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The arts of empire : re-articulating the coercive consultation event, 1492-1693 Bennett, Matthew David 2015

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	  	  THE ARTS OF EMPIRE: RE-ARTICULATING THE COERCIVE CONSULTATION EVENT, 1492-1693   by   Matthew David Bennett   B.A., Honours, University of Washington, 2003 M.A., University of South Carolina, 2007   THESIS SUBMITTED IN PARTIAL FULLFILMENT OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE DEGREE OF   Doctor of Philosophy   in   The Faculty of Graduate and Postdoctoral Studies   (English)   THE UNIVERSITY OF BRITISH COLUMBIA (Vancouver)   April 2015   © Matthew David Bennett, 2015            	  ii Abstract The following is a transatlantic study of the initial English and Spanish reactions to the problem of language difference in the Americas, focusing on the language related literature of England, Spain, New England, and New Spain, from 1492 to 1693. As part of the arts of empire, which is the use of language technologies for domination, both English and Spanish explorers, historians, and colonists created bilingual word-lists in the primary phase of the language encounter, yet the burgeoning empires’ responses diverged significantly with the deployment of missionary linguistics, resulting in the extremely uneven production of Amerindian grammars. This disparity in descriptive linguistics signals an understudied historical problem that I explain through comparative analysis of the English and Spanish traditions of language policy and language sciences, with particular regard for the effects of the Reformation on monastic communities and the funding of missionary expeditions. Another problem resides in the manner in which linguistic imperialism de-articulates the linguistic data from the language consultant and the historical context. Moving from texts founded on the interview of language slaves to texts requiring more willing collaboration, my response is the creation of an interpretive model, called narrative re-articulation, that combines linguistic data into a virtual syntax in such a way that the moment of language exchange, called the coercive consultation event, is reinserted into the historical narrative. This expands our understanding of the language encounter and linguistic imperialism by identifying language consultants by name, when possible, and by demonstrating the survivance of Amerindian cultures and Amerindian historical figures. Pushing against the early modern de-articulation of the Amerindian consultants from the consultation event, and questioning the reasons for such divergent literary responses to the problem of language difference, I create an interpretive frame for recovering the moment of  	  iii language exchange and explain the theological and institutional differences between the English and Spanish models for linguistic imperialism in the Americas.                                              	  iv Preface The following research program and all information and analysis contained within are the sole design of the author. No portion of this investigation has been published elsewhere and no co-authors or collaborators were involved in the writing of this document.                                          	  v Table of Contents  Abstract .......................................................................................................................... ii Preface .......................................................................................................................... iv Table of Contents .......................................................................................................... v List of Figures ............................................................................................................. vii Acknowledgements .................................................................................................... viii Dedication .................................................................................................................... ix 1 Introduction ................................................................................................................. 1 1.1 The Arts of Empire and De-Articulation .............................................................................. 1 1.2 Field of Inquiry: 1492-1693 ...................................................................................................... 2 1.3 Theoretical Framework: The Language Encounter ............................................................. 4 1.3.1 Captivity as Source of Linguistic Data ............................................................................ 4 1.3.2 Linguistic Imperialism ....................................................................................................... 6 1.3.3 The Utopian Model ......................................................................................................... 13 1.4 Background Scholarship ......................................................................................................... 17 1.5 Methodology ............................................................................................................................. 21 1.6 Chapter Summaries ................................................................................................................. 23 1.6.1 Chapter 2: Narrative Re-Articulation: How to Read for the Coercive Consultation Event ........................................................................................................................................... 23 1.6.2 Chapter 3: Early Modern Word-Lists: Restoring Historical Context and the Source of Linguistic Knowledge ............................................................................................. 24 1.6.3 Chapter 4: The Arts of Empire: Language Sciences and the Colonization of the Americas ...................................................................................................................................... 25 1.6.4 Chapter 5: Survivance Grammatica: The Timucua and Cockenoe’s Grammar ..... 26 1.6.5 Epilogue ............................................................................................................................. 27 2 Narrative Re-Articulation: How to Read for the Coercive Consultation Event ....... 29 2.1 Introduction .............................................................................................................................. 29 2.2 The Silent Rhetoric: From Gestural Language to Pointing .............................................. 37 2.3 Interpreters are Language Slaves ........................................................................................... 42 2.4 Language Learning, Pointing, the Body ............................................................................... 49 2.5 Words ≠ Words ....................................................................................................................... 55 2.6 The Rhetoric of Lists: Virtual Syntax ................................................................................... 60 2.7 Earliest Examples of the Arts of Empire ............................................................................ 66 2.8 “I, with pen in hand, asked him for other words” ............................................................. 68 2.9 Conclusion ................................................................................................................................ 74 3 Early Modern Word-Lists: Restoring Historical Context and the Source of Linguistic Knowledge .................................................................................................. 76 3.1 Introduction .............................................................................................................................. 76 3.2 Merismus: “he bit his tong in twayne within his mouth” .................................................. 78 3.3 Colonial Decency: “Icune, Come hither” ............................................................................ 85 3.4 Congeries: “Ka ka torawincs yowo. What call you this [?]” .................................................... 90 3.5 Counter-Translations: “what they wanted to understand” ............................................. 101 3.6 The Face of Kempes: “Sakahocan, to write” .................................................................... 109 3.7 Conclusion .............................................................................................................................. 117 4 The Arts of Empire: Language Sciences and the Colonization of the Americas ... 120 4.1 Introduction ............................................................................................................................ 120  	  vi 4.2 The Uneven Advance of Linguistic Imperialism .............................................................. 123 4.3 Linguistic Ideology: The Shared Background ................................................................... 132 4.4 Pre-Contact Language Sciences and Policies .................................................................... 148 4.5 The Monastic Tradition and Imperial Expansion ............................................................ 159 4.6 Catholic and Puritan Evangelism ........................................................................................ 167 4.7 Conclusion .............................................................................................................................. 182 5 Survivance Grammatica: The Timucua and Cockenoe’s Grammar ....................... 186 5.1 Introduction ............................................................................................................................ 186 5.2 Reduction(s): The Missionary Reservations ...................................................................... 188 5.3 Amerindian Colleges ............................................................................................................. 195 5.4 Printing Presses ...................................................................................................................... 201 5.5 Literacy and the Bible ............................................................................................................ 206 5.6 Conversion Theology: Iconography and Textuality ......................................................... 215 5.7 “these Ruines of Mankinde:” Cockenoe’s Indian Grammar Begun ................................... 224 5.8 “Quien te enseña:” Knowledge and Laughter in the Arte timvqvana .............................. 238 5.9 Conclusion .............................................................................................................................. 257 Epilogue ..................................................................................................................... 260 Bibliography ............................................................................................................... 268                            	  vii List of Figures  Figure 5.1 Molina, Arte de la lengua mexicana (title page)...…………………………….219 Figure 5.2 Eliot, The Indian Grammar Begun (title page)...……………………………..221                                             	  viii Acknowledgements  I offer my sincere gratitude to my dissertation director, Nick Hudson, for his generous support, loyalty, confidence in my work, and lively historical discussions. Likewise, many thanks to Vin Nardizzi for his editing acumen, poignant references, and generous help with designing the flow of my argument. I am also muy agradecido to Kim Beauchesne for her insight into Hispanic literature, willingness to support a comparative project, sincere kindness, and encouragement. Mark Vessey provided critical insight early in this project, and I would like to thank him for our conversations and his astute observations. I also recognize Siân Echard for her understanding during my research assistantship and the University of British Columbia English Department for funding and housing this project. Raúl Álvarez-Moreno contributed at a late stage to this project, yet his references and critical understanding were invaluable. Thanks are in order to Patsy Badir for reading my work and commenting on it and for her calming presence at my defense. To Farid Laroussi, who chaired my dissertation defense, I am thankful for his professionalism and friendliness, and to David Murray, I am abundantly grateful for his willingness to read and comment on the dissertation project, as well as his perceptive questions. Also, my thanks to the Timothy Yuswack for his readiness to listen and his patient and unassuming advice.  My father Phil was an essential ally during this project and I am forever indebted to his generosity and enduring pride – as well as his willingness to have me explain over and over again the byzantine character of graduate studies. To my parents Tom and Anita, I am thankful for their lasting confidence and help. A los Gutiérrez, desde mi corazón, estoy muy agradecido por su apoyo y me es fuente de orgullo ser yerno de gente tan piola y tan sincera. To my grandparents, my love and respect. Thank you to all the wonderful people I met during my research, especially those I count among my friends, Garrett, Weldon, Jude, José,  	  ix Javier, Eve, Dan, Dustin, Katie, Mike S. and Mike V., and those I’ve forgotten to name. My gratitude and affection to Carmel Ohman for her support during the writing process, for her friendship and kindness, and for her cloud-like gentleness. To my friend Ximena Osegueda, who began her doctoral studies in the same year, who shared with me ideas, aspirations, and scholarly resources, and who enchanted everyone she ever met, my eternal remembrance. Finally, to Analía Gutiérrez, the amount I owe, in so many regards, is infinite. Ani was the only thing that mattered in the darkest moments, and my life, my project, my future, and my love are all the fruit of her vital and unwavering companionship.                           	  x Dedication  Para mi guerrera, Analía.                                            	  1 1 Introduction 1.1 The Arts of Empire and De-Articulation  During the colonization of the Americas an approach to the problem of language difference between Europeans and Amerindians was undertaken through the arts of empire, an assemblage of language arts and practices for the purpose of expanding dominion over foreign language speakers. The deployment of the arts of empire resulted in the development of two distinct approaches to learning the languages of the Amerindians: the early word-lists (short collections of lexical items, sometimes organized alphabetically though often not) and the later grammars (Latin-based grammatical analyses of syntax and morphology). Both the English and the Spanish abducted Amerindians in order to capture linguistic data for the word-lists – an inherently hostile process that resulted in a restrictive view of the language – that were published as supplements to travel accounts and histories. When it came to the cooperative model necessary for the elaboration of complex Amerindian grammars, however, a major divergence in the two traditions emerged resulting in a meagre output in Anglo America and robust output in Spanish America. These two categories of language texts represent two distinct phases in English and Spanish linguistic imperialism in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Yet both forms of linguistic description resulted in the de-articulation and deracination of the necessary language consultant, a process that separated the Amerindian subject from the historical record, dismantled his or her status as an authorial collaborator, and detached him or her from the linguistic data itself. My objectives then are to elaborate an interpretative model in order to re-articulate the Amerindian consultant to the colonial linguistic text, to demonstrate through a survey of word-lists and Amerindian grammars the recuperative benefits of this interpretive model,  	  2 and to explain through an analysis of intellectual traditions and historical institutions the divergence in the productivity of missionary linguistics in Anglo and Spanish America.  1.2 Field of Inquiry: 1492-1693  This investigation is bounded by the European encounter with the Amerindians in 1492 and the closing of the Harvard Indian College in 1693 and incorporates both English and Spanish literature in a variety of genres. My research concentrates on travel accounts, colonial histories, theatrical plays, poems, novels, language policies, sermons and religious pamphlets, rhetorical studies, orthographies, vocabularies, and grammars developing in, but not limited to, England and Spain and their colonies, New England and New Spain. I begin my study with the earliest language encounter between Europeans and Amerindians described in Cristóbal Colón’s diario de a bordo from his first voyage to the Caribbean.1 The diario demonstrates abduction as an integral component of the early language encounter and many European explorers and colonists followed this model as a solution to the problem of mutual incomprehensibility. I look at two captivity narratives from the sixteenth century, Paquiquineo’s (Don Luis) and Álvar Núñez Cabeza de Vaca’s stories of bondage and their relations to the problem of language difference, adding a brief glance at Mary Rowlandson’s Sovereignty and Goodness of God. Throughout this study I make occasional reference to a number of theatrical representations of the language encounter and language learning, including William Shakespeare’s Henry V, The Tempest, and Two Gentleman of Verona, and Lope de Vega’s El nveuo mvndo descvbierto por Cristóbal Colón. Other fictional works, such as Miguel de Cervante’s Don Quijote, Samuel Daniel’s Musophilus, and Thomas More’s Utopia further demonstrate an awareness among Europeans of the problem of language difference and the 	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  1 Whenever possible, I provide the names of the Amerindian, English, and Spanish historical figures in their original language. I likewise try to present texts in their original language and, when the meaning is not readily apparent, provide translations from Castilian to English. The translations of quotations that I have made myself are not given full citation.   	  3 possibility of linguistic imperialism. Although I draw from the early histories of the conquest, particularly the Spanish tradition with Francisco López de Gómara, Bartolomé de Las Casas, “El Inca” Garcilaso de la Vega, and José de Acosta, my main sources for linguistic data are Pietro Martire d’Anghiera, Richard Hakluyt, and Samuel Purchas as well as the accounts of Antonio Pigafetta, John Smith, Pablo José de Arriaga and William Strachey. These last seven authors include word-lists as supplements for their accounts of exploration and colonization which is why they are central to the project of re-articulation.   In my further analysis of the arts of empire, I turn to the Amerindian grammars developed by missionary linguists for the purposes of civilizing and Christianizing indigenous societies. Before a direct analysis of the de-articulation that occurs in the grammars themselves, however, I must first establish the state of language sciences out of which these colonial texts emerge and survey the linguistic traditions in England and Spain prior to and following the Columbian event. Antonio de Nebrija’s Gramática castellana functions as a seminal moment in the writing of vernacular grammars, followed by his Reglas de ortografía en la lengua castellana and William Bullokar’s Bref Grammar for English, which were similarly concerned with standardizing the vernacular orthographies. The existence of a tradition of linguistic imperialism in the British Isles and Iberian Peninsula prior to the colonization of the Americas is exemplified in the Siete partidas, The Statutes of Kilkenny, and the Act for the English Order, Habit and Language. Protestant clergymen John Donne’s and Robert Gray’s exhortations for a Christian mission and a moral conquest of the Americas make an appearance as well as Diego Valadés’s recommendations for effective cross-cultural evangelism in the Rhetorica christiana. Because much of the second stage of this investigation concerns historical arguments and a broad view of the language sciences in England and Spain, I survey many past chronicles and current histories of the transatlantic as well as  	  4 publications on early modern missionary linguistics. This historiography serves to contextualize and sharpen my inquiry on a number of Amerindian grammars from the missionary linguists Maturino Gilberti and Alonso de Molina, and the two grammatical texts of my analysis, John Eliot’s The Indian Grammar Begun and Francisco Pareja’s Arte de la lengva timvqvana. Through both historical research and figural reading I demonstrate that, despite not appearing on the title pages of the grammars, these evangelists and the word-list compilers before them were assisted by the Amerindian consultants Macanoe, Kempes, Hernando de Ribas, Cockenoe, as well as many nameless others.  1.3 Theoretical Framework: The Language Encounter  The subject of this investigation is, broadly speaking, the language encounter between European explorers and colonists and Amerindians in the contact zone of the early modern Americas. Edward Gray’s collection of essays under the same title, The Language Encounter in the Americas, 1492-1800, affords, in seminal form, many of the ideas developed here, such as the importance of gesture in early contact, the use of abduction to create interpreters, and the robustly institutional approach of the Spanish. Parting from the historical and ideological analysis contained in Gray’s collection, my arguments drive toward a unique literary analysis of early modern linguistic texts and speculates about the precise moment of language exchange for Amerindian word-lists and grammars. 