Just droppin' in to say...

oh look it's that guy who spammed all the forums this morning. And now he's doing it again only trying to be more subtle about it?!?!
 
Virtually every day we all see in the media or meet in personal life certain types of people: the capitalist who specializes in swallowing up companies and in the name of efficiency firing half the workers, attempting to get rid of any unions and rolling back benefit packages of the remaining workers, all the while threatening them with the specter of foreign workers who toil for a dollar a day; the spurned lover who stalks and murders his former lover because if she cannot belong to him she cannot belong to another; the blustering right-winger who tells a panhandler to get a job and who blames the people in the ghetto for their poverty; the person at work who substitutes power manipulation for relationship, who backstabs and hides his or her self-regard under the guise of duty or the importance of the organization, telling a worker that she cannot attend to her dying mother or sick child until she gets her work done; the athlete who crashes into the sidelines, knocking over spectators and photographers but not bothering to apologize or check to see if anyone is hurt; the pundit on television who blandly discusses the U.S. economic embargo of Iraq in terms of power politics without mentioning that the embargo kills tens of thousands of Iraqi children, old and sick people every year.

What do all these people have in common? They all lack imagination. Being egocentric, solipsistic, self-involved, or whatever term one cares to use, they never think of other people, for other people with their individual needs and desires are not important, not real to them—hence the violation of Kantian ethics (the practical imperative, never to treat another human being as a means to an end but always as a end in him- or herself). They are evil too, for what is evil but this very violation of Kantian ethics? And yet since at its most fundamental level imagination is seeing what isn’t there, they are not totally unimaginative; it is only that they have a warped and perverted imagination that only serves their selfishness and greed. In a brilliant passage in Essay on the Principles of Human Action, the English Romantic writer William Hazlitt makes the connection between self-centeredness and the possibility of wider human sympathy and solidarity when he states that the only way to know the future is by a projection of the imagination. The same mental power, that is to say, that a greedy, selfish man uses to dream up his schemes for getting rich and gaining power is the same faculty of imagination that makes him capable of sympathetic identification with others. I could not love myself, Hazlitt concludes, if I were not capable of loving others.

We do not often see such thinking in modern-day America; instead we see glorified the capitalist who swallows up companies and the athlete who scores the touchdown at any price. The self-involved, unimaginative man, however, is like a black hole. His soul has shriveled into a tiny dense point that gives off no light and which distorts everyone who comes into contact with him. He is not to whom Hamlet was referring when he exclaimed, “What a piece of work is a man!” Capitalistic societies, as always innately hostile to any visions of oneness and solidarity, stimulate the imagination that everyone possesses in selfish ways, trying to make people not see the unity and oneness of humanity by deflecting this most human attribute into dreams of getting rich, having money and power, big cars and stuff, always stuff. It feeds not the spiritual hunger for peace and unity but the selfish, materialistic, grasping desire to have things so that (the ads make us hope) we will be loved and admired. As a result it produces in abundance dreadful, miserable excuses for human beings.

The polar opposite of the human being as black hole is the person with empathic imagination. He or she can see all people on their own terms, as beings imbued with personalities, histories, wants and desires, fears and phobias. Such imagination allows us to participate more fully in humanity, to experience life at a wider and deeper level. Imagination is also the most human attribute we have. Every other human characteristic is shared in some degree with our fellow mammals and other creatures, but the ability to imagine worlds that don’t exist in reality or to see life from another’s eyes is uniquely human. The fullest realization of our human nature, then, is found in those with the most imagination. Exercising it is liberating; it widens one’s view of the world so that one sees unity and similarity instead of atomistic individuals and hierarchies.

The fact that all human beings have imagination and are at least potentially capable of entering into the life of another person is what makes literature innately moral and ethical. One antidote to the sickeningly self-regarding culture that inundates us, then, is literature, or it should be. Literature opens minds, stimulates the empathic/sympathetic imagination by allowing readers to see the world through other eyes than their own. Just as a workout in a gym strengthens muscles, a workout with a poem or story strengthens the imagination. But the dominant literary movements of our day, modernism and postmodernism, perversely parallel capitalistic values in their ethos. Modernism has so distorted the cultural heritage of the west that it has made artistic duty nothing more than to exalt the self, and it does this at the expense of imagination, the one thing that all human beings have (and writers should have in abundance) that leads to human solidarity. The characteristic emphasis of modernism is to see the writer as special, as a being above the ordinary human realm. Even in works where this attitude is not explicit, the reader can still sense the repellent sense of superiority. The writer is regarded as one who is not subject to the same human duties and limitations as mere citizens, and disdain for bourgeois values widens into contempt for working people. Such writers, in short, ally themselves with capitalistic values and carefully observe hierarchies of worth. The only use for a poor bedraggled beggar is that he might make an aesthetically pleasing subject for a painting, but his presence in a poem by Pound or Eliot or in a Bloomsbury novel is only an occasion for superiority and contempt. With its emphasis on form and experimentation, its inspiration not from life but from other literary works, the spirit of modernism is essentially critical, not creative, not imaginative. There are of course exceptions where life wins out over theory (Joyce’s Ulysses being the best example, but even some of the passages in The Waste Land), but essentially modernism smells of the lamp. Instead of being an imaginative and creative response to life, its practitioners show in their works (Pound’s poetry, for example) that they are more interested in playing the role of a writer or a poet than in being a human being responding to the multitudinous wonder of the world and being a writer. Coming up with a new form is never imaginative unless the new form is the only way to express a new way of seeing the world such as Walt Whitman did in Leaves of Grass, but what insight does the long rant of the Cantos offer?
 
