Art and Literature," The Arena 9 (January 1894): 167.

(25) Hamlin Garland, A Spoil of Office (1892; New York: Johnson Reprint Corporation, 1969), 345. Hereafter cited parenthetically.

(26) Garland, "Up the Cooly," in Main-Travelled Roads (1891; Columbus: Charles E. Merrill, 1970), 125. Hereafter cited parenthetically.

(27) C. M. Thompson, "New Figures in Literature and Art: Hamlin Garland," in The Critical Reception of Hamlin Garland 1891-1978, 31.

(28) For more on the ethics of rootedness and the corresponding pathology of uprootedness in relation to contemporary displacements and homeland movements, see Lisa Malkki, "National Geographic: The Rooting of Peoples and the Territorialization of National Identity Among Scholars and Refugees," as well as Akhil Gupta and James Ferguson, "Beyond `Culture': Space, Identity, and the Politics of Difference," both in Cultural Anthropology 7 (February 1992): 24-43 and 6-23 respectively.

(29) For a discussion of the arborescent metaphors in Jewett's Country, see Sandra Zagarell, "Country's Portrayal of Community," 44. Lisa Malkki speaks of these metaphors as crucial to almost all homeland movements. See Malkki, 27-28.

(30) Garland's diary entries reveal a growing disgust with Jews and a wish to limit their immigration. As early as 1917, he complains that on a trip to New York their "nasal voices silenced all other outcry. The few `Americans' on the train were lost in this flood of alien faces, forms and voices" (252). See Hamlin Garland's Diaries, ed. Donald Pizer (San Marino: The Huntington Library, 1968), 251-56.

(31) See Peter Onuf, "Federalism, Republicanism, and the Origins of American Sectionalism," in Edward L. Ayers and Peter Onuf, eds., All Over the Map: Rethinking American Regions (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins Univ. Press, 1996), 27.
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Publication:Studies in American Fiction
Date:Sep 22, 1998
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