1.3.1 Captivity as Source of Linguistic Data  The word-lists represent the first textual stage in the unfolding of English and Spanish linguistic imperialism in the Americas and this short, informal collection of Amerindian lexical items is accomplished almost entirely through the forced captivity of Amerindians. Lisa Voigt offers a helpful model for the exchange of information vital to imperial expansion in her recent study Writing Captivity in the Early Modern Atlantic: Circulations  	  5 of Knowledge and Authority in the Iberian and English Imperial Worlds (2009). Voigt explores “the role of captivity in the production of knowledge […] in the early modern imperial world” (1), and claims that “the production and circulation of captivity accounts in new and exotic locales responds […] to a desire for eyewitness information about cultures and lands where Europeans hoped to extend commercial and territorial dominion” (1). She finally identifies “acknowledgment of the captive’s key role in knowledge production and imperial expansion in Spanish and English texts” (24). These captivity narratives were particularly concerned with geographic and ethnographic knowledge and therefore often included linguistic data. Voigt’s study is situated within a more recent turn toward the valorization of sixteenth-century Spanish descriptions of the natural world and the development of scientific practices, a scholarly trend for which Hispanist scholars Jorge Cañizares-Esguerra and Antonio Barrera-Osorio are largely responsible (2). My investigation makes a relatedly minor foray into the history of early modern science, albeit with a more unequivocal concern for revealing and resolving some of the pernicious historiographical effects of colonial language arts. When writing about captivity, Voigt’s account is necessarily limited, for she focuses entirely on “European and Euro-American captives who ‘return’ – for it is as a consequence of their return that they are able to write or be written about in European languages and genres” (32). The result of this bias – which Voigt acknowledges openly – is the neglect of what Joyce Chaplin calls “captivity without the narrative” (“Enslavement of Indians in Early America: Captivity without the Narrative” 45). Chaplin makes three claims to the importance of Amerindian slavery for the history of English America and the United States, the most relevant of which is her first: “Indian slavery had tremendous cultural consequences for both British and Indian peoples” (45). This cultural consequence was not only political and  	  6 economic, as Chaplin notes, but also historiographic, for the absence of Amerindian eyewitness narratives and the failure of Europeans to produce accounts of Amerindian slavery result in the “lack [of] a critical body of written testimony” (46) that keeps Amerindians “outside of several important narratives that have structured colonial American history” (46). Captivity in the initial stage of linguistic imperialism represents the recognition of and reaction to the problem of language difference and yet the linguistic texts that develop out of Amerindian captivity often ignore or elide their origins, creating what Chaplin calls, “an enormous gap in the story” (45).  Although very much in line with Voigt and Chaplin’s approaches, and with scholars such as Cañizares-Esguerra in mind, my investigation concentrates more specifically on the exchange of linguistic information, how the exchange is articulated in the travel accounts and histories, how it is de-articulated in these very documents through the exclusion of abduction and forced interview from the narrative, how the word-lists appear as sourceless supplements to the main narrative, and how they are often dropped from later editions of the texts. Through the analysis of Pigafetta’s narrative of Fernão de Magalhães’s (Ferdinand Magellan) circumnavigation I develop a model for what I term the “coercive consultation event,” the forced interview of a language slave for the purpose of gathering linguistic data. My analysis of later word-lists is an attempt to re-articulate the coercive consultation event that is regularly de-articulated from the main narrative of travel accounts and histories, thus filling the enormous gap in the story. 1.3.2 Linguistic Imperialism Robert Philipson provides a helpful definition of the term “linguistic imperialism” in his book of the same name. Linguistic Imperialism is, however, restricted to observations on  	  7 modern English, so I broaden the scope of his study to include other vernaculars and other types of linguistic power. According to Philipson, linguistic imperialism is  dominance of [a given language] asserted and maintained by the establishment and continuous reconstitution of structural and cultural inequalities between [that language] and other languages. Here structural refers broadly to material properties (for example, institutions, financial allocations) and cultural to immaterial or ideological properties (for example, attitudes, pedagogic principles) (47). Although Phillipson succinctly gathers the principle themes relating to linguistic imperialism, particularly the institutional and ideological factors that I investigate in this study, he does not account for the use of the language arts to dominate a linguistic community through their own language, a similar dialect, or a nearby prestige language. Contrary to the modern spread of English and Anglophone dominance through the desimination of English grammars and native-speaking language instructors, early modern linguistic imperialism sought to control peoples by controling their languages – the coersion of indigenous communities through the application of the language arts. Offering a sound position from which to expand research into linguistic imperialism, I depart from Philipson by performing a comparative analysis of the English and Spanish empires in the early modern period, and expand further by describing the reduction of native languages to grammar for the purpose of colonial dominion, conversion, and assimilation. Linguistic imperialism can be divided into three forms, of which Philipson identifies the second two – the subjective, the ideological, and the material. This division is artificial in as much as the three never occur separately in the world, for where we find the linguistic construction of the subject and language hiearchies we also find the material apparatuses for linguistic imperialism. Linguistic imperialism is a unique feature of the European  	  8 colonization of the Americas, despite the reduced scale on which it occurred in Anglo America in the seventeenth century and despite objections to its existence that, quite frankly, muddy the waters.2 Subjective linguistic imperialism is the erasure of Amerindian historical presence and agency, an element of colonial linguistic texts that this investigation attempts to reverse or mitigate through the re-articulation of voice and presence in the very linguistic documents that de-articulate the Amerindian speaker from his or her words. Ideological linguistic imperialism is the positing of the prestige and sacredness of European languages and the efficiency and power of European language technologies over and against the deficient “nature” of Amerindian languages and writing systems. Material linguistic imperialism enables social control through the implementation of linguistic technologies such as moveable-type printing presses, alphabetic scripts, paper and ink, grammars, dictionaries – all reliant on and facilitating early modern missionary linguistics. English and Spanish colonists deployed subjective, ideological, and material linguistic imperial strategies in the colonial contact zone to confront the problem of language difference and establish 	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  2 Simon Gikandi’s rebuttal to Phillipson, “Provincializing English,” lacks coherence. It misrepresents Phillipson maintaining an “assumption that one language can have worldwide hegemony” while citing counter-examples of Scottish, Welsh, and Irish missionaries spreading “Englishes” in Africa and the production of English-language chapbooks in Nigeria only reinforce Phillipson’s position (11). The Scots, Welsh, and Irish adopted English because of military, economic, and cultural colonization; Africans use European printing technologies to print chapbooks reproducing Shakespeare (a centerpiece of English-language cultural imperialism and anglocentricity). We thus have historically non-English-speaking peoples spreading English (or Englishes) to other historically non-English-speaking peoples through ideological and material means. The statement that “English can be celebrated not as part of a global drive toward monolingualism but as part of the diversity and plurality of world languages” is so dangerously myopic that it celebrates the birth and continuance of dialects while ignoring the death of indigenous languages and subversion of their cultures (13). (UNESCO, for example, estimates that 150 of the 280 languages spoken in the region of the United States in 1492 are now extinct (“FAQ on Endangered Languages”).) To those like Gikandi who try to dismantle the concept of linguistic imperialism by emphasizing individual choice and dialectal variation Phillipson responds, “it is important to look at English as one language, because we are abstracting from a multiplicity of forms in order to situate English in the wider linguistic ecology, in processes of hierarchization of languages, in the realities of structural power nationally and supra-nationally” (Linguistic Imperialism Continued 28). The conflict here arises from two contradictory approaches to linguistic phenomena, with imperial studies butting up against post-colonial analyses. It is also likely that the scale of these studies make them incompatible.   	  9 control over native communities. The verb “to reduce” applied equally to Amerindian languages, communities, and social practices indicates for us the ideological unity of  these imperial practices.  Reduction and de-articulation are two ways to describe the subjective erasure of Amerindian language consultants from the early moden linguistic texts that reproduce their speech in phonemic writing. In travel accounts, histories, and grammars, colonized peoples experience subjective linguistic imperialism through the erasure of individual traits and names, through the obliteration of linguistic difference and complexity, through the elision of indigenous literatures and writing systems, and in bilingual word-lists and grammars through the obscuring of historical agency. Colonial narratives likewise effect the erasure of colonized peoples through the description of a world brimming with zoological, geographical, meteorological, and botanical observations in which the protagonist’s actions are central. In a reading of Alexander von Humboldt’s travel accounts Mary Louise Pratt discovers a feature typical of scientific travel writing, “the erasure of the human” (Imperial Eyes 125). Building from Pratt’s study of the encounters in the contact zone of the Americas, Noel Elizabeth Currie argues that in colonial literature “the very existence of [non-Europeans] is simultaneously confirmed and denied through the paradox of absence and presence” (Colonial Discourse 5); she draws the reader’s attention to the special degree of erasure for indigenous women – the elision of details regarding their names, actions, social positions, physical features, and more. (77). Part of this study is the project of revealing the colonial process of subjective erasure in English and Spanish texts that record Amerindian linguistic data. Phillipson, following Tove Skutnabb-Kangas, calls the ideological feature of linguistic imperialism linguicism, drawing parallels between language ideology and other forms  	  10 of hierarchization, such as prejudices toward race (racism), ethnicity (ethnicism), socio-economic class (classism), and gender (sexism) (“Realities and Myths of Linguistic Imperialism” 239).3 Ideological linguistic imperialism is perhaps most fully developed in Walter Mignolo’s account of the Spanish conquest of Mesoamerica, where he argues that Spanish linguistic ideology is guided by a “theory of the letter” (Darker Side of Renaissance 41). This attitude toward language is fundamentally Eurocentric, for it sets alphabetic writing at the pinnacle of a hierarchy of writing systems: phonemic writing is greater than syllabic, which is greater than ideogrammatic, which is greater than pictographic, etc.4 The result of this theory of the letter was to belittle and undervalue the literary achievements of pre-Columbian Amerindian societies because they were considered without letters and therefore had no writing. Ideologically, then, Mexica texts, because they were not alphabetic, were considered “paintings” rather than “writing” and consequently Mexica history was regarded by early colonists such as Pedro de Gante as non-existent (Mignolo 45). Although Mignolo’s elaboration of Spanish linguistic ideology is powerful and insightful, it has sparked a debate about the consistency of that ideology as it came to bear on pre-Columbian writing systems and Amerindian linguistic exchange. In How to Write a 	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  3 The linguicism that represents Amerindian languages and writing systems as barbaric is pervasive in the colonial period. For example, Las Casas’s categorical account in Apologética historia sumaria (ca. 1550), which hinges barbarity or civility on a culture’s writing systems, literary achievements, and linguistic pedigree (645-54); seventeenth-century Puritan minister Daniel Gookin’s belief “that native languages perpetuated a kind of savage barbarism among Indians” and his concomitant insistence on preaching to the Natick people in English (Andrews, Native Apostles 52); Pietro Martire D’Anghiera’s “Vocabula Barbara” (1516) word-list discussed in the following chapters; and the Historia natural y moral de las Indias (1590) and De promulgatione Evangelii apud barbaros (1588) where José de Acosta uses indio and bárbaro interchangeably. 4 Later authors such as Rojinsky have indicated counterexamples to Mignolo’s elaboration of the “theory of the letter.” Although Mesoamerican writing was evaluated from the perspective of a culture of books and alphabetic scripts, humanists often believed Egyptian hieroglyphics held arcane knowledge that could not be represented in letters (Companion to Empire 188). For a discussion of the Renaissance conception of writing originating in hieroglyphics, see Hudson, European Thought and Writing (12, 21). Hudson notes that José de Acosta and Antonio de Solis y Ribandeneyra refer to the mixed writing system of Mesoamerica as “hieroglyphics” (39).  	  11 History of the New World Jorge Cañizares-Esguerra takes Mignolo to task for overstating Spanish linguistic ideology and presents numerous counter-examples from colonial texts. Cañizares-Esguerra rejects the absoluteness of Mignolo’s description by demonstrating the continuance of Amerindian writing practices after colonization, a strategy that was vital to cultural assimilation and evangelical efforts. David Rojinsky summarizes the conceptual contention between these two scholars: “the ‘lack’ of letters as a symbol of cultural inferiority in a wider colonial ‘discourse of lack,’ though a constant discursive trope in certain colonial genres, did not always correspond to the employment of indigenous writing in practice” (Companion to Empire 192). The discourse of lack is exemplified in the recurring description of Amerindian languages as phonetically less complex than the European vernaculars, found in their phonemic representation as lacking certain letters and sounds (Mignolo, Darker Side 47). Although the Spanish generally regarded Amerindian writing as primitive – both less efficient and less elegant – they simultaneously regarded Maya and Mexica codices and Inca quipus as reliable sources of historical information (Cañizares-Esguerra 7), contradicting Mignolo’s view that the Spanish regarded alphabetic writing as the only script “in which truth finds its warranty” (Mignolo 83). What these scholars demonstrate is the importance of an understanding of linguistic ideology in the study of early modern imperialism, and even though they disagree about the consistency of that ideology, they both assert and demonstrate its influence on material linguistic imperialism. If linguistic imperialism can be understood generally as the imposition of a foreign language upon a language community (through military or economic force, through prestige or coercion), then material linguistic imperialism can be understood as the imposition of foreign linguistic technologies. These technologies are quite diverse and include the word-lists and grammars that are the object of this investigation, as well as dictionaries, the  	  12 alphabet, the “word” (a surprisingly complex subject), calligraphy, printing presses and their whole train of artifacts (paper, ink, type, books, etc.), language schools, and language studies such as classical rhetoric. Material linguistic imperialism advanced unevenly in the Americas. Cañizares-Esguerra notes that missionaries in Mexico and Peru used local, indigenous systems of writing for evangelical purposes. “Amerindians brought quipus to Christian churches,” he writes, “to read them aloud during confessions,” adding, “[a]s in Mexico, scholars and bureaucrats in Peru also summoned local scribes […] to ‘translate’ their testimonies into the Latin alphabet” (How to Write 74). Nevertheless, the pre-Columbian writing systems were slowly replaced through the establishment of grammar schools and colleges where Europeans instructed Amerindians in phonemic writing. Miguel León-Portilla indicates that many Nahuas  habían aprendido a escribir valiéndose del alfabeto. Y, aunque en algunos casos copiaron y preservaron las pinturas y signos glíficos de los códices que pudieron consultar, optaron por redactar sus obras en su propia lengua, con la escritura latina, adaptada para representar los fonemas del náhuatl (El destino de la palabra 6) [had learned to write by making use of the alphabet. And although in certain cases they copied and preserved the paintings and glyphic signs of the available codices, they opted to write their works in their own language, in Latin letters adapted to represent Nahuatl phonemes].  In this passage on the transmission of European writing practices to the Americas we uncover a number of important themes: the Mexica transcribe their codices into the new alphabetic writing system; they transcribe those they are able to consult, meaning some codices disappeared abroad or, more likely, were burned for containing satanic magic; the Latin alphabet is purposefully adapted to represent Nahuatl phonemes; this adaptation  	  13 replaces the earlier writing system. It also demonstrates the continuity of Amerindian culture in the face of dramatic socio-political transformation. Dependent on the hiearchy of languages and language practices formed and structured by linguistic ideology, material linguistic imperialism represents the coerced changing of language practices in the colonies to facilitate the expansion of imperial dominion.  1.3.3 The Utopian Model  Subjective, ideological, and material linguistic imperialism all find their expression in Thomas More’s fictional travel account Utopia (1516), where the explorer Rafael Hythloday reports his experiences on the far-flung island, describes the geography, and provides ethnographic and linguistic information on the Utopians. In contrast to Spanish bravura, Jeffrey Knapp identifies a particular tone of ambivalence in early modern English literature involving the Americas, including More’s Utopia, Edmund Spencer’s Faerie Queene, and Shakespeare’s The Tempest (An Empire Nowhere 19). While Knapp encounters “avoidance” and “indifference” in much of the English treatment of New World potential in the sixteenth century, More’s fable actually represents “the first Tudor attempt to elaborate a theory of colonization” (21), porportedly inspiring More’s brother-in-law John Rastell to attempt to colonize in the Americas himself (44-7). Detailing the ways by which More shapes English imperial expansion on the model of a Utopian imperial state that moves into land “idle and waste” (24), Knapp does not recognize, or at least does not comment on, the ways in which Utopia itself is already colonized after Hythloday’s brief visit. This is despite the absence of conquistador armies and plantation settlers, for Hythloday’s celebration of the spread of humanism is in actuality a subtle yet visionary formulation of subsequent English and Spanish linguistic imperialism.  	  14 “This man, who is named Raphael – his family name is Hythloday – knows a good deal of Latin, and is particularly learned in Greek,” writes More, adding, “He studied Greek more than Latin because his main interest is philosophy […] he is a native of Portugal” (5). As an Iberian with humanist training and an implicit interest in language, Hythloday returns from his marvellous adventure with specimens of the Utopian language, as evidenced by More’s inclusion of a translation of Utopian verse which is accompanied by a one-to-one schema of the twenty-two letters of the Utopian alphabet (More 114). Invented by More’s humanist friend and correspondent Peter Giles (who appears as a character in the story), Duncan M. Derrett posits, “the idea must have occurred to our learned conspirators […] that their fairy-tale should have the usual accompaniment to a semi-fabulous adventure-story, namely a script, or alphabet, and specimens of the language” (“Utopian Alphabet” 62). Mimicking early modern travel accounts, the poem and the Utopian alphabet represent material, ideological, and subjective forms of linguistic imperialism, for the data is linguistic exotica captured in the New World and returned to the Old for the instruction and delight of readers, it is presented in Latin verse (a source for humanist education), yet there is no trace of a language consultant. What is more, this captured text fails to designate the poem’s Utopian author, and the Utopian writing itself is transformed in at least two senses, converted from the Utopian to the Latin alphabet, and translated from Utopian to Latin words.   