Shpongled said:
Virtually every day we all see in the media or meet in personal life certain types of people: the capitalist who specializes in swallowing up companies and in the name of efficiency firing half the workers, attempting to get rid of any unions and rolling back benefit packages of the remaining workers, all the while threatening them with the specter of foreign workers who toil for a dollar a day; the spurned lover who stalks and murders his former lover because if she cannot belong to him she cannot belong to another; the blustering right-winger who tells a panhandler to get a job and who blames the people in the ghetto for their poverty; the person at work who substitutes power manipulation for relationship, who backstabs and hides his or her self-regard under the guise of duty or the importance of the organization, telling a worker that she cannot attend to her dying mother or sick child until she gets her work done; the athlete who crashes into the sidelines, knocking over spectators and photographers but not bothering to apologize or check to see if anyone is hurt; the pundit on television who blandly discusses the U.S. economic embargo of Iraq in terms of power politics without mentioning that the embargo kills tens of thousands of Iraqi children, old and sick people every year.

What do all these people have in common? They all lack imagination. Being egocentric, solipsistic, self-involved, or whatever term one cares to use, they never think of other people, for other people with their individual needs and desires are not important, not real to them—hence the violation of Kantian ethics (the practical imperative, never to treat another human being as a means to an end but always as a end in him- or herself). They are evil too, for what is evil but this very violation of Kantian ethics? And yet since at its most fundamental level imagination is seeing what isn’t there, they are not totally unimaginative; it is only that they have a warped and perverted imagination that only serves their selfishness and greed. In a brilliant passage in Essay on the Principles of Human Action, the English Romantic writer William Hazlitt makes the connection between self-centeredness and the possibility of wider human sympathy and solidarity when he states that the only way to know the future is by a projection of the imagination. The same mental power, that is to say, that a greedy, selfish man uses to dream up his schemes for getting rich and gaining power is the same faculty of imagination that makes him capable of sympathetic identification with others. I could not love myself, Hazlitt concludes, if I were not capable of loving others.

We do not often see such thinking in modern-day America; instead we see glorified the capitalist who swallows up companies and the athlete who scores the touchdown at any price. The self-involved, unimaginative man, however, is like a black hole. His soul has shriveled into a tiny dense point that gives off no light and which distorts everyone who comes into contact with him. He is not to whom Hamlet was referring when he exclaimed, “What a piece of work is a man!” Capitalistic societies, as always innately hostile to any visions of oneness and solidarity, stimulate the imagination that everyone possesses in selfish ways, trying to make people not see the unity and oneness of humanity by deflecting this most human attribute into dreams of getting rich, having money and power, big cars and stuff, always stuff. It feeds not the spiritual hunger for peace and unity but the selfish, materialistic, grasping desire to have things so that (the ads make us hope) we will be loved and admired. As a result it produces in abundance dreadful, miserable excuses for human beings.

The polar opposite of the human being as black hole is the person with empathic imagination. He or she can see all people on their own terms, as beings imbued with personalities, histories, wants and desires, fears and phobias. Such imagination allows us to participate more fully in humanity, to experience life at a wider and deeper level. Imagination is also the most human attribute we have. Every other human characteristic is shared in some degree with our fellow mammals and other creatures, but the ability to imagine worlds that don’t exist in reality or to see life from another’s eyes is uniquely human. The fullest realization of our human nature, then, is found in those with the most imagination. Exercising it is liberating; it widens one’s view of the world so that one sees unity and similarity instead of atomistic individuals and hierarchies.

The fact that all human beings have imagination and are at least potentially capable of entering into the life of another person is what makes literature innately moral and ethical. One antidote to the sickeningly self-regarding culture that inundates us, then, is literature, or it should be. Literature opens minds, stimulates the empathic/sympathetic imagination by allowing readers to see the world through other eyes than their own. Just as a workout in a gym strengthens muscles, a workout with a poem or story strengthens the imagination. But the dominant literary movements of our day, modernism and postmodernism, perversely parallel capitalistic values in their ethos. Modernism has so distorted the cultural heritage of the west that it has made artistic duty nothing more than to exalt the self, and it does this at the expense of imagination, the one thing that all human beings have (and writers should have in abundance) that leads to human solidarity. The characteristic emphasis of modernism is to see the writer as special, as a being above the ordinary human realm. Even in works where this attitude is not explicit, the reader can still sense the repellent sense of superiority. The writer is regarded as one who is not subject to the same human duties and limitations as mere citizens, and disdain for bourgeois values widens into contempt for working people. Such writers, in short, ally themselves with capitalistic values and carefully observe hierarchies of worth. The only use for a poor bedraggled beggar is that he might make an aesthetically pleasing subject for a painting, but his presence in a poem by Pound or Eliot or in a Bloomsbury novel is only an occasion for superiority and contempt. With its emphasis on form and experimentation, its inspiration not from life but from other literary works, the spirit of modernism is essentially critical, not creative, not imaginative. There are of course exceptions where life wins out over theory (Joyce’s Ulysses being the best example, but even some of the passages in The Waste Land), but essentially modernism smells of the lamp. Instead of being an imaginative and creative response to life, its practitioners show in their works (Pound’s poetry, for example) that they are more interested in playing the role of a writer or a poet than in being a human being responding to the multitudinous wonder of the world and being a writer. Coming up with a new form is never imaginative unless the new form is the only way to express a new way of seeing the world such as Walt Whitman did in Leaves of Grass, but what insight does the long rant of the Cantos offer?
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This may be, Kevin, but in retrospect you should consider the following:

1. Expressions of futility

If one examines dialectic theory, one is faced with a choice: either accept neomodernist capitalist theory or conclude that the raison d’etre of the reader is deconstruction. Sargeant holds that we have to choose between dialectic theory and Foucaultist power relations. But the primary theme of the works of Madonna is the collapse, and subsequent absurdity, of pretextual society.
The main theme of la Fournier’sanalysis of the constructive paradigm of discourse is the role of the poet as reader. Several desemioticisms concerning not materialism, but postmaterialism exist. In a sense, Sartre uses the term ’surrealism’ to denote a prepatriarchialist paradox.
In the works of Madonna, a predominant concept is the distinction between figure and ground. The within/without distinction intrinsic to Madonna’s Material Girl is also evident in Sex. However, the characteristic theme of the works of Madonna is the genre, and therefore the stasis, of capitalist sexual identity.
Lacan uses the term ‘neostructural discourse’ to denote not theory, but posttheory. But the main theme of Hubbard’s model of surrealism is the futility, and some would say the economy, of cultural class.
The subject is contextualised into a that includes consciousness as a totality. Thus, a number of discourses concerning the predialectic paradigm of expression may be revealed.
Foucault promotes the use of dialectic theory to challenge society. Therefore, any number of theories concerning the role of the poet as writer exist.
The premise of textual deappropriation states that consensus comes from the masses, but only if art is distinct from truth; otherwise, language is capable of significance. It could be said that Derrida uses the term ’surrealism’ to denote the futility, and hence the genre, of postconceptual truth.
Sontag suggests the use of neomodernist capitalist theory to deconstruct the status quo. Thus, an abundance of narratives concerning textual subcultural theory may be found.

2. Dialectic theory and deconstructivist sublimation

If one examines neomodernist capitalist theory, one is faced with a choice: either reject surrealism or conclude that the task of the artist is social comment, given that deconstructivist sublimation is valid. Marx’s analysis of the postcapitalist paradigm of discourse suggests that the establishment is capable of truth. In a sense, in Erotica, Madonna examines neomodernist capitalist theory; in Material Girl she affirms deconstructivist sublimation.
“Sexual identity is part of the absurdity of narrativity,” says Derrida; however, according to d’Erlette, it is not so much sexual identity that is part of the absurdity of narrativity, but rather the stasis, and eventually the meaninglessness, of sexual identity. The primary theme of the works of Madonna is not deconstruction as such, but subdeconstruction. However, if surrealism holds, the works of Madonna are an example of mythopoetical nihilism.
In the works of Madonna, a predominant concept is the concept of dialectic truth. Bailey implies that we have to choose between neomodernist capitalist theory and neocultural Marxism. It could be said that the main theme of Hanfkopf’s critique of surrealism is the fatal flaw, and some would say the collapse, of subdialectic consciousness.
Bataille uses the term ‘textual rationalism’ to denote the bridge between class and society. But Sartre promotes the use of neomodernist capitalist theory to read and analyse art.
The subject is interpolated into a that includes language as a reality. Thus, Bataille suggests the use of neocapitalist sublimation to attack hierarchy.
The premise of neomodernist capitalist theory states that class, paradoxically, has significance, but only if consciousness is interchangeable with language. In a sense, in Clerks, Smith reiterates surrealism; in Dogma, however, he affirms the cultural paradigm of consensus.
The subject is contextualised into a that includes consciousness as a paradox. Thus, Sartre promotes the use of Foucaultist power relations to challenge sexual identity.
Derrida uses the term ’surrealism’ to denote the role of the observer as reader. It could be said that the primary theme of the works of Smith is a self-sufficient reality.

3. Smith and deconstructivist sublimation

“Art is elitist,” says Bataille. The subject is interpolated into a that includes sexuality as a totality. But if deconstructivist sublimation holds, we have to choose between subcapitalist theory and Lacanist obscurity.
The main theme of Hubbard’s essay on deconstructivist sublimation is the economy of patriarchialist sexual identity. Werther holds that the works of Joyce are not postmodern. In a sense, neomodernist capitalist theory suggests that consciousness is capable of significant form.
The subject is contextualised into a that includes culture as a whole. But several narratives concerning not, in fact, theory, but posttheory exist.
The failure, and thus the stasis, of surrealism prevalent in Joyce’s Ulysses emerges again in A Portrait of the Artist As a Young Man, although in a more mythopoetical sense. It could be said that Foucault’s critique of Derridaist reading states that society has intrinsic meaning.
Lacan uses the term ‘neomodernist capitalist theory’ to denote the meaninglessness, and some would say the dialectic, of structuralist sexual identity. However, if precapitalist deappropriation holds, the works of Joyce are reminiscent of Joyce.
 