One chapter that deals directly with the topic of linguistic imperialism is “Their Delight in Learning.” Here, Hythloday states, “[b]efore leaving on the fourth voyage, I placed on board […] a good-sized packet of books” (57) comprised solely of authors from classical antiquity. From these texts the Utopians are introduced to the studia humanitatis as well as the arts of printing and paper-making. Hythloday speculates that the indigenous  	  15 language is related to Greek (as many explorers and colonist later would), which explains for him the quickness with which the Utopians learn it. They are so taken with humanism that the Utopians print enormous quantities of the Greek texts, wholly ignoring their pre-contact writings on vellum, bark, and papyrus. A perceptive footnote from the editor Robert M. Adams observes that, despite the mention of this pre-Columbian writing and publication systems, “Apparently, the Utopians have little or no accumulated literature of their own” (57). Although More provides a description of the Utopian alphabet, this writing system is apparently not used to produce the sort of writing that would be valued by Europeans or Utopians once the Greek alphabet and modern printing have been translated to the New World context. Thus, the Utopians “contented themselves with reprinting each [humanist text] in thousands of copies.” This episode in Utopia presents us with an imaginative view of linguistic imperialism in its three modes. Although there is no explicit description of either Hythloday’s language spreading among the Utopians, or the suggestions that Greek would replace the Utopian language, “Their Delight in Learning” shows the ideological and material processes by which linguistic imperialism functions. We are given to understand that the Utopians eagerly adopt the new writing system yet we are not introduced to the Utopian authors by name. Indigenous methods for producing written documents are abandoned with the introduction of European technologies; the book, the printing press, and paper replace Utopian forms of writing with ink on vellum, bark, and papyrus. These native technologies are historically situated in the European past, and the Utopians’ enthusiastic adoption of bound books and movable-type printing sets up a hierarchy that is immediately recognizable and markedly ideological. The indigenous literature of Utopia is all but forgotten with the introduction of the new learning and writing systems delivered to the island in Hythloday’s packet of books.  	  16 This demonstrates an epistemological shift characteristic of colonization, leading sources of knowledge considered legitimate by Europeans (books, paper, Greek script) to replace those used prior to contact (vellum, bark). With the arrival of Hythloday’s library on the shores of Utopia true learning and true knowledge are revealed. Ideological assimilation is evidenced in the Utopians’ sudden and profound identification with the humanist tradition. The elevation of the Greek texts and – the other side of the coin – the devaluation of their indigenous literary tradition and the lowering of their writing system in relation to the Greek alphabet represent linguistic assimilation on both the material and ideological level. Whether intentional or not, Hythloday’s intervention on the island of Utopia profoundly changes the indigenous culture to bring it leagues closer to the European notion of civility, with More’s discourse on the transmission of language arts transitioning inextricably to the spread of Christianity to the Americas in the following chapter, “Religions,” where he recounts Amerindian conversions (72). Thus, a brief foray into imaginative literature of the early modern establishes many of the themes that I will later articulate in greater detail with regards to the English and Spanish linguistic imperialism in the Americas. 1.4 Background Scholarship  The following is a partial description of the recent scholarship that has influenced my research and with which this investigation is in conversation. In my summary of the literature, I have organized the books and articles into a few broad categories: the language encounter, the history of linguistics, historical linguistics and linguistics generally, transatlantic history, the literary history of conquest, and religious history. Principal among the influences for my investigation is Edward G. Gray, whose New World Babel (1999) provides enormous insight into the ideological and material conditions of  	  17 the language encounter in Anglo America. The subsequent collection of essays that he edited, The Language Encounter in the Americas, 1492-1800 (2000), is broader in scope and provides a number of entry points into the problem of language difference in the colonization of the Americas. In it James Axtell discusses the importance of improvised gestural languages in first contact scenarios, Kathleen Bragdon outlines the efforts of English missionary linguists for the New England Company, Frances Kartunnen catalogues the frequency with which Amerindians were abducted to resolve communication problems, and Isaías Lerner provides an overview of missionary linguistics in Spanish America and the efforts of the religious Orders. Much of this research into the language encounter appears to arise out of and against Tzvetan Todorov’s The Conquest of America (1982), an early study into the linguistic and literary aspects of colonial domination that exaggerated the conceptual benefits of alphabetic literacy. Both David Rojinsky in Companion to Empire (2010) and Eric Cheyfitz in Poetics of Imperialism (1997) criticize Todorov’s Euro-centric approach while deepening our understanding of the importance of translation for imperial expansion. Cheyfitz also notes the invisibility of the translator. So too does Stephen Greenblatt in “Learning to Curse: Aspects of Linguistic Colonialism in the Sixteenth Century” (1990), which characterizes the linguistic ideology of lettered Europeans as a source for the dehumanization of non-literate non-Europeans, exemplified in Shakespeare’s Caliban. Here he states, “the primal crime in the New World was committed in the interest of language” (17), an important observation further developed in his essay “Kidnapping Language” (1991). Peter Hulme’s helpful Colonial Encounters (1992) models an approach to the language encounter and linguistic miscomprehension that incorporates insights from ethnography and historical linguistics, while David Murray’s Forked Tongues (1991) examines ideologies implicit in attitudes toward translation and the characterization of Amerindian languages as  	  18 “primitive.” His book Indian Giving (2000) frames the language encounter within an economy of exchange and offers a unique and insightful reading of the earliest word-list to come out of the colonization of the Americas, Pietro Martire d’Anghiera’s “Vocabvla Barbara.”  Perhaps the nearest study to my own for being a sustained discussion of bilingual word-lists is Laura J. Murray’s article “Vocabularies of Native American Languages: A Literary and Historical approach to an Elusive Genre” (2001). Although Laura Murray touches lightly on several of the word-lists I analyze, our approaches and our ultimate objectives are distinct because she does not develop an interpretive model from colonial language exchanges nor does she attempt to reconstruct the coercive consultation event. Instead, she discusses the rhetorical effect of the lexicons in producing an image of the author back home. Still other investigations into the language encounter benefit this study, such as Walter Mignolo’s The Darker Side of the Renaissance (1995) and Jorge Cañizares-Esguerra’s How to Write a History of the New World (2001), both of which analyze the ideological and material consequences of the European colonization of the Americas, as discussed briefly above. Robert Phillipson has likewise been introduced, so I’ll only briefly mention the conceptual value of his sustained research in the material and ideological forces behind the spread of modern English – Linguistic Imperialism (1992), “Realities and Myths of Linguistic Imperialism” (1997), and Linguistic Imperialism Continued (2009). Nicholas Ostler’s telescopic history of the spread of vernacular languages out of Europe, Empire of the Word (2005), sets many of the pieces in place for a more microscopic comparison of English and Spanish linguistic imperialism. Mary Louise Pratt’s oft-cited Imperial Eyes (1992) aids my deployment of a post-colonial reading of travel accounts and proto-scientific descriptions. Equally helpful is her joint effort with Elizabeth Traugott, Linguistics for Students of Literature (1980) for introducing me to the discipline-specific vocabulary of linguistics.   	  19 Otto Zwartjes and Even Hovdhaugen’s series Missionary Linguistics/Lingüística misionera (2004) has been indispensible for understanding the history of descriptive linguistics and its inextricable connection to mission work. Both “Notes on Missionary Linguistics” by E. F. K. Koerner and “La construcción del objeto de la historiografía de la lingüística misionera” by Klaus Zimmerman, found in this volume, systematically delimit the field of inquiry for historians of missionary linguistics. Miguel León-Portilla’s El destino de la palabra (1996) can be seen as an approach to Spanish linguistic imperialism from the other side, focusing on the continuity of pre-Columbian Amerindian literature through the translations of literate Amerindians, particularly Mexica. Lisa Mackie’s Fragments of Piscataway (2006) is a worthy study of the only English Catholic mission in North America that resulted in an Amerindian grammar. James Crawford and Frank T. Siebert in Studies in Southeastern Indian Languages (1975) use historical linguistics to comment on colonial word-lists in order to correct and more fully translate Algonquian lexical items. For a discussion of the “word” as a concept that initially structured European understanding of Amerindian languages I turn to Anna-Maria Sciullo and Edwin William’s On the Definition of Word (1987) and R. M. W. Dixon and Alexandra Y. Aikhenvald’s Word: A Cross-Linguistic Typology (2002). And for an intellectual history of the language sciences in England I look at Vivian Salmon’s work, particularly Language and Society in Early Modern England (1996) and The Study of Language in 17th-Century England (1988). Wittgenstein’s account of language learning and his complication of ostension or definition by pointing is a philosophical approach to the problem of language difference in Philosophical Investigations. Ostler’s  “The Social Roots of Missionary Linguistics” in Missionary Linguistics/Lingüística misionera is beneficial in formulating the particular social and intellectual conditions out of which missionary linguistics emerged.  	  20 An important component of this investigation is the historical context, especially transatlantic histories that take a comparative approach, for which I’ve turned to the masterful work of J. H. Elliott. Cited here are his The Old World and the New 1492-1650 (1970), Empires of the Atlantic: Britain and Spain in America 1492-1830 (2006), and Spain, Europe and the Wider World 1500-1800 (2009). European/Amerindian relations are a noteworthy yet marginal aspect of Elliott’s work, and so a reading of Francis Jennings’s The Invasion of America (1975) and The Founders of America (1993) represents a more Amerindian-focused counterbalance. Two works that are essentially transatlantic in as much as they recount the travels of Amerindians to Europe are Alden T. Vaughan’s Transatlantic Encounters: American Indians in Britain, 1500-1776 (2006) and the somewhat derivative study The Red Atlantic: American Indigenes and the Making of the Modern World (2014) by Jace Weaver. Likewise Jill Lepore’s The Name of War: King Philip’s War and the Origins of American Identity, although straying into tenuous patches of language theory, is an insightful account of European/Amerindian relations in Anglo America that delivers a modern perspective on the missionary linguist John Eliot. In Irving Leonard’s classic Books of the Brave (1949) and Jeffrey Knapp’s An Empire Nowhere (1994) I encounter a more strictly literary discussion of the colonization that is supplemented by the print history of Carmen Castañeda in Casa de la primera imprenta de América (2004).  Finally, for a view of the religious developments that influenced the English and Spanish imperial efforts in the Americas, Diarmaid MacCulloch’s Reformation: Europe’s House Divided (2003) offers a comprehensive analysis that makes sense of the religious differences between the Puritans and Catholics. Other histories of the Reformation, such as Madeleine Gray’s introductory The Protestant Reformation: Belief, Practice and Tradition (2003), Mark Noll’s The Old Religion in a New World (2002), and Susan Doran and Christopher Durston’s England- 	  21 focused Princes, Pastors, and People (1991) contextualize the spiritual practices and theological concerns that conditioned European attitudes toward mission work. One area of religious history that is underappreciated in studies of the colonization is the European monastic tradition and its relation to the cultural shifts of the Reformation. While the previous works touch on the monasteries briefly, both Peter King’s Western Monasticism (1999) and Derek Beales’s Prosperity and Plunder (2003) illuminate the intellectual tradition of the religious Orders and the consequences from the division of the European Christian community. In El envío de misioneros a América durante la época española (1977) by Pedro Borges Morán and The Spiritual Conquest of Mexico (1933) by Robert Ricard we see how the stable structure of the monasteries in Catholic Spain positioned the Spanish Crown to send droves of enthusiastic friars to the Americas. Importantly for this investigation, the religious Orders were the principle authors of the Amerindian grammars, their evangelical efforts depending on fluency in the indigenous languages of Spanish America. For the development of missionary linguistics in Anglo America, my research benefits from the recent work of Lepore and the earlier work of William Kellaway, whose The New England Company (1962) is essential to understanding the difficulty with which mission work was established in New England. Last of all, a very early study, William Wallace Tooker’s John Eliot’s First Indian Teacher and Interpreter Cockenoe-De-Long Island (1896) introduces the figure of Cockenoe, a Montauk man who taught Eliot the Wampanoag language yet received only partial credit in the publication of The Indian Grammar Begun. 1.5 Methodology  As can be seen from the catalogue of scholarly works above, my methodology depends enormously on a comprehensive understanding of the historical context of the language encounter in the Americas. By comprehensive, I intend a comparative historical  	  22 approach like that used by J. H. Elliott and the transatlantic historians who have followed in his wake, such as James Lang and Anthony Pagden, for in my experience tradition-specific histories of the colonization of the Americas are, by definition, less aware of the broader context. Therefore a comparative approach to linguistic imperialism reveals, through juxtaposition, the consequences of disparate theologies, institutional conditions, intellectual traditions, and historical trajectories. The link between an investigation that is strictly historical and one that is more literary critical is forged by Hayden White, whose Metahistory discloses ideology in the narrative structure of histories, what he calls the “poetics of history” (1), a form of literary criticism applied to non-fiction documents “to provide a new perspective” (2) on historical knowledge. Two additional considerations guide my research and analysis: first, the invention of an interpretive model for reading early modern linguistic data as narratives; and second, the ethical impulse for pursuing a line of investigation that seeks to re-assert Amerindian agency in the narrative. If we accept the proposition that the linguistic data records a historical event of linguistic consultation in de-articulated or de-narrativized form, then an ethical approach to the history of the colonization of the Americas would seek to re-articulate that event. I believe that the best discipline for achieving this end is literary criticism supplemented, naturally, through comparative history. The work of new historicists such as Stephen Greenblatt demonstrates that novel insights into historical problems open up when sustained literary analysis is applied to an array of historical documents, both fiction and non-fiction. Just as White encounters a poetics of history, in the word-lists and grammars I discern a poetics of linguistics, realized in the rhetoric of lists and their incorporation of fictional devices, such as character, setting, dialogue, and plot. The interpretive model, what I am calling narrative re-articulation, identifies rhetorical tropes and narrative elements in  	  23 seemingly arbitrary collections of words. I bring together words under the rhetorical categories proposed in Henry Peacham’s The Garden of Eloquence in order to create islands of significance, and by identifying the flow between these islands a relational significance emerges that forms a rudimentary narrative. This narrative is then supplemented by whatever historical data is available, thus revealing the hidden coercive consultation event in its fullest narrative form.  1.6 Chapter Summaries 1.6.1 Chapter 2: Narrative Re-articulation: How to Read for the Coercive Consultation Event Beginning in the first stage of English and Spanish linguistic imperialism in the Americas, this chapter gives a more complete description of the bilingual word-lists, provides a number of examples from the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, describes how they developed out of the language encounter, and slowly builds an interpretive model through a series of interconnected topics. Although the word-lists represent the first textual transmission of Amerindian languages as linguistic data, I pause momentarily to consider an important stage in communication that both preceded and accompanied speech, the exchange of gestures and pointing. I then describe the abducted Amerindian interpreters as language slaves and examine two captivity stories in order to establish the degree of violence surrounding the word-lists as well as the theme of sexual intimacy in abduction scenarios. Pointing and gestures return as intrinsic to early modern language learning, when vernacular grammars were largely unavailable, as language instruction involved the bodies of the teacher and the student and vocabularies were often constructed through ostension, or definition by pointing.  	  24 Because this investigation attempts to reconstruct the linguistic ideology of the Europeans, I question the very concept of the “word” and demonstrate how, like Mignolo’s “theory of the letter,” the colonists arrived in the Americas with a “theory of the word” that structured their perception and representation of Amerindian languages. I then turn to the rhetoric of lists and, with the aid of several literary scholars, I identify a number of rhetorical categories that bind the sequence of words into groups, these groups then hang together through a virtual syntax that begins to form a narrative. Finally, the full coercive consultation event is presented explicitly in an early travel account, and this narrative completes the construction of my interpretive model and prepares it for deployment, with the rest of my interpretive framework, in the next chapter. 1.6.2 Chapter 3: Early Modern Word-Lists: Restoring Historical Context and the Source of Linguistic Knowledge  Here I offer a survey of five early modern bilingual word-lists that exclude a description of the coercive consultation event, and by engaging the interpretive model of narrative re-articulation, I speculate about the likely origins of and conditions for the language exchange. The relevance of ostension to the word-lists is made clearer in this chapter as it allows me to re-articulate the Amerindian language consultant through the presence of the human body, often defined in parts. Because the word-lists are generally presented as indexes isolated from the main narrative, the source of the linguistic data is often unknown, a mystery that my reading attempts to resolve. It is as supplements that the word-lists produce fuller narratives of the colonial language encounter, and so in a further reading I uncover a narrative of close physical proximity that suggests sexual intimacy. Another text expands on the idea that the word-lists are historically fixed documents that emerge from a single event. In an examination of a Powhatan word-list that “abstract[s]  	  25 language from speech” (Laura Murray 592) I trace the otherwise sourceless linguistic data to a violent scene of extreme coercion and torture. To incorporate the perspective of an Amerindian on the language exchange and European translations of Amerindian words, I digress momentarily to the critical yet humorous observations of an Amerindian author from Peru who challenges the surety of European translations and complicates the one-to-one structure of the bilingual word-lists. I end with a close reading of one of the most fully word-lists of the seventeenth century to propose the identity of the Amerindian language consultant through a combination of evidence provided by the colonial history and the re-articulated narrative of the bilingual vocabulary. The establishment of the identity of the language consultant is augmented by a speculative reading that re-articulates events that otherwise remain absent from the historical narrative. 1.6.3 Chapter 4: The Arts of Empire: Language Sciences and the Colonization of the Americas  This chapter functions as a bridge between the first and second stages of English and Spanish linguistic imperialism in the Americas, offering a series of interlocking historical arguments in an attempt to answer the following question: What accounts for the disparity in the production of Amerindian grammars in Anglo and Spanish America? It is here that a comparative history presents a unique entry point into an analysis of the colonization of the Americas. After establishing the enormous disproportion in the production of Amerindian grammars, I look at the English and Spanish experiences of linguistic imperialism in Europe and their traditions in the language sciences. A shared linguistic ideology, forming a hierarchy of languages, united these two nations and caused the transmission of Latin to the Americas, where the vernacular languages were not as prominently taught as one might imagine. This depended on the education of the missionaries, who were the primary agents  	  26 of linguistic imperialism and who were deployed in quite disparate numbers in Anglo and Spanish America. The Reformation, therefore, has enormous explanatory power for the differences in colonization, especially with regards to language, for the monastic system provided the vast majority of the missionary linguists. The social changes that resulted from the Reformation hugely diminished England’s ability to send missionaries abroad, mainly because the monasteries were shuttered in the first third of the sixteenth century. I therefore end this historical investigation with a look at how the first Protestant missionary endeavour, the New England Company, was organized and funded and how this compared to the funding of the Catholic friars in Spanish America. 1.6.4 Chapter 5: Survivance Grammatica: The Timucua and Cockenoe’s Grammar  The final chapter is designed around the metaphors of cultural imperialism as “killing the Indian to save the man” and narrative re-articulation as “resurrection work.” The theory of survivance is therefore essential for demonstrating the continuity and vitality of Amerindian cultures and languages in the face of a broad assemblage of colonial practices and linguistic technologies for domination and transformation.  The most emblematic social organization used to Christianize and civilize Amerindian societies in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries is the reduction or missionary reservation. These settlements relocated Amerindian communities and inserted them into a network of linguistic technologies, and thus the Amerindians were reduced in two ways, culturally reduced to civility and their languages reduced to grammar. The Amerindian colleges of New England and New Spain shared similarities deriving from the European linguistic ideology, forming another link in the chain of the arts of empire. Yet there were differences in the objectives of higher education in Anglo and Spanish America and these had a significant effect on the production of a native clergy and Amerindian  	  27 authors and the incorporation of Amerindian educational practices. The printing presses played a crucial role in linguistic imperialism but again they were engaged distinctly, demonstrating theological differences between the Puritan and Catholic colonists. These theological differences revolved around literacy and the inclusion or exclusion of the Bible in the conversion process. The difference in the modes of evangelism in the Puritan and Catholic Americas can be summarized as textuality versus iconography, which we see displayed in two early Amerindian grammars that, despite their differences, both erase the necessary Amerindian consultant from their title pages.  Against this assemblage of linguistic imperialism, I perform two close readings of grammars in an attempt to restore historical agency to the Amerindian consultants and account for the continuance of Amerindian cultural difference and practices. In re-articulating the language consultant to the historical narrative, I more securely establish the survivance of particular Amerindian historical figures and certain Amerindian cultural practices. These grammars are both unsettling and pleasing in their representation of Amerindians, providing subtle hints of both extreme coercion and celebration, both weeping and laughter, and narrative re-articulation strongly demonstrates the survivance of Amerindian historical figures and cultures against and within the very arts of empire. 1.6.5 Epilogue  In this brief chapter I propose two distinct directions in research that this project recommends, which are an investigation into the effects of Amerindian grammars on the development of philosophies of language in Europe and a more sustained analysis of the relationship between missionary linguistics and the emergence of Amerindian authors in the colonies. Attempting to anticipate the problems of establishing influence, I return to J. H. Elliott to schematize the various questions that such a line of investigation must seek to  	  28 answer through historical evidence. Rather than assuming continuity and familiarity, I would like to demonstrate the tangible influence of missionary linguistics (whenever possible) on specific cultural developments in both European and Amerindian societies.                     	  29 2 Narrative Re-Articulation: How to Read for the Coercive Consultation Event 2.1 Introduction  In the winter of 1520, somewhere on the coast of Tierra del Fuego, Magalhães’s crew abducted two Tehuelche men and brought them on board the Victoria, where they were shackled, measured, and observed and where the sole surviving indigene was interviewed, producing one of the earliest European/Amerindian word-lists ever recorded – a truncated bilingual vocabulary presented in two facing columns. Antonio Pigafetta, the Italian humanist and chronicler of the expedition, recorded his interactions with the Tehuelche (christened Paul on his deathbed), providing European readers with two separate narratives of the linguistic exchange: one hastily yet explicitly in the prose narrative of the expedition and the other implicitly in the word-list. Unlike the vast majority of the word-lists produced during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries by English and Spanish explorers, colonists, and chroniclers, the Tehuelche vocabulary is followed in the narrative by a brief description of the process by which the linguistic information was captured. It is therefore a uniquely forthcoming text from the first stage of European linguistic imperialism and exceptionally valuable as an interpretive model for us to re-articulate the word-list to the historical narrative. To borrow a felicitous phrase from Umberto Eco, the bilingual word-lists are “signs, witnesses to something else, to the past they come from, to an exotic world of which they are the only documents, to the invisible world” (Infinity of Lists 170). But how do we move from the fact of the Amerindian language in the colonial text – these witnesses to an exotic world – to a fuller reconstruction of the concealed or obliquely-presented language exchange?   	  30 The re-articulation of the word-list into the historical narrative requires a focus on the hidden, overlooked, and naturalized features of language-learning and linguistic consultation in colonial texts. To that end I begin by presenting the use of impromptu gestural languages in order to contextualize the problem of language difference and establish the use of gesture and pointing in language-learning situations. The language slave then appears as an attempt to alter the way we discuss abducted Amerindian interpreters and to establish the coercive conditions under which linguistic data was often exchanged. The body in word-lists functions to both verify the physical presence of the Amerindian consultant and to reinforce the role of the body in early modern language study. The word as a non-universal grammatical unit is hard to grasp, yet I focus on it in one section in order to demonstrate the tenacious conceptual gap between European and Amerindian languages, complicating even further the problem of language difference and the simplified contents of the word-lists, and delineating what I call a “theory of the word” for European writers. I then present a rhetorical reading of lists that permits the combination of lexical items into groups; these groups hang together in a virtual syntax that will allow me to reconstruct a story out of the vocabularies. Finally, we revisit the earliest language exchanges to demonstrate the stubborn resistance that word-lists hold toward revealing the consultation event, and then analyze the Tehuelche word-list of Pigafetta’s travel account where most of the components remain in place. All of these elements combine to form a heuristic multi-tool for getting closer to the moment of language exchange, a model I call narrative re-articulation. In distinction from the Amerindian dictionaries and grammars that the Europeans and Amerindians wrote collaboratively while dwelling together for extended periods, the Amerindian word-lists are distinct, relatively short linguistic texts largely because they were  	  31 written as a result of abduction and enslavement while sailing in unfamiliar waters.5 Laura Murray designates the mobility of the European explorers, their education and commercial interests as well as abduction, as the major “factors that determined choice of genre for early linguistic efforts” (“Vocabularies” 592). Kidnapping was often achieved through trickery and the Amerindians were then compelled to interview through physical violence, isolation, restraint, and restricted access to food and drink. For these reasons, the language exchanges that produced the word-lists I am referring to in this study as coercive consultation events and the consultants as language slaves. My objective is to bring the event of their capture and interview up to the level of narrative, for though the linguistic data reveals much about the historical situation it is always in de-narrativized form. Developing from violent and antagonistic relationships, the word-lists are significantly more limited in scope than later dictionaries and grammars and though I attempt to name the coerced consultant in each case it is not always possible. This is because the colonial narratives that the word-lists supplement sometimes mention abduction without connecting it explicitly with the list. The word-lists are typically not anchored to the chronology of the narrative and their free-floating character has resulted in their being discarded from later editions. This is especially 	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  5 The following is a partial, chronological inventory of Amerindian word-lists in colonial texts: Pietro Martire d’Anghiera’s De orbe nouo (1516); Antonio Pigafetta’s Relazione del primo viaggio intorno al mondo (1525); Richard Eden’s The Decades of the Newe Worlde (1555) (containing translations of Martire d’Anghiera and Pigafetta); Jacques Cartier’s Discours de voyage (1556); Alonso de Ercilla y Zúñiga’s La araucana (1569-1589); Jean de Léry’s Histoire d’un voyage (1578); Thomas Hariot’s Briefe and True Report (1588); Richard Hakluyt’s Principal Navigations (1589) (containing lists from Christopher Hall, John Janes, Francis Drake, Cartier, Francisco López de Gómara, and others); Pedro Fernández de Castro y Andrade’s Descripción de la provincia de los Quixos en lo natural (1608); John Smith’s A Map of Virginia (1612); William Strachey’s Historie of Travell into Virginia Britania (1612); Pablo José de Arriaga’s Extirpación de la idolatría del Piru (1621); Samuel Purchas’s Hakluytus Posthumus (containing James Rosier’s list) (1625); Fray Pedro Simón’s Noticias historiales de las conquistas de Tierra Firme en las Indias Occidentales (1627); Antonio de León Pinelo’s Epitome de la biblioteca oriental i occidental (1629); William Wood’s New-England’s Prospect (1634); Roger William’s A Key into the language of America (1643); and Thomas Gage’s The English-American (1648), among others. See: Philip Barbour, “Earliest Reconnaissance;” Stephen Greenblatt, “Learning to Curse” 34; Isaías Lerner, “Spanish Colonization;” Daniel J. Slive, “A New World of Words.”  	  32 true of the bilingual word-lists written by English and Spanish explorers, historians, and colonists in consultation with Amerindians in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. The result is that these colonial encounters are under a form of multiple erasures or de-articulations. Attempts to reconstruct the initial language encounter have already been published, such as Red Atlantic where Jace Weaver conjectures that the first words spoken to the Tainos were “Salaam Aleichem” because Cristóbal Colón’s translator Luis de Torres spoke Arabic (as well as Hebrew, Aramaic, and Portuguese) (41), though Colón is not forthcoming about the details of the conversation. In contrast to Weaver, my study focuses on the implicit dialogue recorded in the initial language exchange in word-list form. There are traces in these travel accounts and histories that allow for the re-articulation of the coercive consultation events and though the identification of the exact language slave (euphemistically referred to as interpreters, linguists, or lenguas) is not always possible, a reconstruction of the interview through an analysis of the virtual syntax allows us to conjecture with some accuracy about the details of the linguistic exchange. (Much like the fact of their slavery, the Amerindians’ participation in linguistic consultation is very often entirely obscured.) The virtual syntax is a kind of implicit grammar that allows us as readers to combine individual lexical items into groups and groups into meaningful structures from which we may reconstruct a fuller narrative of the coercive consultation event. By restoring the consultation event to the main narrative, these Amerindian linguists are revealed to be language slaves abducted by Europeans for the sake of resolving the problem of language difference; they are also more than language slaves, for the Amerindian consultants defy their captors in heroic ways, though not always successfully. We may restore a certain degree of historical agency to these consultants by attempting to re-articulate implicit dialogues to the actions contained in the  	  33 historical narrative in de-narrativized form. The colonial writers suggest this possibility themselves. Regarding his word-list, Roger Williams attempts to avoid the dialogue form for brevity’s sake yet he allows that there is “an implicite Dialogue” (A key 25, emphasis mine) in the structure. Lamentably, historians and literary critics often ignore the word-lists because of their peculiar structure and their seemingly tenuous relationship to the narratives they supplement, one scholar calling a list “frivolous-seeming preliminary material, a brief vocabulary of Indian words” (Knapp, Empire Nowhere 209). Yet these textual supplements display many of the characteristics of prose narratives: they are aesthetic, producing both pleasurable and painful emotions through poignant combinations of words; they are rhetorical, making a claim on our attention and instructing us; they are also loaded with fictional devices, including plot, character, setting, and dialogue. By analyzing the choice of terms, the flow between terms, the structural organization, and islands of words in conjunction, an image of the almost entirely hidden language consultation process can be recreated. It is for these reasons that this project is recuperative, for in analyzing the oft-ignored, excluded, and unsourced word-lists I begin to re-articulate not only a textual fragment that has been elided and excreted, but to re-stage the coercive consultation event from which the bilingual word-list was produced. In so doing we recover the history of the Amerindian consultants who collaborated to produce the first textual representations of Amerindian languages in the European tradition. I re-establish the physical presence of the Amerindian consultant through a reconstruction of the divided and denoted Amerindian body. The logic of the word-list implies that language learning is a form of memorization and the presence of the Amerindian consultant can be established through reference to the preeminent early modern  	  34 site of vocabulary memorization: the human body. Although the more expressive features of the gestural language used between Europeans and Amerindians are ignored in the colonial texts, the manual sign most often used to communicate is pointing, especially when indicating an object or a part of the body. This mode of denotation is not without its complications, as I demonstrate later, yet it is fundamental to establishing the presence of the Amerindian body in the coercive consultation event. Assumptions often cause pointing and denotation to misfire, yet other cultural practices similarly taken as natural cause the word-lists to reveal the tenacious problem of language difference for Europeans and Amerindians.  Complications in linguistic representation arise from the imprecision of the object analyzed, for a word is not always a word, especially when the target language differs so greatly from the source language. Lay explorers and humanist colonists derived their grammatical understanding from Latin and imposed it onto the languages of the Americas (Mignolo, Darker Side 37), something grammarians were beginning to perform on the European vernaculars, which inevitably led to distortions in the representation of European and Amerindian vernaculars. A conflict was therefore present not only on the level of societies and individual bodies but also on the level of morphosyntactics, as low synthetic languages confronted high synthetic languages, called polysynthetic. Low synthetic languages differ from polysynthetics in the morpheme-to-word ratio, resulting in polysynthetic languages such as Wampanoag having sentence-long “words.” Balthasar Bickel and Johanna Nichols describe this linguistic feature, writing, “polysynthesis […] brings together […] into a single grammatical word […] not only grammatical information like person, number, and tense, but also various lexical concepts [such as objects and natural events in a] bound morphology,” adding, “[t]his phenomenon is widespread in North American languages”  	  35 (“Inflectional Morphology” 192). Although the repercussions of this will become more apparent in the following chapter, I establish the “word” as a non-natural object so that my reading is not complacent with the terms established by the colonial authors, as has happened in more recent analyses.  Beginning with Pietro Martire d’Anghiera’s “Vocabvla Barbara” [Barbarian Vocabulary] in 1516, the bilingual word-list appears in a variety of texts throughout the entire period of the European colonization of the Americas.6 Written for the Europeans’ “delight, if they can get no profit” (Wood, New-England’s 111), these word-lists often appeared without any identifiable origin at the end of colonial narratives, as an appendix or a supplement to the main story. As indicated, William Wood’s word-list, appended to his New-England’s Prospect (1634), is prefaced with the recognition that the Amerindian words may serve no other purpose but the reader’s “delight” (111). James Axtell, however, relates the anecdote of Colonel Norwood who, after exhausting the language of gestures, resorts to his memory of John Smith’s Generall Historie of Virginia (1624) where Smith’s Powhatan word-list is reproduced. “Norwood remembered a single word,” writes Axtell, “werowance, “chief” – and that word, he thought (probably wrongly), saved their lives because they were immediately ferried by canoe and conducted to the chief of Kickotank” (“Babel of Tongues” 28). The readership for these word-lists, then, was not only charmed by the inclusion of New World lexical curiosities but also interested in Amerindian languages for imperial motives: to 	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  6 In The Fall of Natural Man, Anthony Pagden claims that the category “barbarian” functioned for European imperial thought to distinguish the self from the Other (15) and notes that the term originally arose to identify those who spoke nonsense languages rather than Greek, which was the language of rationality (16). For more on barbarians and barbarian languages, see Pagden 15-26.  	  36 facilitate trade, treaty, and military parley.7 The fortuitous learning of key Amerindian terms could save a tenuously established settlement or help lost explorers survive until rescue.  It is often the case that these word-lists appear as an unsourced appendix to the main narrative, or later compilers reorganize and reduce the number of lexical items, or the list in its entirety is excluded (often without comment) from subsequent editions.8 This status as disjecta membra alone gives us reason for investigation. Analysis here is an attempt to recognize and value an unstable textual feature before it fades from modern consideration. The titles of lists are similarly unstable (word-list, vocabulary, dictionary, glossary) and the languages they describe are ambiguous in the extreme (Pietro Martire d’Anghiera’s “Vocabvla Barbara,” Roger William’s “Language of America,” or the ubiquitous “Indian language”). Taken as first instance of the European arts of empire in the Americas, the word-lists actually occur chronologically after the unrecorded, impromptu gestural languages that facilitated first contact. Of these manual languages we have only residual, unsystematic descriptions, yet gesture reveals much about the coercive consultation event and therefore I linger briefly over the topic. There are many word-lists appearing in the literature of the colonization of the Americas though only a few will be analyzed here at any depth, beginning in this chapter with Paul’s Tehuelche vocabulary and following with a broader survey in the next. As noted above, the tradition appears to begin with Pietro Martire d’Anghiera’s “Vocabvla Barbara,” some five pages appended to the 1516 Latin edition of De orbe nouo (137-41), edited by grammarian Antonio de Nebrija. The Italian humanist Antonio Pigafetta 	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  7 Michael Lok is a good example of the kind of reader interested in exotic words and was deeply involved in the Frobisher expeditions. He writes: “In which travailes besides the knowledge of all those famous ‘common’ languages of those countries I sought also for the knowledge of the state of all their commonwealths” (East India by Northwestw[ard] 88). 