Liverslapper said:
Holy shit
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But Steve, until well into the sixteenth century, bacon or bacoun was a Middle English term used to refer to all pork in general. The term bacon comes from various Germanic and French dialects. It derives from the French bako, Common Germanic bakkon and Old Teutonic backe, all of which refer to the back. There are breeds of pigs particularly grown for bacon, notably the Yorkshire and Tamworth.

In England, a side of bacon is called a gammon, and a slice of bacon is known as a rasher. Seventy percent of the bacon in America is consumed at the breakfast table.

You are probably familiar with the phrase "bring home the bacon." In the twelfth century, a church in the English town of Dunmow promised a side of bacon to any married man who could swear before the congregation and God that he had not quarreled with his wife for a year and a day. A husband who could bring home the bacon was held in high esteem by the community for his forebearance.

In this health-conscious day and age, you would think that bacon would be low on the list of preferred foods due to its fat content. Yet, as anyone who dabbles in pork belly commodities can tell you, bacon is solely responsible for giving a boost to the pork market. Bacon has become so popular as a sandwich ingredient and a favorite of chefs in fine dining establishments that bacon shortages have caused prices to soar. However, bacon is still a bargain that can't be beat when it comes to adding flavor. With low-sodium and lean varieties available, even the dieter can partake in moderation.

Men fear death, as children fear to go in the dark; and as that natural fear in children, is increased with tales, so is the other. Certainly, the contemplation of death, as the wages of sin, and passage to another world, is holy and religious; but the fear of it, as a tribute due unto nature, is weak. Yet in religious meditations, there is sometimes mixture of vanity, and of superstition. You shall read, in some of the friars' books of mortification, that a man should think with himself, what the pain is, if he have but his finger's end pressed, or tortured, and thereby imagine, what the pains of death are, when the whole body is corrupted, and dissolved; when many times death passeth, with less pain than the torture of a limb; for the most vital parts, are not the quickest of sense. And by him that spake only as a philosopher, and natural man, it was well said, Pompa mortis magis terret, quam mors ipsa. Groans, and convulsions, and a discolored face, and friends weeping, and blacks, and obsequies, and the like, show death terrible. It is worthy the observing, that there is no passion in the mind of man, so weak, but it mates, and masters, the fear of death; and therefore, death is no such terrible enemy, when a man hath so many attendants about him, that can win the combat of him. Revenge triumphs over death; love slights it; honor aspireth to it; grief flieth to it; fear preoccupateth it; nay, we read, after Otho the emperor had slain himself, pity (which is the tenderest of affections) provoked many to die, out of mere compassion to their sovereign, and as the truest sort of followers. Nay, Seneca adds niceness and satiety: Cogita quamdiu eadem feceris; mori velle, non tantum fortis aut miser, sed etiam fastidiosus potest. A man would die, though he were neither valiant, nor miserable, only upon a weariness to do the same thing so oft, over and over. It is no less worthy, to observe, how little alteration in good spirits, the approaches of death make; for they appear to be the same men, till the last instant. Augustus Caesar died in a compliment; Livia, conjugii nostri memor, vive et vale. Tiberius in dissimulation; as Tacitus saith of him, Jam Tiberium vires et corpus, non dissimulatio, deserebant. Vespasian in a jest, sitting upon the stool; Ut puto deus fio. Galba with a sentence; Feri, si ex re sit populi Romani; holding forth his neck. Septimius Severus in despatch; Adeste si quid mihi restat agendum. And the like. Certainly the Stoics bestowed too much cost upon death, and by their great preparations, made it appear more fearful. Better saith he qui finem vitae extremum inter munera ponat naturae. It is as natural to die, as to be born; and to a little infant, perhaps, the one is as painful, as the other. He that dies in an earnest pursuit, is like one that is wounded in hot blood; who, for the time, scarce feels the hurt; and therefore a mind fixed, and bent upon somewhat that is good, doth avert the dolors of death. But, above all, believe it, the sweetest canticle is, Nunc dimittis; when a man hath obtained worthy ends, and expectations. Death hath this also; that it openeth the gate to good fame, and extinguisheth envy. -Extinctus amabitur idem.

If the bacon is dry cured, it is rubbed in a salt mixture to which spices may be added. Most modern cooks leave the bacon under refrigeration to cure, to ensure that the meat does not become unhealthy. Other cooks use a cooled room, leaving the slab bacon on a slotted table so that the liquid from the meat will drain away. After approximately one week, the bacon is washed in warm water and hung in a smoke house to dry. Once the meat is dried, it is smoked, typically for around 36 hours. After smoking, the bacon can be refrigerated or frozen. Wet cured bacon is brined instead of dry rubbed, although the rinsing and smoking process is the same.
 