8 For good reason there is a scarcity of literary criticism on word-lists. Typical of these disjecta membra, Martire d’Anghiera’s list is reduced and modified in subsequent editions and translations (such as Richard Eden’s The Decades of the Newe Worlde in 1555) and is totally omitted from the “complete” modern English translation of the Latin text (David Murray 83, 213).  	  37 produced a number of bilingual word-lists (Malay, for example) in his account of the Magalhães expedition, Relazione del primo viaggio intorno al mondo [The First Voyage around the World] (1525). I concentrate analysis, however, on the Tehuelche word-list in this text because Pigafetta is uncommonly explicit about the coercive consultation event, and from this I extrapolate a model for reading later word-lists and re-articulate the abstracted, de-narrativized linguistic data into the historical narrative.  2.2 The Silent Rhetoric: From Gestural Language to Pointing In comparing packs (“manadas”) of wild men in Spain with the inhabitants of the New World, José de Acosta writes in Historia natural y moral de las Indias (1590) of the uncivilized men, “si no es el gesto y figura, no tienen otra cosa de hombres” [if not for gesture and shape, they have nothing else of Man] (82). Following the classical definition of humans as language-using animals (Pagden, Fall of Natural Man 16), the wildlings are only men in as much as they use gestural language.9 Yet that essential indication of humanity receives scant attention in colonial texts, where the sounds and words of Amerindians are privileged over the precise details of their gestures. John Bulwer’s serendipitous metaphor of a dark continent in Chirologia: Natural language of the hand (1644) laments this very lapse in attentiveness: “In which continent of Humanity [the Light of Learning] hath noted (as a maine deficiencie) one Province not to have beene visited, and that is Gesture” (A3,3). English and Spanish explorers and colonizers responded quickly to the impenetrable difference of Amerindian languages by abducting language slaves, what Columbus and other Spanish-speakers called lenguas and English-speakers called interpreters or linguists (Ostler, 	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  9 For a discussion of the gestural origins of grammar and language, see: Armstrong, David F. and Sherman E. Wilcox. The Gestural Origin of Language. New York: Oxford University Press, 2007; Corbalis, Michael C. From Hand to Mouth. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2002 (41-65); Edwardes, Martin. The Origins of Grammar. New York: Continuum, 2010 (21-22); Hurford, James R. The Origins of Grammar. New York: Oxford University Press, 2012 (114-7).  	  38 Empires of the Word 341). In his diario entry of October 12, 1492, Columbus writes, “yo plaziendo a nro señor levare de aqui al tpo de mi partida seys a v. al. p[ar]a q deprenda fablar” [Our Lord pleasing, at the time of my departure I will take six [Tainos] from here to Your Highnesses in order that they may learn to speak] (68-9). Noting that this abduction soon became standard practice for European explorers and colonizers Stephen Greenblatt declares, “the primal crime in the New World was committed in the interest of language” (“Learning to Curse” 17), adding in another essay, “the principal means chosen by the Europeans to establish linguistic contact was kidnapping” (“Kidnapping Language” 106). Quoting Kirkpatrick Sale, Weaver calls this act “the birth of American slavery” (Red Atlantic 43). The first communications between Europeans and the abducted Amerindians, however, were in the form of gestures and while the specific shape of these manual signs is often left to the imagination, their translation is regularly precipitous and authoritative. Frustrated with unintelligible speech, Ángel Rosenblat notes Colón “[t]uvo que recurrir a otros medios” (“La hispanización de América” 87) [had to find recourse to other means], and citing Bartolomé de Las Casas, he adds, “Las manos les servían de lengua” [their hands were their interpreters]. Although this chapter is fundamentally concerned with word-lists, the fact of gestural communication in colonial texts and the fundamental role of gesture in shaping the content of word-lists must give us pause to consider how viewing gestures as “natural signs” led to significant mistranslations. Though Colón’s diario does not include a bilingual word-list, and much less a gesture-list, we discover in it themes typical of the literature of linguistic imperialism in the Americas. As the statement “that they may learn to speak” suggests, Amerindians are often represented as having neither languages – such as in John Taylor’s “Epitaph in the Barmooda tongue, which must be pronounced with the accent of the grunting of a hogge” (Origins of English  	  39 Nonsense 104) – nor writing systems – such as in Lope de Vega’s anecdote of the Amerindian astonished to learn that books “speak” and reveal hidden, deceitful actions (El nueuo mvndo descvbierto 3.47).10 Amerindian languages are alternatively represented as being no different from European languages and this perfect linguistic comprehension is quite obviously fictionalization. Hulme writes, “there is no evidence and no reason to suppose that what Columbus presented as a dialogue between European and native was other than a European monologue” (Colonial Encounters 20). Yet again and again, communication begins with and returns to signs or señas, even though these gestures – which largely consist of pointing at objects and the body though certainly other culture-specific gestures escape representation – quickly prove inadequate. During Magalhães’s circumnavigation, such is the case of the abducted Tehuelche man whose communication López de Gómara describes, writing, “Comenzaron a entrar en plática por señas, que no aprovechaba hablar” (Historia general 1:217) [They entered into conversation by signs, as speech was beyond use]. The specific quality of these signs is ignored by the text, however, as the chronicler Antonio Pigafetta moves directly to representations of spoken language in a word-list. The problem of language difference in both speech and gesture naturally gives rise to misunderstandings even though the chroniclers are reluctant to acknowledge as much. Just a week after abducting the Tainos, Colón’s faith in the translations provided by his lenguas disintegrates and the language gap yawns open before him as a real problem for exploration and colonization: “yo bien crey q todo lo que dezian era burla p[ar]a se fugir” [I well believe that all they were saying was a ruse in order to flee] (Diario 79) and “no doy mucha fe a sus dezires: asi por no los entender yo bien” [I do not give much credit to what they say, from 	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  10 Variations on this theme recur in colonial literature regarding Amerindians. See also, López de Gómara, Historia general 1:79-80; Martire d’Anghiera, Décadas 367; Daniel Defoe, Essay upon literature 5-6.  	  40 not understanding them well] (101). Although his diario was only rediscovered in 1791, Colón’s text contains the first examples of the misunderstandings that arose in the process of linguistic negotiation. These confusions ranged from the innocent to the catastrophic: from naively mistaking Bohío (“a house” or “dwelling”) for the name of an island, a blunder that Bartolomé de Las Casas criticizes in marginalia, writing, “por aqui pareçe qua pco los entendia” [this shows how little he understood them] (166); to imposing interpretations that change the course of history, as the diario is the first European text in which the term “cannibal” appears (what Hulme declares “the special, perhaps even defining, feature of the discourse of colonialism as it pertained to the native Caribbean” [3]). The word for “house” is mistaken for the name of an island because Columbus and his Taino language slaves communicate principally by gesture. Thus, when pointing toward dwellings on the island the ambiguity of the gesture allows for the captain to understand the field of reference to encompass the entire landmass. Pointing, in fact, is the most common lexical item in the improvised gestural vocabulary and while it is a great source of communication it is also the cause for many misperceptions. The size and complexity of these traditional and improvised gestural languages are lost in time and obscured by the common refrain, “indicated by signs/gestures/señas.” In his essay “Babel of Tongues,” Axtell writes, “When Indians and Europeans met for the first time […] it was obvious that they would initially have to communicate not through a common tongue but by some shared syntax of signs, motions, and gestures,” what Axtell calls a “silent rhetoric” (17). The results of this were sometimes fortunate, sometimes disastrous, and sometimes comically inept. “At the beginning,” writes Robert Ricard, “preaching was done by signs […] To suggest hell they pointed to the earth, fire, toads, and snakes; then they raised their eyes, pointed to heaven, and spoke of a single God. The Indians barely understood” (Spiritual Conquest of Mexico 46).  	  41 Beyond the fact that none of the cultures shared an unambiguous sign system, there was also the difficulty of translating the signs into written form.11 Although Pietro Martire d’Anghiera declares, “the languages of all the nations of these Ilandes, maye well be written with our Latine letters” (Decades 1:67) in this instance of communication it appears that the alphabet could have determined representation and abstracted gestures by focusing observation instead on phonetic communication. Regardless, the shape and movement of these impromptu gestural languages were largely ignored in colonial accounts, except when they are breezily described as transparent vehicles of evident meaning. Commenting on nineteenth-century ethnographer Garrick Mallery, David Murray notes “[t]he widespread use of [Indian sign languages] had always attracted comment, both admiring […] and patronizing” (Forked Tongues 17), sign languages that Mallery regarded as “truly natural language[s]” (18) that do not require interpretation. Such is the sentiment in Pietro Martire d’Anghiera’s account of one of Colón’s exchanges where the captain asks of a group of Tainos, who have assembled near his ship in canoes for trade, whence they acquired their gold and pearls. Of the encounter d’Anghiera writes, “Preguntándoles dónde se cogían aquellas cosas, mostraron con el dedo la propia playa, y con una torsión y movimiento de manos y labios, parecían dar a entender que no estimaban en mucho las perlas y llegando a más, agarraron unas canastillas, como queriendo significar que si se quedaban allí, podrían recogerlas por cestos” (De Orbe Novo Vol 1. VI: 136) [When questioned as to whence came the pearls, they answered by pointing with their fingers to a neighbouring coast; by grimaces and gestures they seemed to indicate that if the Spaniards would stop with them they would give them basketfuls of pearls]. The details of 	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  11 During the seventeenth-century flowering of universal languages, both Juan Pablo Bonet’s Reducción de las letras y arte para enseñar a hablar a los mudos (1620) and John Bulwer’s Chirologia (1644) developed sign languages in an attempt to overcome the problem of language difference. Their works contain many illustrations of gesture.  	  42 the gestures, the pointing, the twisting and movement of the hands and face, immediately give way to meaning that is both transparent and hopeful, exemplified in the phrase “as if wanting to signify.” Regardless of the distance between Martyr and the Tainos, or the ephemeral quality of the gestures, there is no lingering over the precise quality of the “silent rhetoric” here or elsewhere (the relative positions of arms and digits and directional movement), unlike the linguistic observations of sound, such as when Martyr emphasizes that the stress in “bohío” is on the “i” (115). The gesture that receives the most comment and least description is pointing, the “mostr[ar] con el dedo,” yet Colón refers to signs over and over again (Diario 71, 77, 83, 111, etc.). The hastiness with which the explorers pass over the language of signs is again exemplified in d’Anghiera’s description of Colón’s abduction of ten Tainos (the number changes depending on the author) to make them interpreters, “por medio de los cuales podría consignar por escrito sin dificultad la lengua de todas aquellas islas” (Décadas 109) [by the aid of whom could be recorded in writing without difficulty the language of all those islands]. Their linguistic contribution is activated not through the practiced study of gesture, but through the phonemic recording of their speech. While the word-lists represent the initial phase of the textual incorporation of Amerindian languages into European cultures, it is only because of the ephemeral quality of that prior language – the improvised and highly ambiguous language of gestures – that my research must begin at the word. The necessarily textual character of this investigation is perhaps nowhere more strongly felt than in the explorers’, colonizers’, and historians’ phonemic bias.  2.3 Interpreters are Language Slaves  Miguel de Cervantes writes, “por la libertad así como por la honra se puede y debe aventurar la vida, y, por el contrario, el cautiverio es el mayor mal que puede venir a los  	  43 hombres” (Don Quijote 985) [for freedom, as for honor, life may and should be risked. And on the other hand, captivity is the greatest evil that can fall to the lot of man] (Don Quixote 741).12 Although the fact of slavery plays an important function in Cervantes’s narrative – connecting the novel with the New World language encounter, the problem of language difference, and above all translation – it is often obscured or euphemized in colonial texts. Even current interpretations tend to ignore the practical implications behind rather pregnant descriptions by colonists. Thus, contemporary scholar Frances Karttunen states rather mildly that the Puritan missionary and grammarian John Eliot learned the Narragansett language from a local man’s “house servant,” a Montauk boy named Cockenoe taken during the Pequot War of the 1630s (“Interpreters Snatched” 220), while Edward Andrews calls him “an Indian who was taken captive” (Native Apostles 26). Francis Jennings rightly points out that as the source for Eliot’s language learning this “house servant” was a war-prize, writing: “New Englanders understood more precisely that an Indian servant captured in war was a slave” (Invasion of America 233).13 Although responses to abduction varied greatly, there is no doubting that, at least initially, such Amerindian figures as Squanto, Enrique de Malaca, Felipillo, Francisco de Chicora, Julián and Melchor, Gaspar Antonio Chi, Doña Marina (La Malinche), Diego Colón, and hundreds of nameless others, and even Europeans such as the 	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  12 Don Quijote is perhaps the period’s best source for multi-faceted, fictional representations of the language encounter. The novel is brimming with playful recognition of the problem of language difference, different writing systems, and translation, for example: mutual linguistic incomprehension, primarily between speakers of Arabic and Castilian, leaves some characters lost in silence (140, 389); literacy drives the plot in as much as it inspires Don Quijote’s madness and also informs his “textual attitude” toward the world (28-33, 309); the whole text is presumably a recovered translation from Arabic to Castilian by the Moorish historian Cide Hamete Benengeli (86-7, 273); non-literate characters congregate around the reading of books by literate characters (321); Cervantes claims in the second part of the novel that the emperor of China wrote a letter begging him to teach Castilian in a language school there (547); and finally, the author mounts an impressive defense of writing in the vernacular languages (667). This is a very partial list. 13 A similar obfuscation occurs regarding the “companion” or “servant” or “pet” given to Bartolomé de Las Casas by his father. Weaver writes, “Regardless of how [the Taino boy] has been characterized, he was by any definition a captive and a slave” (Red Atlantic 48).  	  44 boys Thomas Savage and Henry Spelman (whom John Smith delivered to Wahunsenacawh [Bach, Colonial Transformations 22]), were bonded as slaves for the purpose of bridging the language gap.14  The unwilling interpreter Paquiquineo, a prominent Algonquian werowance later baptized Don Luis de Velasco, suffered ten years in captivity from 1561 to 1571, having been abducted by the Spanish from Virginia and taken to the West Indies, Mexico, and Spain (Jennings, Founders 166; Vaughan, Transatlantic Encounters 44). (The inclusion of Paquiquineo’s captivity story here represents an attempt to mitigate the “captivity without narrative” effect so common to cases of enslaved, non-literate Amerindians.) Setting out from Havana after many years of forced linguistic assimilation and with his testimony to the richness of his country encouraging a Jesuit mission and Spanish settlement, Paquiquineo was finally returned home with a contingent of Jesuit missionaries who soon after their arrival began “complaining of his un-Christian behavior and pointing out their great need of his interpreting services” (Karttunen 223). Unlike the language slaves who fled from colonists never to be seen again or others who happily integrated into European colonial society, Paquiquineo spent five months with his people and returned to the mission (located near the future Jamestown settlement) with a group of warriors who killed all of the colonists except for the altar boy (and later grammarian) Alonso de Olmos.  This episode represents the common practice of abducting and indoctrinating interpreters to facilitate colonization; language slaves thus perform an essential function within imperial expansion by providing information and facilitating communication. 	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  14 Weaver identifies the first of the Amerindian language slaves as two unnamed Beothuk boys abducted by Vikings in 1009, writing, “The fact that they took the boys and taught them their language is strong evidence they intended to continue trading with the region’s indigenous people” (Red Atlantic 36-7). Voigt likewise notes, “Prince Henry and his navigators frequently relied on captured natives to serve as interpreters and informants as they explored the West African coastline in the 1440s” (Writing Captivity 6).  	  45 Although Paquiquineo’s act of retribution is perhaps not typical, it does give an indication of the sense of injustice and rage felt by those who were abducted for their native-speech capacities. Frank Siebert claims that Paquiquineo was actually the father of Wahunsenacawh, citing the Virginia Company secretary Ralph Hamor: “Powhatans father was driven by [the Spanish] from the west-Indies into those parts” (“Resurrecting Virginia Algonquian” 287). However, Robert Beverley conjectures in The history and present state of Virginia (1705) that Paquiquineo was Wahunsenacawh’s brother Oppechancanough, writing, “we suppose him to have come from the Spanish Indians, some-where near Mexico” (47).15 Regardless of familial relation, it is likely that Paquiquineo’s experiences were communicated sufficiently to inform Chief Wahunsenacawh’s attitude of scepticism and defiance toward the English of Jamestown. As I discuss in detail in the following chapter, this resistance to the English meant that John Smith and William Strachey likely extracted the words that comprised their lists from Powhatans under duress.  Karttunen refers to the lenguas simply as interpreters or “coerced language-learners” (222) and the travel accounts and histories make no reference to their station as slaves. It is perhaps unsurprising that the status of the interpreter as a language slave was often masked, sometimes behind the very polyvalence of the Spanish word lengua: tongue, language, interpreter. In Naufragios, Álvar Núñez Cabeza de Vaca’s account of his near-decade lost in La Florida, the author only very reluctantly refers to his position as a slave, despite occupying this social position during the majority of his stay. He understates his captivity, referring to “los indios que a mí me tenían” (Naufragios 128) [the Indians who were holding me(Castaways 48)], though he later explicitly identifies his enslavement once, writing, “me 	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  15 Voigt helpfully summarizes Paquiquineo’s history in Writing Captivity and cites Helen C. Rountree’s rebuttal to the claim of descent from Paquiquineo to Wahunsenacawh in Pocahontas, Powhatan, Opechancanough (101-2).  	  