Applause for the read, Shpongled. Quite a speech, to be sure. But I have to admit, it doesn't really cut it for me. You talk of some universal set of ethics that people should adhere to and be classified under. I refuse to be a blackhole but I also will not tolerate being called "Empathic" either. It's where your own quick judgment has allowed you to discard a perfectly fine human being based on their learned and, by my theory, remembered pathways through life. If life had come about any differently for them, they wouldn't be the same person. They'd probably be you, and you in their likeness now.

How do you divide what is born equal to you? What if that one person everyone decided to kill, because a "modern" and "justified" set of ethics told them it was "ok", had the answers to save their race? Remember that "What if", because how can that set of ethics accomodate prior knowledge of such a devastating event, and the person who both happens to be reasonably "excluded" from the law and yet "doomed" by the same laws?

Anyway. That doesn't mean YOU shouldn't have ethics, morals. I'll conclude the paragraph with this:

the practical imperative, never to treat another human being as a means to an end but always as a end in him- or herself
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So it will be said that you never said kill anyone. We should be free to believe differently, and thus in a unified fashion.
 
Resonator said:
So it will be said that you never said kill anyone. We should be free to believe differently, and thus in a unified fashion.
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But that could mean anything and nothing at the same time and all once and at the same time not happening at all. See what I'm saying? Look at it this way. There lived a poor widow, whose cottage stood in a country village a long distance from London, for many years.

The widow had only a child named Jack, whom she gratified in everything. The consequence of her partiality was that Jack paid little attention to anything she said, and he was heedless and extravagant. His follies were not owing to bad disposition but to his mother never having chided him. As she was not wealthy, and he would not work, she was obliged to support herself and him by selling everything she had. At last nothing remained, only a cow.

The widow, with tears in her eyes, could not help reproaching Jack. "Oh! You wicked boy," said she. "By your prodigal course of life you have now brought us both to fall! Heedless, heedless boy! I have not money enough to buy a bit of bread for another day. Nothing remains but my poor cow, and that must be sold, or we must starve!"

Jack was in a degree of tenderness for a few minutes, but soon over. And then becoming very hungry for want of food, he teased his poor mother to let him sell the cow, to which at last she reluctantly consented.

As he proceeded on his journey he met a butcher, who inquired why he was driving the cow from home. Jack replied he was going to sell it. The butcher had some wonderful beans of different colors in his bag which attracted Jack's notice. This the butcher saw, who, knowing Jack's easy temper, resolved to take advantage of it, and offered all the beans for the cow. The foolish boy thought it a great offer. The bargain was momently struck, and the cow exchanged for a few paltry beans. When Jack hastened home with the beans and told his mother, and showed them to her, she kicked the beans away in a great passion. They flew in all directions, and were extended as far as the garden.

Early in the morning Jack arose from his bed, and seeing something strange from the window, he hastened downstairs into the garden, where he soon found that some of the beans had grown in root and sprung up wonderfully. The stalks grew in an immense thickness and had so entwined that they formed a ladder like a chain in view.

Looking upwards, he could not descry the top. It seemed to be lost in the clouds. He tried it, discovered it firm and not to be shaken. A new idea immediately struck him. He would climb the beanstalk and see to whence it would lead. Full of this plan, which made him forget even his hunger, Jack hastened to communicate his intention to his mother.

He instantly set out, and after climbing for some hours reached the top of the beanstalk, fatigued and almost exhausted. Looking round, he was surprised to find himself in a strange country. It looked to be quite a barren desert. Not a tree, shrub, house, or living creature was to be seen.

Jack sat himself pensively upon a block of stone and thought of his mother. His hunger attacked him, and now he appeared sorrowful for his disobedience in climbing the beanstalk against her will, and concluded that he must now die for want of food.

However, he walked on, hoping to see a house where he might beg something to eat. Suddenly he observed a beautiful young female at some distance. She was dressed in an elegant manner, and had a small white wand in her hand, on the top of which was a peacock of pure gold.

She approached and said, "I will reveal to you a story your mother dare not. But before I begin, I require a solemn promise on your part to do what I command. I am a fairy, and unless you perform exactly what I direct you to do, you will deprive me of the power to assist you, and there is little doubt but that you will die in the attempt."

Jack was rather frightened at this caution, but promised to follow her directions.