46 dieron por esclavo a un indio” (Naufragios 138)  [they gave me as a slave to an Indian (Castaways 56)]. This situation is quickly resolved because it is preceded in the narrative with the rather optimistic statement “no era obligado a cosa ninguna, y no era esclavo” (Naufragios 133) [[I] was not obliged to do anything and was not a slave (Castaways 52)] and followed by Cabeza de Vaca’s peregrination toward Mexico. His apprenticeship in the Mareame language takes him roughly six years and it appears common in the period for language learning across linguistic families, from Indo-European to Algic or Uto-Aztec for example, to take nearly a decade, such as in the case of the Spanish slave to the Calusa, Hernando de Escalante Fontaneda (Greenblatt, “Kidnapping” 96-8). We gather from Cabeza de Vaca’s experience that to learn a language is to debase oneself, “to place oneself in a situation of dependency, to submit” (104), yet linguistic fluency is a kind of power and is likely responsible in part for Cabeza de Vaca’s liberation and messianic return from the wilderness.  Eventually recorded by a scribe in Spain, Cabeza de Vaca’s account of his time as a shipwrecked colonist begins by lamenting the problem of language difference and the lack of a common tongue or interpreter. The Spanish word lengua is used ambiguously as he writes, “aunque nos hablaron, como nosotros no teníamos lengua, no los entendíamos” (Naufragios 84) [although they spoke to us we did not understand them, for we had no interpreter (Castaways 11)] and “íbamos mudos y sin lengua” (Naufragios 88) [we were powerless to speak without an interpreter (Castaways 14)].16 Characteristically, he describes the impotent and frustrating recourse to a language of signs and pointing (Naufragios 84, 87, 123, etc.). Finally, after a period of apprenticeship in Mareame and a parallel rise from slave to shaman, Cabeza de Vaca demonstrates a level of linguistic mastery that allows him to identify a staggering 	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  16 M. López-Morillas’s translation ignores the ambiguity of the term, opting for “interpreter” in place of “language.”  	  47 number of language groups (“naciones y lenguas”) during his journey from La Florida to Mexico, naming nearly twenty languages or dialects (171).  The significance of Cabeza de Vaca’s history is in the fact that his linguistic mastery coupled with his miraculous shamanic healings raise his social station, for it is only when he speaks Mareame fluently and is able to frame his actions in religious rhetoric that he is liberated from his status as slave. Although this account does not provide us with a word-list, it presents us with the narrative paradox of a slave’s tragic desperation and his reluctance to overstate his slavery, a narrative tick much like the avoidance of referring to abducted interpreters as language slaves. Discussed more fully in the following chapter with reference to Hakluyt’s presentation of the voyage of John Davis, Cabeza de Vaca’s narrative offers a glimpse of an additional feature that is common in the literature of the language encounter, the recurrence of a discourse of colonial decency that obscures and omits sexual relations. “Acontecía muchas veces” Cabeza de Vaca writes, “que las mujeres que con nosotros iban parían algunas, y luego en naciendo nos traían la criatura a que la santiguásemos y tocásemos” (195) [It often happened that some of the women who were traveling with us gave birth, and then they would bring us the baby as soon as it was born to have us touch it and sign it with the cross (Castaways 104)]. The modern editor of Naufragios, Juan Francisco Maura, of these children writes, “Probablemente aquí aparecerían los primeros mestizos de los Estados Unidos. Es de dudar que los tres cristianos y el moro mantuvieran una estricta abstinencia sexual durante nueve años” (Naufragios 195) [Probably the first mestizos of the United States appear here. It is doubtful that the three Christians and the Moor maintained strict sexual abstinence for nine years]. Much like the violence of enslavement tamped down through euphemism, or the lacuna of the coercive consultation event, sexual congress  	  48 between Europeans and Amerindians is treated in the colonial literature as a narrative taboo that can only be reconstructed through speculative reading. We have in the cases of Paquiquineo and Cabeza de Vaca examples from both sides of the colonial encounter where language and the capacity to translate serve to construct the role of the individual.17 Paquiquineo, through his forced learning of Spanish, becomes integral to the Jesuit settlement in Virginia, which he justifiably unsettles violently through war.18 With Cabeza de Vaca, we encounter a significant, perhaps pregnant instability in the term lengua (tongue, language, interpreter). However, the slavery experienced by Paquiquineo and Cabeza de Vaca are fundamentally different on at least two points: first, because Paquiquineo was abducted and removed from his native culture against his will and second, because Cabeza de Vaca did not serve his masters for the purpose of imperial expansion. Nowhere in Naufragios does Cabeza de Vaca’s Spanish language prove beneficial or strategic for his Amerindian masters. The language slave is in essence an unwilling auxiliary of the imperial state and in this sense, Cabeza de Vaca, Fontaneda, and Rowlandson all fall short of the mark. However, Cabeza de Vaca’s narrative is important precisely because he describes slavery yet rarely calls it by name, and he omits sexual relations, suggesting for our later analyses of word-lists that colonists were reluctant to fully represent physically intimate and violent events in their narratives of linguistic imperialism.    	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  17 Regarding two other “white slave” narratives: while Hernando de Escalante Fontaneda’s Memoria de las cosas y costa y indios de la Florida (ca. 1575) (in Pacheco, Francisco de Cárdenas, et al. Colección de documentos inéditos relativos al descubrimiento) is highly aware of the problem of language difference – as demonstrated by Greenblatt in “Kidnapping Language” – Mary Rowlandson’s The Sovereignty and Goodness of God (1682) ignores language difference almost entirely.  18 See Anna Brickhouse’s “Mistranslation, Unsettlement, and La Navidad,” a reconstitution of political agency in language slaves and the development of the concept of “unsettlement.”  	  49 2.4 Language Learning, Pointing, the Body There was a strong connection between travel and language learning in the early modern period, and in a sense the so-called Age of Exploration – called by Sylvain Auroux the Age of Grammar – awoke Europeans to profound cultural and linguistic difference. By the early sixteenth century it was common for English gentlemen to seek education in the vernacular languages of Europe, especially Italian, by travelling abroad and studying for months or years with a private tutor (Howard, English Travelers of the Renaissance 23). Although universities taught the prestige languages, Vivian Salman notes that in seventeenth-century England “schools neglected the study of modern languages” (“Foreign Languages in 17th-Century England” 179). Travel was a practical approach to language learning that responded to the scarcity of vernacular grammars, a genre that began its slow development and diffusion with Antonio de Nebrija’s Gramática de la lengua castellana (1492). Language learning in the early modern period fundamentally depended on close physical proximity to the language instructor, or, in the case of the bilingual word-list, the anonymous and anonymized language consultant. This is borne out by the content of the word-lists and the behaviour of Europeans and even Amerindians who similarly experienced an absence of grammars to guide language study. In a report from the Earl of Cumberland we see the natives of Dominica “will point to most parts of the body, and having told the name of it in the language of Dominica, he would not rest till he were told the name of it in English” (qtd. in Greenblatt, “Kidnapping Language” 105).19  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  19 In New France, Gabriel Sagard describes the difficulty of language instruction without writing, stating that because his Huron teachers “could not always make me understand their conceptions, they would explain them by figures, similarities, and external demonstrations, sometimes by speech, and sometimes by tracing the thing on the ground with a stick as best they could, or by body movements, without being ashamed of making very indelicate ones” (qtd. in Laura Murray, “Vocabularies” 598).  	  50 This same pattern in non-textual language study is likewise present in early modern theatrical representations of language learning. Travel and education are united in William Shakespeare’s The Two Gentlemen of Verona (ca. 1594), where we encounter the practice of traveling abroad for the sake of becoming “a perfect man” – gentlemen leave home, “Some, to discover Islands far away; / Some, to the studious universities” (1.3.9-10). It appears that Shakespeare thought deeply about language encounters, for the problem of language difference is a source of dramatic tension complicating the plot of The Tempest (ca. 1610) and, importantly for our discussion here, we have many of the elements of language learning in a comedic scene from Henry V (ca. 1599).20  In Act 3, Scene 4 the French princess Katherine is given a brief, amusing lesson in English by her lady-in-waiting Alice.21 What is significant about this scene is that instruction in the foreign language is based entirely upon reference to the body – fluency defined by the acquisition of substantives – and that the humour of the scene arises out of mispronunciation, misunderstanding, and allusion to what Strachey in his word-list calls “a womans secrett” (Historie of Travell 180). At the conclusion of her lesson, Katherine summarizes what she has learned, stating, “De foot et de coun! […] Néan-moins, je réciterai une autre fois ma leçon ensemble: d’hand, de fingres, de nails, d’arm, d’elbow, de nick, de sin, de foot, de coun” (3.4.47-54) […Nonetheless, I recite my lesson again entire…]. One can see Katherine pointing to the parts of the body as she bilingually performs a beginner’s lesson before an English-speaking audience. This scene can be given a post-colonial reading, however, as it is re-staged again and again in linguistic consultations in which Europeans 	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  20 For a discussion of linguistic colonialism in The Tempest, see: Greenblatt “Learning to Curse;” Hulme, Colonial Encounters 91-161; Retamar “Caliban: Notes Toward a Discussion of Culture in Our America;” Vaughan and Vaughan, Shakespeare’s Caliban: A Cultural History. 21 See also: de Groot, Jerome. “‘Euery one teacheth after thyr own Fantasie:’ French Language Instruction.” Performing Pedagogy in Early Modern England: Gender, Instruction, and Performance. Eds. Kathryn Moncrief and Kathryn Read McPherson. Burlington: Ashgate Publishing, 2011; Fleming, Juliet. “The French Garden: An Introduction to Women’s French.” ELH 65:1 (1989): 19-51. This scene is shorter in the first published Quarto and the sexual puns are less prominent (de Groot 33).  	  51 learn the most immediate and intimate substantives from their Amerindian consultants. Although used for comedic effect, the fact that Katherine names the parts of the body and arrives ultimately at a term that is “mauvais, corruptible, gros” (3.4.48) establishes for us a pattern that is to be found almost strictly within the word-lists rather than the main narrative to which they are appended. The means by which language is apprehended is for Katherine the grammatical unit of the word – the word as substantive learned in denotation of body parts. Early modern philosophy of language was dominated by what J. H. Elliott calls the Judeo-Christian and classical “dual inheritance” (Old World and the New 41). Exemplary of this combined tradition are the biblical accounts of language origins (Eden) and language difference (Tower of Babel), Plato’s Cratylus (where Socrates presses both Hermogenes and Cratylus on the relation between names and things), and Augustine’s Confessions.22 These early texts are almost exclusively concerned with the relation between words and things, with naming and denotation. Such was the general focus on words rather than larger units of meaning that Hannah Dawson writes, “early-modern philosophy of language is fundamentally a philosophy of words […] More particularly, [it] might often be characterized as a philosophy of names, whereby sounds are considered to be applied to, or to name, something extra-linguistic” (Locke, Language 7). For example, the Spanish grammarian Antonio de Nebrija identifies and elevates the word as the exceptional grammatical unit in Introductiones Latinæ (1495), writing, “Dictio est pars minima orationis constructæ, idest, in ordine compsitæ. Pars inquit Priscianus quantum ad totum intelligendum, idest totius sensus intellectum: quia si dictio diuidatur: non ad totum intelligendum hæc fit diuisio” (III: kii[b]) [The word is the minimal part of a sentence; that is with respect to the order of composition. 	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  22 For an introduction to the philosophy of language in the classical tradition, see Harris and Taylor, Landmarks in Linguistic Thought.  	  52 Priscian says that the word is the part that envelops the whole, that is to say that it must give the understanding of the whole meaning because if a word is divided it is not possible to understand its totality] (trans. Rosa Lucas, qtd. in Monzón, “16th Century Artes of Tarascan” 75).23 In the late-seventeenth century John Locke, too, would go on to raise the word to an ontological level in his more recognizably modern inquiry into the relation between language and knowledge, writing, “Thus we may conceive how Words, which were by Nature so well adapted to that purpose, come to be made use of by Men, as the Signs of their Ideas” (Essay concerning human understanding III: 2.1-2; see Harris and Taylor 108-19, and Aarsleff 26-7, 42-5). The word is the minimal meaningful unit in the consideration of scholars in the early modern and beyond, language in the European imagination functioning to denote objects in the world and ideas in our minds. Concentrating briefly on Augustine’s contribution here provides a way to discuss the role of pointing and the body in language learning and the inadequacy of what Ludwig Wittgenstein calls “ostensive definition” or “definition by pointing.”  In Confessions Augustine describes language learning as a process of simply hooking up words to things, writing, “[I observed that] my elders would make some particular sound, and as they made it would point at or move towards some particular thing: and from this I came to realize that the thing was called by the sound they made when they wished to draw my attention to it. That they intended this was clear from the motions of their body” (11, emphasis mine).24Although Augustine indicates that he first learned to name the objects of the world rather than the parts of the body, the presence of the body is fundamental to the process of language learning, for it is through “pointing it out” and “bodily movements” that 	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  23 The Latin orthography I have only slightly modified for the ease of reading. 24 Wittgenstein provides the following translation: “I grasped that the thing was called by the sound they uttered when they meant to point it out. Their intention was shewn by their bodily movements, as it were the natural language of all peoples” (8, emphasis mine).  	  53 the child learns to associate sounds with things.25 Offering a narrow understanding of language, Augustine as a child learns through the accrual of substantives like Princess Katherine. One is reminded here of Colón’s language slaves whose pointing often misfires and whose gestures pile up signs of the body: “todos estos hombres q yo traygo […] hazen señas q ay my mucho oro y q lo traen en los braços en manillas y a las piernas y a las orejas y al nariz y al pescueço” [all these men […] make signs that there is very much gold and that they wear rings of it on their arms and on their legs and in their ears and on their noses and on their chests] (Diario 83). Not only is the body used to specify the object of language through pointing, enabling the learning of the meanings of sounds, but it is also the source of language in that it is often the object first named through denotation, as will be seen in the word-lists later. The story of language learning that Augustine relates is a reduction of language to representation and for Wittgenstein this view of language is standard to traditional philosophy and overlooks what is new to his Philosophical Investigations, which is, “the meaning of the word is its use in language” (§43). In his earlier work, the Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus, Wittgenstein developed the picture theory of meaning which isolated word-meaning to representational value and reduced sentence-meaning to either assertion, question, or command (Biletzki and Matar, “Ludwig Wittgenstein”). However, in his later understanding of language as a game, words take on a multiplicity of meanings that go beyond their representational aspect (see the partial list at §23). Ostensive definition functions in the Philosophical Investigations to separate Wittgenstein’s later understanding of language from the earlier somewhat traditional view.  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  25 One is reminded of the opening passage of Gabriel García Márquez’s One Hundred Years of Solitude where he writes, “The world was so recent that many things lacked names, and in order to indicate them it was necessary to point” (1). Here gestural language precedes the verbal.  	  54 For our purposes it functions to characterize the process of language learning that was not only seen as natural in the early modern period (when language learning was popularly represented as the amassing of substantives) but also essential to the coercive consultation event. Wittgenstein writes, “Someone coming into a strange country will sometimes learn the language of the inhabitants from ostensive definitions that they give him; and he will often have to guess the meaning of these definitions; and will guess sometimes right, and sometimes wrong” (§32). I have shown how Colón’s understanding is mistaken despite the enthusiastic pointing and gesturing of his Amerindian language slaves, a form of communication that Augustine calls “a kind of natural language to all races which consists in facial expressions, glances of the eye, gestures” (Confessions 11). It is unclear if Augustine assumed that gesture was a universal language, in as much as it was natural, but regardless Colón disproved this shortly after first contact. I will now show how ostension functions inadequately to do even that which Augustine proposes is its main purpose and the origin of language learning: the naming of things. Wittgenstein demonstrates that ostension is not always sufficient in making the “queer connexion between word and object” (§38), of performing a “baptism of the object,” and writes, “an ostensive definition explains the use – the meaning – of a word when the overall role of the word in language is clear” (§30, emphasis mine). In the colonial language encounter, the “role of a word” was established through ostension during the coercive consultation event “sometimes right, and sometimes wrong.” The confusion that creeps in with ostension can be illustrated through a common language game played with children. In this game you ask, “Where is your face?” The child then points to her cheek and she is told, “No, that is your cheek. Where is your face?” She then points to her nose. “No, that is your nose,” you say, “Where is your face?” And so on and so on. What this silly game shows is  	  55 that pointing is often an inadequate means by which to divide up the objects of the world – “an ostensive definition can be variously interpreted in every case” (§28). Likewise, clarification can only be arrived at through further linguistic interrogation or questioning through a shared system of signs. “Kidnapping Language,” while it does not investigate the consultation event that produces the word-list, is an excellent early study of the problem of both Europeans (Greenblatt 93) and Amerindians (97) assuming their spoken and gestured sign systems are universal.  Although the word-lists examined here are an early phase of European linguistic imperialism towards Amerindians and their languages, for Wittgenstein, the naming of objects, the piling up of signs for substantives, “is so far not a move in the language-game – any more than putting a piece in its place on the board is a move in chess” (§49). Which is to say it is linguistic data of a kind but it is not yet language. The question is: What kind of linguistic data is the word? 2.5 Words ≠ Words When translating from Amerindian to European languages and vice versa the English and Spanish writers of the bilingual word-lists are making at least two major assumptions: 1) that “words” are natural objects to language and 2) that substantives are always distinct from other linguistic information (i.e. that object-names can be separated from other linguistic entailings).26 A knotty problem arises when speakers of low synthetic languages (such as Spanish, English, or French) project their morphosyntactic structure onto polysynthetic languages.27 For example, in a description of a Delaware jargon word-list titled The Indian Interpreter (ca. 1680) – the earliest book on an Amerindian language printed in the 	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  26 These same assumptions are present in contemporary scholarship as well. See for example: Vaughan, Transatlantic Encounters 62; Rivett, “Learning to Write Algonquian Letters” 562-3. 27 For a popular introduction to the problem of the word, see R.L.G.’s “Word Processing,” The Economist (September 4, 2014).  	  56 Middle Colonies – Axtell quotes Ives Goddard, noting that the Amerindian phrases tend to be “almost grammarless and based chiefly on an English construction” (“Babel of Tongues” 37) – which is to say, a heaping up of words with no attention to syntax. Not all languages of the Americas were polysynthetics (such as the Mayan languages), but most of the languages encountered by the authors of the word-lists (such as the Algonquian languages, Nahuatl, Quechua, Inuktitut, and Taino) were. Edward Gray describes polysynthesis as “combining many words to create a single word” (Language Encounter 3), yet this curious definition continues to view language in precisely the manner by which the explorers and colonists did, that is, through one’s native morphosyntactic structure. Regardless, the example that Gray provides is illustrative: “a Mohawk speaker would use a single word – roughly transcribed as “sahuwanhotukwahse” – to say “She opened the door for him again” (3). While the word-lists make what appears to be a simple proposition – to convert one European word into its Amerindian equivalent – a finer understanding of the structure of languages reveals this to be a decidedly complicated task. The privileging of the word likewise demonstrates the relative power of the interviewer and interviewee in linguistic consultation, a situation that Greenblatt encapsulates as “the radically unequal distribution of power that lies at the heart of almost all language learning in the New World” (“Kidnapping Language” 106). It is from a “theory of the word” that the English and Spanish approached Amerindian languages and it was from a position of power that they imposed this foreign grammatical unit on polysynthetic languages.  In Dixon and Aikhenvald’s Word: A Cross-Linguistic Typology, the authors note that for the vast majority of languages spoken by smaller communities there is a lexeme for “proper names” yet there is none for “word,” and that the idea of “word” is tied up with the cultural heritage of European speakers, writers, and grammarians (3). Drawing from the textual  	  57 tradition of classical antiquity, early modern Europeans inherited the concept of “word” or “logos” from Greek and Latin culture, e.g. “In the beginning was the Word, and the word was with God, and the Word was God” (John 1:1). Dixon and Aikhenvald write, citing Lyons, “The word is the unit par excellence of traditional grammatical theory. It is the basis of the distinction which is frequently drawn between morphology and syntax and it is the principal unit of lexicography” (2). Linguists often situate the word between the morpheme (“a sound or sound sequence that is conventionally united with particular meaning or meanings and that cannot be analyzed into simpler elements”) and larger units of meaning like the phrase, idiom, or sentence (Traugott and Pratt, Linguistics 405). However, Dixon and Aikhenvald point out, “Some polysynthetic languages of North America lack any unit that looks like the sort of word we are used to from European languages” (3).  There is a conceptual dilemma here in that European explorers, historians, and colonists – because of their linguistic and cultural heritage – assume that the elicitation process is straightforward under a theory of the word. Yet there is a tenacious conceptual gap, something akin to the problem of translating things (horses, rifles) and ideas (monotheism, the trinity) that simply do not exist in the target language.28 We see evidence of the confusion caused by dissimilarity in morphosyntactics when William Strachey attempts to translate from the Powhatan language. The lexical items of the word-lists usually 	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  28 For a more complete list arising from the difficulty that Jesuits had in translating, see Codignola’s “The Holy See and the Conversion of the Indians” (215). Language divides the world in curious ways and seemingly “natural” objects sometimes lack signifiers, such as when Alonso de Molina was unable to find an adequate translation for hombre [man] in Nahuatl, having to settle on terms designating social groups, like tlacatl for “chieftain” or “lord” (Pagden, Fall of Natural 17). In the Golden Age-description of the Tainos Pietro Martire d’Anghiera imprudently claims that their language lacked the possessive forms, writing, “Es cosa averiguada que aquellos indígenas poseen en común la tierra, como la luz del Sol y como el agua, y que desconocen las palabras “tuyo” y “mío”, semillero de todos los males” (Décadas 141).  [It is established that those indigenous peoples hold the earth in common, just as the sunlight and the waters, and that they know not the words “yours” and “mine,” the seeds of all inequities]. Perhaps the “lack” of the words for “yours” and “mine” was a function of Taino’s polysynthetic structure that combines such morphemes with many others?   	  58 seem arbitrary, but Strachey’s mistranslation of the English word “dust” (Historie of Travell 182) makes sense when the Powhatan word “Nepensun” is corrected later by historical linguists James Crawford as the sentence “I have something [dust, a foreign body, a mote] in my eye” (Southeastern Indian Languages 292). Crawford’s emendation of Strachey’s translation suddenly and quite humorously animates the body of the Amerindian in the linguistic exchange, replacing an absence with a presence, while also demonstrating the conceptual gap that causes the European colonist to mistake a sentence for a substantive.  For the most part, the compilers of the word-lists operated under a theory of linguistic transparency and cultural universality. The in-line translations of authors like Pietro Martire d’Anghiera give the sense that, despite the difference and novelty of New World languages, an approximation can be made through cultural equivalence. When Martyr introduces a new word from an Amerindian language that designates a new thing found in the Americas, he places it in a recognizable context: “A estas tempestades de aire, que los griegos llaman tifones, dan los indígenas el nombre de ‘huracanes’” (Décadas 149) [To these tempests of the air, which the Greeks call typhoons, the indigenes give the name “hurricanes”]. In contrast to the in-line translations that serve to clarify the meaning for narrative comprehension, word-lists such as Martyr’s “Vocabvla Barbara” give a different impression through the structure, the absence of context, and the language-centric character. There is a logic of replacement here and this is precisely the reason why I write word-list in hyphenated form; the orthography is an attempt to create a visual impression of the theory of linguistic transparency where there is an absolute, one-to-one relation between languages at the level of the word. Although “word” is an ambiguous expression whose meaning is determined variously by linguists as a morphological object, a syntactic atom, or a phonological word, in  	  59 On the Definition of Word Anna-Maria Sciullo and Edwin Williams analyze still another definition: the word as listeme. They write, “We have dubbed such memorized objects [as words and phrases] listemes, and this property of being memorized, listedness” (3). Listedness is what happens when a word is lexicalized or indexed, when it becomes a memorized vocabulary item. Yet they also demonstrate that even this novel definition of “word” is insufficient, as is shown in the following hierarchy:  All the morphemes are listed. “Most” of the words are listed. Many of the compounds are listed. Some of the phrases are listed. Four or five of the sentences are listed (14). There is extreme and likely intractable difficulty in treating the word as a natural object. They write,  Perhaps the division of labor between words and phrases peculiar to English and the other Indo-European languages has misled linguists to regard listedness as a criterial property of word. In highly agglutinative languages it is inconceivable that every lexical item could be listed. Passamaquody, for example, has more than 10,000 forms for every verb (15). To extend this observation, Sciullo and Williams may suggest here that the specific features of English and the Indo-European language family caused European explorers to experience the language encounter in a particular way that naturalized the word. The term “word” is variously defined according to the data one seeks to analyze; there are definitions for “word” that are phonological, grammatical, and even sociological, and yet not all of these definitions are used simultaneously in any given investigation. “[Although] many types of definition  	  60 have been suggested for ‘word,’” write Dixon and Aikhenvald, “there has often been a lack of a clear distinction between lexeme and word form, and/or between phonological and grammatical criteria” (Word 34). It is ultimately a question of what data is to be isolated for analysis, what data can be elicited from the linguistic consultant, how that data is represented by the writer, and in what writing system.  By exposing the highly unstable meaning of “word” and by revealing it to be a product of localized linguistic structures and cultural histories, it is my hope that the problem of language difference that the explorers and colonists faced in the Americas becomes even more apparent in the narratives of coerced language learning. The socio-historical trajectory of the word in Europe is one of the conditions necessary for the possibility of the Amerindian word-lists and, as such, the exalted presence of the word demonstrates the power of Europeans to dictate linguistic exchange. Nonetheless, the example from Strachey must be recognized as a form of resistance by Amerindians to assimilate to the idea of language held by Europeans and Crawford’s more recent translation can be considered a different path toward the same goal of reanimating the voice of the Amerindian consultant. It appears, however, that the various morphosyntactic problems are effaced by the devilishly simple one-to-one structure of the word-lists, where a kind of conceptual violence doubles and obscures the violence of the language encounter. 2.6 The Rhetoric of Lists: Virtual Syntax The word-lists found in the New World travel accounts and histories of the early modern period do not display the taxonomic rigor of, say, the bilingual dictionaries and grammars published by friars in New Spain in the sixteenth century. They rarely appear, as one might expect, in alphabetic order. The disjunctive flow between two seemingly unrelated items can produce poetic estrangement or the humorous effects of literary lists like Jorge  	  61 Luis Borges’s “Celestial Emporium of the Benevolent Knowledge” in “The Analytical Language of John Wilkins.” This list is that which “shattered […] all the familiar landscapes” (xv) of Foucault’s thought and gave rise to his The Order of Things by signalling the historical contingency of taxonomies and conceptual structures. However, there is something about the structure of lists in how the items contained in them hang together beyond grammar that invites the reader to search for organizing principles, the backstory, the “logic,” the conditions for the possibility of the list. (It is, perhaps, not surprising that the “lunatic eclecticism” of these lists has caused them to be compared to the Wunderkammer – those colonial repositories of exotica – by at least two authors [Eco, Infinity of Lists 205; David Murray, Indian Giving 70].) The rhetoric of lists is present in the virtual syntax that binds groups of words together into meaningful structures and it is from the combination of these structures that I re-articulate our narrative from the word-lists. Although David Murray describes the progression of terms in Roger Williams’s A Key into the Language of America (1643) as “a process akin to word association” (96), the concept of a virtual syntax that I argue for here is stricter and more systematic than mere imaginative combination. There are a number of aesthetic and rhetorical qualities in the structure of lists. In the case of Borges’s “Celestial Emporium,” the aesthetic qualities arise out of the surprising and even disquieting juxtaposition of absurd encyclopaedic categorization and the simultaneous assertion and denial of taxonomic rigor. In The Art of Fiction, David Lodge provides a reading of a list in F. Scott Fitzgerald and discovers in its organization that the “miscellaneousness of the list [conveys] the completely non-utilitarian nature of [the character’s action]” (64). This is to say, that the arbitrary order of the list can reveal to us more about the ideology of the list’s real or fictional composer than it does about the world represented by the list. Or differently, the arbitrariness is not just conceptual chaos but a purposeful  	  62 relation with a disorganized world. What Lodge calls the “expressive potential” of lists is different from prose because lists contain an unwritten virtual syntax in the space between words, a grammar that must be provided by the reader through informed speculation that combines words into meaningful structures. Put differently, word-lists represent a de-articulation of words from syntax and yet this de-articulation is never complete. What is more, a further dimension exists when two lists separated by blank spaces or mere comas are set in conversation, for there again resides a virtual syntax. The bilingual word-list, therefore, contains an unwritten syntax both vertically (between two terms of the same language) and horizontally (between two terms of different languages). The promiscuous mixing of terms in a list can be fertile and give rise to aesthetic pleasure, the multiplication of meanings, and for us most importantly, insight into obscured historical events. Robert Belknap similarly discovers in the list a source of pleasure but makes a perhaps unnecessary distinction between “literary lists” and “pragmatic lists” (The List xiii). For my investigation, this division is unproductive because the techniques to read a “literary list” are just as relevant for these “pragmatic” word-lists. Belknap does, however, provide a taxonomy of lists that helps distinguish the object of our analysis from other sequential structures: the list, the catalogue, the inventory, the itinerary, and the lexicon. In a sense, the list is the barest structure among these, for the catalogue usually provides “descriptive enhancement” and is more comprehensive, the inventory stands in the place of material things and is generally guided by a “conceptual principle,” the itinerary describes actions organized in time, while in the lexicon “words are inventoried with their definitions, ordered and arranged for ease of accessibility” (3). This signals that the list is the least comprehensive structure of sequential ordering because it excludes information provided by other, more elaborate forms (hence the proposition that the word-list is the first stage of the textual  	  63 incorporation of Amerindian languages). The nakedness of the list, its lack of context, its denial of syntactic relation, encourages the reader to fill in the blank spaces and provide the information that other structures make explicit. It likewise signals that the more complex and informative list structures are unattainable in a situation of abduction and coerced consultation or, more intriguingly, that the word-list may be informed by such sequences as the itinerary and thus represent a chronological sequence of events. As Belknap, quoting from Emerson’s “The Poet,” writes, “Bare lists of words are found suggestive to an imaginative and excited mind” (5). Lists persuade the reader of their authority and sufficiency through a number of strategies. Henry Peacham’s The Garden of Eloquence (1577) designates the patterns of listing with several categories, including: congeries, conglobatio, dinumeratio, distributio, enumeratio, expolitio, incrementum, ordinatio, partitio, merismus, and synonimia, among others (Belknap 7-8). For my purposes, the definition of only a few terms will serve. A congeries is a “multiplication or heaping together of many words signifying diverse things of like nature,” which is distinct from incrementum, where, “the stronger may follow the weaker, and the worthier the less worthy,” thus giving a sense of rising and culmination (3). Because of the nearly universal one-to-one organization of the bilingual word-lists the authors generally suppose that one name for one thing is sufficient for description. Nevertheless, this is not always the case, as the pell-mell organization of Strachey’s word-list leads him to provide several translations for the same word, giving a sense of improvisational chaos: “Amonsoquath – a Beare,” “a Beare – Momonsacqweo,” and “an otter or rather a Bever – Pohkevwh,” “An Otter – Cuttack” (Historie of Travell 175, 196). Whether orderly or disorderly, congeries form islands of significance in the word-lists where “diverse things of like nature” cause several items in sequence to cohere into meaningful structures. We can often witness incrementum as the flow  	  64 between terms indicates a sense of culmination or rising tension, such as in John Janes’s word-lists which places certain phrases in sequence, beginning with the weaker “Yliaoute, I meane no harme” and ending with the stronger “Quoysah, Giue it to me” (Hakluyt, Principal Navigations XII: 238). Partitio is when “the whole is divided into parts,” which is the most common relation to the body in these lists. Christopher Hall’s word-list, for example, is almost entirely comprised of body parts: hand, nose, eye, tooth, head, ear, leg, foot, etc. (81). As the child’s game suggested earlier, it is far easier to define the body ostensively in sections rather than in conglomerations, such as the face. Francis Spufford writes, “Lists refuse the connecting powers of language, in favour of a sequence of disconnected elements” (Chatto Book 1). Yet, as Peacham demonstrates, the elements of a list, no matter how disparate, are often connected in patterns that go beyond “brute sequence” (7), or as Roger Williams terms it, a “rude lumpe” (Key into Language 3). Although not nearly comprehensive, Spufford’s book attempts to provide a survey of the many, many lists that inhabit the European literary tradition, from Homer’s catalogue of ships in The Iliad to Shakespeare’s Macbeth in which the Weird Sisters fill their caldron with a grotesque yet charming list of ingredients. Spufford is reluctant to call the list a genre or mode or lend it a “theoretical design” because, he writes, “A device that can contain anything comes perilously close to being a device that is nothing in itself” (7). Umberto Eco’s impractical distinction between lists that are “infinite” and “finite” demonstrates a similar exasperation with the problem of defining lists (The Infinity of Lists 17). They can occur as paragraphs just as they can occur as columns and the contents of a list are, at least theoretically, potentially infinite. The bilingual word-lists of the colonization of the Americas, however, tend never to rise above several hundred items. Throwing his hands up in resignation, Spufford provides the following definition: “for my purposes, a list [is] any  	  65 sequence in which there [is] more than three items; and in which, as far as syntax [is] concerned, nothing other than sequence link[s] the items” (25). For my purposes, this definition serves well enough to characterize the bilingual word-list and distinguishes it sufficiently from the Amerindian grammars that are the subject of a later chapter. Word-lists, then, are certainly devoid of Peacham’s “elegance” but are rhetorical nonetheless. Close inspection reveals that there are organizing principles that fuse together quantities of items into islands of significance, just as the ears, nose, eyes, and mouth comprise a face. These lists are generally not organized alphabetically, except for William Strachey’s – strangely enough and meaningful in a way that will become clear later – where sections are divided alphabetically yet several Powhatan words begin each section, approaching yet refusing the “ease of accessibility” characteristic of lexicons. Somewhere intermediate to the word-list and the bilingual dictionary, Strachey’s collection of Powhatan words approaches the comprehensiveness and orderliness of later works without achieving it. An awareness of the expressive potential of words in “brute sequence” and the rhetorical effects of certain patterns in sequence, such as those described by Peacham, affords us a view of the bilingual word-lists that is not merely dismissive of their “frivolous-seeming” character or solely concerned for the unique linguistic data they present. Arbitrariness in order is itself deeply expressive of the character of the author and his relation to the consultant, something that becomes apparent by questioning the choice of terms and reading into the virtual syntax that inhabits the empty spaces between items, both vertically and horizontally. In a sense, the empty spaces that define the bareness of the lists can be extended further to a narrative nakedness that results from their lack of context and, figuratively, to the absence of the language slave who for the most part remains unnamed and undescribed. This is especially bizarre and perhaps representative of the power relation  	  66 between the colonial author and the language slave, for despite the absence of the Amerindian these lists are replete with Amerindian body parts. In the brute sequence of these listed body parts we can witness the coercive consultation event and restage it as one involving abduction, physical proximity, ostensive definition, and misunderstandings. 