Your father was a rich man, with a disposition greatly benevolent. It was his practice never to refuse relief to the deserving in his neighborhood, but, on the contrary, to seek out the helpless and distressed.
Not many miles from your father's house lived a huge giant who was the dread of the country around for cruelty and oppression. This creature was moreover of a very envious disposition, and disliked to hear others talked of for their goodness and humanity, and he vowed to do him a mischief, so that he might no longer hear his good actions made the subject of everyone's conversation.
Your father was too good a man to fear evil from others. Consequently it was not long before the cruel giant found an opportunity to put his wicked threats into practice, for hearing that your parents were passing a few days with a friend at some distance from home, he caused your father to be waylaid and murdered, and your mother to be seized on their way homeward.
At the time this happened you were but a few months old. Your poor mother, almost dead with affright and horror, was borne away by the cruel giant's emissaries to a dungeon under his house, in which she and her poor babe were both long confined as prisoners. Distracted at the absence of your parents, the servants went in search of them, but no tidings of either could be obtained. Meantime he caused a will to be found making over all your father's property to him as your guardian, and as such he took open possession.
After your mother had been some months in prison the giant offered to restore her to liberty, on condition that she would solemnly swear that she would never divulge the story of her wrongs to anyone. To put it out of her power to do him any harm, should she break her oath, the giant had her put on shipboard and taken to a distant country, where he had her left with no more money for her support than what she obtained from the sale of a few jewels she had secreted in her dress.
I was appointed your father's guardian at his birth, but fairies have laws to which they are subject as well as mortals. A short time before the giant assassinated your father I transgressed. My punishment was a suspension of my power for a limited time, an unfortunate circumstance, as it entirely prevented my assisting your father, even when I most wished to do so.
The day on which you met the butcher, as you went to sell your mother's cow, my power was restored. It was I who secretly prompted you to take the beans in exchange for the cow. By my power the beanstalk grew to so great a height and formed a ladder. The giant lives in this country. You are the person appointed to punish him for all his wickedness. You will have dangers and difficulties to encounter, but you must persevere in avenging the death of your father, or you will not prosper in any of your undertakings.
As to the giant's possessions, everything he has is yours, though you are deprived of it. You may take, therefore, what part of it you can. You must, however, be careful, for such is his love for gold that the first loss he discovers will make him outrageous and very watchful for the future. But you must still pursue him, for it is only by stratagem that you can ever hope to overcome him and become possessed of your rightful property, and the means of retributive justice overtaking him for his barbarous murder.
One thing I desire is, do not let your mother know you are acquainted with your father's history till you see me again. Go along the direct road. You will soon see the house where your cruel enemy lives. While you do as I order you I will protect and guard you. But remember, if you disobey my commands, a dreadful punishment awaits you."
As soon as she had concluded she disappeared, leaving Jack to follow his journey. He walked on till after sunset, when to his great joy he espied a large mansion. This pleasant sight revived his drooping spirits. He redoubled his speed and reached it shortly. A well-looking woman stood at the door. He accosted her, begging she would give him a morsel of bread and a night's lodging. She expressed the greatest surprise at seeing him and said it was quite uncommon to see any strange creature near their house, for it was mostly known that her husband was a very cruel and powerful giant, and one that would eat human flesh if he could possibly get it.

This account terrified Jack greatly, but still, not forgetting the fairy's protection, he hoped to elude the giant, and therefore he entreated the woman to take him in for one night only and hide him where she thought proper. The good woman at last suffered herself to be persuaded, for her disposition was remarkably compassionate, and at last led him into the house.

First they passed an elegant hall, finely furnished. They then proceeded through several spacious rooms, all in the same style of grandeur, but they looked to be quite forsaken and desolate. A long gallery came next. It was very dark, just large enough to show that instead of a wall on each side there was a grating of iron, which parted off a dismal dungeon, for whence issued the groans of several poor victims whom the cruel giant reserved in confinement for his voracious appetite. Poor Jack was in a dreadful fright at witnessing such a horrible scene, which caused him to fear that he would never see his mother, but be captured lastly for the giant's meat. But still he recollected the fairy, and a gleam of hope forced itself into his heart.

The good woman then took Jack to a spacious kitchen, where a great fire was kept. She bade him sit down and gave him plenty to eat and drink. In the meantime he had done his meal and enjoyed himself, but was disturbed by a hard knocking at the gate, so loud as to cause the house to shake. Jack was concealed in the oven, and the giant's wife ran to let in her husband.

Jack heard him accost her in a voice like thunder, saying, "Wife! Wife! I smell fresh meat!"

"Oh! My dear," replied she, "it is nothing but the people in the dungeon."

The giant seemed to believe her, and at last seated himself by the fireside, whilst the wife prepared supper.

By degrees Jack endeavored to look at the monster through a small crevice. He was much surprised to see what an amazing quantity he devoured, and supposed he would never have done eating and drinking.

After his supper was ended a very curious hen was brought and placed on the table before him. Jack's curiosity was so great to see what would happen. He observed that it stood quiet before him, and every time the giant said, "Lay!" the hen laid an egg of solid gold. The giant amused himself a long time with his hen.

Meanwhile his wife went to bed At length he fell asleep and snored like the roaring of a cannon. Jack, finding him still asleep at daybreak, crept softly from his hiding place, seized the hen, and ran off with her as fast as his legs could possibly allow him.

Jack easily retraced his way to the beanstalk and descended it better quicker than he expected. His mother was overjoyed to see him.

"Now, mother," said Jack, "I have brought you home that which will make you rich."

The hen produced as many golden eggs as they desired. They sold them and soon became possessed of as much riches as they wanted.

For a few months Jack and his mother lived very happy, but he longed to pay the giant another visit. Early in the morning he again climbed the beanstalk and reached the giant's mansion late in the evening.

The woman was at the door as before. Jack told her a pitiful tale and prayed for a night's shelter. She told him that she had admitted a poor hungry boy once before, and the little ingrate had stolen one of the giant's treasures, and ever since that she had been cruelly used. She, however, led him to the kitchen, gave him supper, and put him in a lumber closet.

Soon after, the giant came in, took his supper, and ordered his wife to bring down his bags of gold and silver. Jack peeped out of his hiding place and observed the giant counting over his treasures, and after which he carefully put them in bags again, fell asleep, and snored as before.

Jack crept quietly from his hiding place and approached the giant, when a little dog under the chair barked furiously. Contrary to his expectation, the giant slept on soundly, and the dog ceased. Jack seized the bags, reached the door in safety, and soon arrived at the bottom of the beanstalk.

When he reached his mother's cottage he found it quite deserted. Greatly surprised, he ran into the village, and an old woman directed him to a house, where he found his mother apparently dying. On being informed of our hero's safe return, his mother revived and soon recovered. Jack then presented two bags of gold and silver to her.

Her mother discovered that something preyed upon his mind heavily and endeavored to discover the cause, but Jack knew too well what the consequence would be should he discover the cause of his melancholy to her. He did his utmost therefore to conquer the great desire which now forced itself upon him in spite of himself for another journey up the beanstalk.

On the longest day Jack arose as soon as it was light, ascended the beanstalk and reached the top with some little trouble. He found the road, journey, etc., the same as on the former occasions. He arrived at the giant's house in the evening and found his wife standing as usual at the door.

Jack now appeared a different character, and had disguised himself so completely that she did not appear to have any recollection of him. However, when he begged admittance, he found it very difficult to persuade her. At last he prevailed, was allowed to go in, and was concealed in the copper.

When the giant returned, he said, as usual, "Wife! Wife! I smell fresh meat!"

But Jack felt quite composed, as he had said so before, and had soon been satisfied. However, the giant started up suddenly, and notwithstanding all his wife could say, he searched all round the room. Whilst this was going forward, Jack was much terrified, and ready to die with fear, wishing himself at home a thousand times. But when the giant approached the copper and put his hand upon the lid, Jack thought his death was certain. Fortunately the giant ended his search there without moving the lid, and seated himself quietly by the fireside.

When the giant's supper was over he commanded his wife to fetch down his harp. Jack peeped under the copper lid, and soon saw the most beautiful one that could be imagined. It was put by the giant on the table, who said, "Play," and it instantly played of its own accord. The music was uncommonly fine. Jack was delighted and felt more anxious to get the harp into his possession than either of the former treasures.

The giant's soul was not attuned to harmony, and the music soon lulled him into a sound sleep. Now, therefore, was the time to carry off the harp, as the giant appeared to be in a more profound sleep than usual. Jack soon made up his mind, got out of the copper, and seized the harp, which, however, being enchanted by a fairy, called out loudly, "Master, master!"

The giant awoke, stood up, and tried to pursue Jack, but he had drank so much that he could not stand. Jack ran as quick as he could. In a little time the giant recovered sufficiently to walk slowly, or rather to reel after him. Had he been sober, he must have overtaken Jack instantly. But as he then was, Jack contrived to be first at the top of the beanstalk. The giant called to him all the way along the road in a voice like thunder, and was sometimes very near to him.

The moment Jack down the beanstalk he called out for a hatchet. One was brought him directly. Just at that instant the giant began to descend, but Jack with his hatchet cut the beanstalk close off at the root, and the giant fell headlong into the garden. The fall instantly killed him.

Jack heartily begged his mother's pardon for all the sorrow and affliction he had caused her, promising most faithfully to be dutiful and obedient to her in future. He proved as good as his word and became a pattern of affectionate behavior and attention to his parent.
 
Parts of plants as well as natural plant products which have been used since antiquity on account of their agreeable odor, their pleasant taste, or their medicinal virtue, enter the world's commerce up to the present time in their original form, being either previously dried, or prepared in some other expedient manner. The essential constituents of these crude materials (drugs), the aromatic volatile oils, the resins, gum resins, bitter principles, alkaloids, and glucosides, have been recognized in the course of the development of the natural sciences. With the improvements in technology they have gradually been prepared in a purer and better condition.

Of these various products of the plant world, the spices and aromatics have from the very beginning ministered to the needs and welfare of man, and have, therefore, been appreciated by him in a special degree. As a result, they have always been a prominent and influential factor in the intercourse of nations as well as in the world's commerce. After several thousand years of knowledge and actual use of the spices in their original form, their essential constituents, the volatile oils, have since the middle ages and more particularly in modern times been successfully isolated and utilized.

In a treatise on volatile oils, a brief historical retrospect of the origin of and commerce in the bearers of these products, viz. the spices and aromatics, may be regarded as eminently proper. This all the more, since in this branch of knowledge as well as in others the historical element constitutes a valuable basis for a proper understanding and investigation.

All investigation in the realm of the history of civilization, that considers not merely a single people but mankind in general, and that goes back to the earliest historic documents, invariably leads to the wonderful orient so rich in legends - to central Asia, the traditional cradle of mankind. This is also true of the history of the trade of the oldest peoples, and especially of the source and distribution of the useful spices and aromatics.

Its geographical position and topographical configuration make Asia a very highly favored continent. Broad as it is, it extends from pole to equator. Favored by mighty mountain chains and rivers, its most beautiful and richest countries lie in latitudes where soil and climate afford all conditions favourable to luxuriant subtropical vegetation. The eastern and southern coast-lands are cleft by large bays which penetrate far inland. Many navigable rivers which flow into these bays have their origin in distant highlands. The mainland is bordered by a wreath of islands extending from the Japanese island realm through the Malay archipelago to Ceylon. These islands abound in tropical vegetation. The entire continent, therefore, reveals a diversity and richness of plant life such as no other possesses.

These advantages have made southern Asia and the islands bordering on its coast the oldest and principal scene of international traffic and commerce, spices and aromatics constituting the main articles of exchange. They not only found general use on account of their agreeable odor and aromatic taste, but were employed by most peoples in religious rites and sacrificial customs, and thus acquired symbolic meaning. With the increase of prosperity and luxury, also with the development of the sense of cleanliness and of physical wellbeing, spices and aromatics not only became more valuable, but their consumption increased.

According to documents discovered in recent years, the territory between the Indus and the Oxus was the starting point of the early commerce between the oldest peoples of central and southern Asia. Attock, Cabura, Bactra, and Maracanda seem to have been the first larger centres for storage and exchange of oriental products. These consisted of spices and aromatics, the noble metals, silk, and jewelry. To Attock were brought the products of the eastern Chinese empire, which, at an early date, closed its markets to the rest of the world.

From Attock, at the junction of the Kabul river with the Indus, the caravan road led via Cabura (the present capital Kabul of Afghanistan) to the north via Bactra, Bochara, and Maracanda (Samarkand) to the countries of the Oxus and to the Scythian tribes. Also from Cabura southward to Kandahar, thence in a western direction through the realm of the Parthians to the Pylae Caspiae (Caspian gate), and to Ecbatana in Media. Thence the land route crossed the Tigris to Babylon on the Euphrates. In a later period, after the traffic along the water routes had developed, a round-about way via Susa to the mouth of the Tigris was taken and the caravan freight shipped up the Euphrates to Babylon. Between Attock and the ports on the Black and Mediterranean seas, Babylon - existing 3000 years B. C. - was in early antiquity the most important place of traffic and commerce for westward bound Chinese and Indian merchandise. To the north-ward the caravan roads led out of Babylon through Assyria and Armenia to the Black sea (Pontus Euxinus) and westward through Syria to the Mediterranean sea (Mare Internum), thence through Palestine to Egypt. In spite of their highly developed industry the Egyptians, as is well known, closed their doors to foreign peoples as did the Chinese. As a result commercial centres were wanting in Egypt that were open to foreign merchants and to transitory commerce.

During the prime of the Babylonian empire, about 2000 to 1000 B. C, a lively caravan trade was developed which extended from China, India and Arabia to Egypt, Palestine, Syria, and the Black sea.

During this period, Arabia acquired special importance by means of the sea traffic of her southern coast, which was favored by the Persian gulf and the Red sea. At an early date, the Arabian population conducted a lively intermediate trade with Indian and Egyptian goods which were brought to the Arabian ports. By means of caravans these were carried northward to Babylonia, Syria, and other countries. The principal route from southwestern Arabia to Babylon, Damascus and Egypt led from Cane on the Arabian gulf (Erythraean sea) via Saba, Macoraba, Hippos, and Onne to Elath (the present Akabah) at the north-eastern end of the Red sea. From this point the eastern route crossed the Jordan via Petra, Kir Moab, Ammonitis and Dan to Damascus; the western route to Egypt via Azab, Axomis, and Meroe.

About 15 centuries before the Christian era-, the world's commerce was gradually and, in the course of time, very greatly expanded by the Phoenicians, who lived on the narrow Syrian coast district. In the industrial and commercial field they acquired a prominent position; as mariners, however, a dominating position among the nations of their time. Besides having practical control of sea navigation, the Phoenicians were the first extensive and successful colonizing nation of antiquity. They established or extended commerce with the peoples living along the coast of the Mediterranean, they ventured through the "Pillars of Hercules" (Gibraltar) into the ocean and made accessible the products of the Madeira and Canary islands, the western coasts of Spain and France, the British islands, and the northland as far as the amber coasts of the Baltic sea.

For almost a thousand years, during which time they held their prominent position in marine traffic, the Phoenicians were the principal commercial agents between the nations of the orient and the Occident. Sidon and, since the ninth century B. C, Tyre became prominent centres of the world's commerce of that time.1)

The Phoenicians also extended their navigation to the Red sea and the Arabian gulf and from these to the Persian gulf. In the latter they established the colonies on Arados and Tylos, islands belonging to the present Bahrein group. From the twelfth century up to their decline in the fifth century B. C, these cities carried on a large transit-trade with goods from India and Ceylon to Babylon, Damascus, Tyre and Sidon, and to Egypt. A caravan route led from Gerra via Salma, Thaema and Madiana to Elath. From Elath the older routes to the north, to Damascus, Tyre and Sidon were followed, also westward to Egypt. To Babylon, on the other hand, the water route up the Euphrates or Tigris was taken from Arados and Tylos.

Carthage, a Phoenician colony established in 846 B. C, soon flourished and developed such power that it became the greatest rival of the mother country in the following century.
 
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