2.7 Earliest Examples of the Arts of Empire To return to the beginning, David Murray and Isaías Lerner agree that the “Vocabvla Barbara” appended to the 1516 edition of Pietro Martire d’Anghiera’s De orbe nouo is very likely the first Amerindian word-list to come out of the language encounter in the New World (Indian Giving 80; “Spanish Colonization” 284). Murray’s analysis of the contents of this list is a unique example of literary criticism applied to the bilingual word-list where he discovers that the word-list is wholly disorganized and contains entries for cannibalism in both Latin and “barbarian,” “Anthropophagi,” translated as “comestores hominum” (d’Anghiera 137), “Caribes” as “sunt anthropophagi”(138), and again “Cannibales” as “ideum qui caribes.” Also, the word-list is almost entirely comprised of Amerindian substantives (the rare adverb “Técheta” is translated as “much” [141)]). Murray notes that the list “refers as much to the text as to any world beyond it” (Indian Giving 80) by providing proper names (“Bartholome colon adelantat hispaniolæ” [d’Anghiera 137]) and place names (commonly regions, islands, lakes, rivers, and villages).29 He also shows that the word “machabuca” is translated as “dicitur quid ad me” (“as it was said to me”) (140), which is an entirely opaque translation that chimes more with Borges’s “Celestial Emporium” than anything else. Finally Murray indicates that d’Anghiera justifies the inclusion of the list with, “farewell [reader] and learn new voices/words [voces] and new names at the same time as 	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  29 Perhaps the higher frequency of proper names results from how they can be isolated in polysynthetic languages in a way that other object names cannot (Dixon and Aikhenvald 3).  	  67 new things to be marvelled at” (trans. in Indian Giving 81) hinting that the purpose of the word-list is the edification of the reader’s curiosity and delight rather than linguistic mastery.  Richard Eden translated the “Vocabvla Barbara” as “The Indian language” and reduced the five-page list to just fourteen words, accompanied by a glossary that could be called the first “colonial vocabulary” because it is the first appearance of “colonie” (“an habitacion” [The Decades 45]) in the English language and because it is mostly concerned with nautical exploration and settlement (Oxford English Dictionary). Although short, David Murray finds Eden’s bilingual word-list “a fascinating set, presenting basic words but reflecting concerns of power and religion (king, devil, priest, sword) and the new and exotic (canoe, song) (Indian Giving 82). Not entirely faithful to the content of d’Anghiera’s list, Eden attempts similitude by including a truncated, prefatory word-list in a mirror image of his source-text, where the list is appended at the most frequent position at the tail end. Neither of these word-lists provides any indication that the author spoke with an Amerindian consultant or that the words might be from diverse languages (Taino being the most probable source). They therefore do not function well to inform an interpretive model to re-articulate the coercive consultation event with the historical narrative. David Murray is skeptical that Martyr learned the words from an Amerindian (because he never left Europe) and assumes that, like much of his information, he gleaned it from reading letters and diarios (81). This is consistent with the adverb técheta appearing as in-line translation of a cacique’s declarations on Hispaniola (d’Anghiera Vol. 1 VIII: 371).  However, d’Anghiera was also a great interviewer of explorers and colonists. Isaías Lerner therefore entertains the possibility that the “barbarous” word-list is the result of an omitted consultation with language slaves brought to Spain by Colón (“Spanish Colonization” 284). This would explain the inclusion of “as it was said to me” without explaining its meaning. Whatever the case, d’Anghiera’s  	  68 “Vocabvla Barbara” is not the only vocabulary included in Richard Eden’s Decades of the Newe Worlde, for the coercive consultation event is made visible in the bilingual word-list accompanying Antonio Pigafetta’s account of the Magalhães expedition.30 Such was the influence of this particular list that Theodore Cachey Jr. speculates that it is the origin of Shakespeare’s Caliban and most certainly the source from which this pre-eminently colonial figure learns to cry out “Setebos!” in despair (First Voyage, “Introduction” x). 2.8 “I, with pen in hand, asked him for other words” Now that I have contextualized the production of the word-lists, problematized the linguistic items they present as natural objects, characterized some of the aesthetic and rhetorical qualities of the lists, and viewed a short reading of early word-lists, let us turn to Pigafetta’s writing to apply these observations and complete the interpretive model of narrative re-articulation.  The first phonemic representation of the Tehuelche language appears in Pigafetta’s Relazione del primo viaggio intorno al mondo (1525).31 Differing slightly from López de Gómara’s description, Pigafetta recounts reaching the coast of South America where Magalhães’s crew captures two male “Patagonia giants” through subterfuge, places them in shackles, and forces them to accompany the expedition. In a loose interpretation, Eden writes, “when they sawe how they were deceaued they rored lyke bulles and cryed vppon theyr greate deuyll Setebos to helpe them,” and integrates some of the lexical items into his condensed narrative of the encounter in order to elaborate a fanciful ethnography that the Tehuelche somehow 	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  30 Eden preserves in its entirety the Tehuelche word-list from Patagonia while excluding the Behasa Melayu words from Malay and the Reo Maohi from Tahiti. 31 The long-term vitality of the word-list assures the inclusion of Amerindian linguistic data in contemporary travel accounts, such as the modern classic In Patagonia by Bruce Chatwin. Many of Chatwin’s vignettes hark back to the early exploration literature and in a number of chapters he discusses the indigenous languages of the Americas, representing fragments of word-lists (167, 177). The language of the Yámana or Yaghan is treated through linguistic relativity (175-7).   	  69 “declared by signes” (252). One of the Patagonians quickly succumbs to illness and disappears from the narrative. The other survives long enough to provide Pigafetta with a word-list of ninety items and to reach the Pacific Ocean where he too succumbs to illness. Because the Patagonian’s gums swell up, it is likely he dies of the same malnutrition and starvation that the crew suffers (24). Gómara declares that the Patagonian refuses to eat “de puro coraje” (Historia general 1: 218) [out of anger], however there is no telling whether the Patagonian is purposefully denied food. On his deathbed the Patagonian is converted to Catholicism and like so many language slaves after him, he is baptized with a Christian name. Similar to his biblical namesake, “Paul” begins his spiritual journey with a hateful reaction to the crucifix and ends by asking for it, to “[embrace] it and [kiss] it many times” (Pigafetta 22). This troubling story of a man abducted from his home, forced into chains, carried on the high seas, interviewed by incomprehensible foreigners, and shown strange religious symbols is summarily dropped from the narrative like a body into the ocean. Pigafetta finishes his relation of Paul callously writing, “When those people wish to make a fire, they rub a sharpened piece of wood against another piece” (22).  The Tehuelche word-list is fairly ample given the adverse conditions under which it was recorded and its appearance is just as abrupt as Paul’s disappearance. There is no apparent connection between the word-list and the main narrative, as the vocabulary items disrupt the account after an extended description of flying fish. In a chronological reversal, we are given a description of the coercive consultation event only after the word-list interrupts the prose narrative with two facing columns of vocabulary items. Pigafetta writes, “That giant whom we had in our ship told me those words; for when he, upon asking me for capac, that is to say, bread, as they call that root which they use as bread, and oli, that is to say, water, saw me write those words, and afterward when I, with pen in hand, asked him for  	  70 other words, he understood me” (22). This is as close as we come to an explicit description of the coercive consultation event in my survey of the sixteenth- and seventeenth-century English and Spanish travel accounts and histories. Any additional details must be conjectured through a sustained reading of the list’s virtual syntax and our knowledge of context. Note that this contextualization of the word-list includes in-line translation of lexical items that do not appear in the vocabulary. We should also note that the power relation between the Italian scribe and the abducted Tehuelche man is defined by Pigafetta’s ability to give or deny sustenance. Furthermore, their understanding is facilitated by ostension and translation denotes the presence of specific objects such as bread and water. Crucially, Pigafetta records the whole episode as it occurs. This is imminently important, for though the consultation event is usually omitted from the main narrative, we gather from this scene and from the relative accuracy of the word-lists that the writer would listen to the word, transcribe it phonemically, and repeat it to the captive to confirm accuracy (22; Cachey notes that a nineteenth-century Tehuelche word-list corresponds “almost exactly” with Pigafetta’s). In a historical and literary investigation into linguistic imperialism there is an ethical demand to accurately reconstruct the moment of language capture, especially when the actual scene of exchange, what I call the coercive consultation event, is excluded from the narrative that frames the word-list. From what we know of the gestural language in early colonial encounters and the common recourse to ostension, I re-articulate the coercive consultation event here and speculate with some accuracy about the form of the conversation. A scene develops around the exchange if we read it as a dramatic dialogue with the empty space between terms indicating a change in speaker.   	  71 The European and Amerindian are below deck sitting opposite each other with Paul in fetters (“grillos”). Pigafetta arranges paper and pen and ink and begins pointing at parts of his body to elicit his first word. “Teeth,” he indicates with a gesture pointing to his mouth, waits, listens to the response, writes it and recites it for accuracy: “phor” (21). The Tehuelche responds with confusion or bemused consent, with frustration or boredom, with eagerness or reluctance, and Pigafetta is convinced that his prisoner quickly understands the rules of the game. Beginning with the mouth is telling because of the role of food in the language exchange and because of the language-producing faculty of the mouth. Perhaps the Tehuelche is rewarded with food for complying? In a demonstration of Peacham’s merismus, the word-list divides the body into parts working downward, from the head to the parts of the face, down to the chest and shoulders, down again to the genitals, the buttocks, and the feet. Significantly, there is no word for face. From the fingernails, we also learn the verb “gechare,” as the Patagonian likely had “to scratch” the fleabites received on board the Victoria. From certain lexical items we can assume that the Tehuelche was held momentarily above deck, as he translates the sun, stars, sea, and wind. For other words it is not clear how the translation was elicited, such as the difference between dog and wolf, or penis and vagina, or the verbs that comment on the interview itself, such as “to look” and “to ask” (22). As there were no women nor dogs – nor wolves (especially in the southern hemisphere) – mentioned in the main narrative, we must ask if some of these beings were onboard the Victoria and simply omitted from the account? The presence of female genitalia in the word-list and the absence of women in the narrative may present us with an early example of colonial decency where indigenous women abducted as sex slaves are omitted from the main narrative. Because our understanding of such events is necessarily sketchy, there exists the further possibility that all these features of the natural world were presented as illustrations  	  72 from a book while the Patagonian struggled against his chains below deck. This final potentiality however would have to overcome the problem of connecting names to the ornately symbolic representations common in the early modern period. The further the list continues, the more abstract the terms become. Before Setebos is invoked, the Patagonian produces first substantives, then verbs, and finally the names for the colors black, red, and yellow. To properly isolate the color of an object takes an incredible amount of understanding that is generally dependent on shared linguistic and cultural comprehension. This presents a similar conceptual gap like that of defining the face. (While we are generally given words for parts of the face, we are rarely given the face itself). Wittgenstein indicates the complexity of this problem by asking, “what does […] ‘pointing to the color’ consist in? […] Point to a piece of paper […] And now point […] to its color” (Philosophical Investigations §33). Pigafetta does not specify the amount of time involved in the coercive consultation event yet I conjecture with some confidence that the moment in which he attempted to elicit color-names caused a breakdown of communication and a complication of the exchange. (One imagines same-coloured objects being trotted out for reference.) The plot of this language exchange is perturbed by the turn toward abstract words that resist ostensive definition. It is therefore understandable that Paul, exhausted by the interview and indignant about his captivity, would terminate the exchange by invoking both “Setebos” and “Cheleule,” the Patagonians’ “big devil” and “small devil” and the words that conclude this list (22). Like Dr. Faustus fleeing the stage after crying out “ah, Mephastophilis!,” Paul’s final words reveal a man condemned to suffer. Or perhaps a final curse against his interviewer, an act of resistance before the curtain falls? There is no logical organizing principle behind the terms from Tehuelche besides what appears to be the “ready-at-hand” character of the things translated. In fact, ready-at- 	  73 hand could be an organizational touchstone for many of these word-lists, with things like arms and legs, bowls and cups, or eating and sitting, being the most common terms. For example, many of the words from Arriaga’s later Castilian-Quechua word-list are food items, indicating that interviews often took place around meals (Extirpación 189-90).32 The aesthetic quality of the list can be found in the plot-like structure that moves from common substantives, to verbs, to abstractions like color, and finally to the invocation of religious figures – incrementum, from simple to complex. Rhetorically, the list itself also functions to lend authority to Pigafetta as eye-witness (or ear-witness) testimony (see Voigt 25-6), and to provide a level of realist authenticity, for the discourse of the word-list is undeniably distinct from the discourse of the “marvellous,” the wholly new to be scrutinized, that characterized many of the initial travel accounts. It likewise resists the elevated discourse produced by noble warriors, such as in Gaspar Pérez de Villagrá’s New World epic Historia de la nueva México (1610) where the Amerindians harangue their troops in speeches similar to Thucydides’s Greeks regardless of Pérez de Villagrá’s ignorance of their language. The word-lists produce a fine-textured reality in the systematic difference of lexical terms. Although Paul the “Patagonian giant” is identified as a kind of monster – much like the cynocephali, cyclops, blemmyae, and Amazons “found” in the New World – he is confirmed as rational and human through his use of language.33 Stephen Asma notes that, while ancient Greeks and Romans admitted “whole classes of unclassifiable creatures” into “the category of human,” speaking monsters were a problem for medieval and early modern Christians 	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  32 The modern English translation of this text is unique among the literature I have surveyed in providing an expanded rather than a reduced version of the word-list (Extirpation 175-85.) 33 For some. In his famous debate with Bartolomé de Las Casas in Valladolid in 1550-51, Juan Ginés de Sepúlveda compared the linguistic and architectural accomplishments of the Amerindians to those of ingenious animals like parrots, spiders, and bees (Elliott, The Old World 43-45).  	  74 because it raised the question of their possible redemption through the Gospels, exemplified in Eastern Orthodox depictions of the dog-headed Saint Christopher (On Monsters 37).  The bilingual word-list, then, asserts the humanity of the language consultant while simultaneously the main narrative, the estrangement of the vocabulary from its context, and the interviewer’s actions all deny that very humanity. The Amerindian speaker at the same time articulates words while he is de-articulated from his very own speech. My speculative reading establishes the Tehuelche as an active participant in a narrative of colonial language exchange, one who learns to respond to the interviewer’s queries and resists mightily his abduction and enslavement. The act of re-articulation, which reveals the complexity of the language exchange and integrates the lexical items into the coercive consultation event, is for this reason an ethical response to the historical account, for it creates a fuller image of the colonial language encounter than the one that the writers give us. 2.9 Conclusion My approach to the initial stage in linguistic imperialism represents the English and Spanish sharing an unsophisticated and often impromptu linguistic tradition in the word-list, one that explorers, historians, and colonists wrote to give testimony of the New World, a fragment of linguistic expression “to profit or to delight, to say what shall be pleasing and at the same time helpful” (Horace, Ars Poetica 58). In Marvelous Possessions, Greenblatt writes, “Narratives that represent Indians and Spaniards in sophisticated dialogue are, [Las Casas] suggests, most often intentional falsifications, designed to make the arbitrary and violent actions of the conquistadors appear more just than they actually were” (95). Reading from the coercive consultation event in Pigafetta’s journal shows us how the analysis of the bilingual word-list gives a more problematic, historically grounded, yet speculative description of the “sophisticated dialogues” reported in the literature of conquest. In this  	  75 exchange we witness power relations typical of the colonial language encounter in which Amerindians are abducted through subterfuge, restrained by shackles, forced into dependence on the captors for food and water, and interviewed under duress. The terms of the word-list rise incrementally in abstraction, from concrete, ready-at-hand object-names that can be denoted easily enough, to verbs relevant to the consultation, to substantives that stubbornly resist ostension. By treating the word-list as a drama that occurs in real-time – as Pigafetta admits – the narrative of a colonial encounter that is otherwise de-narrativized in the travel account emerges from the empty spaces. Recognizable patterns will begin to cohere as I apply the same hermeneutics to several other bilingual word-lists of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, turning now to a survey of both the English and Spanish’s initial response to the problem of language difference in the Americas.                        	  76 3 Early Modern Word-Lists: Restoring Historical Context and the Source of Linguistic Knowledge 3.1 Introduction Tzvetan Todorov’s The Conquest of America: The Question of the Other (1982) introduced to literary scholars and historians alike an exciting and illuminating approach to the study of empire by focusing on the semiotic exchange between Europeans and Amerindians, or more specifically, Spaniards and the Tainos, Mexica, and Maya they contacted and colonized. Despite the major flaws of his study, which unfortunately categorized Amerindian writing systems as “primitive,” his focus on the linguistic component of imperialism was novel and occasioned a large number of later studies concerned with the language encounter.34  Not exclusively interested in the construction of the self and Other in linguistic imperialism, the following texts nonetheless build from Todorov’s early study: Greenblatt’s Learning to Curse (1990) and Marvelous Possessions (1991), Eric Cheyfitz’s The Poetics of Imperialism (1991), Peter Hulme’s Colonial Encounters (1992), Walter Mignolo’s The Darker Side of the Renaissance (1995), Edward Gray’s New World Babel (1999), Edward Gray and Norman Fiering’s The Language Encounter in the Americas, 1492-1800 (2000), David Murray’s Forked Tongues (1991) and Indian Giving (2000), Rebecca Ann Bach’s Colonial Transformations (2000), Jorge Cañizares-Esguerra’s How to Write a History of the New World (2001), and David Rojinsky’s Companion to Empire (2010), among others. Apparent from this list is the deepening and broadening investigation into the language encounter between Europeans and Amerindians in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Many of these investigations make brief mention of the bilingual 	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  34 There are numerous criticisms of the evolutionary model that defines Todorov’s understanding of societies, which crudely falls into a discourse of “advanced” versus “primitive” cultures. See Cheyfitz, Poetics of Empire (xxiv), Rojinsky, Companion to Empire (225), Greenblatt, Marvelous Possessions (11-12, 99), Pastor, “Utopía y conquista” (108), Brotherston, “Grammatology” (63), and Lepore, Name of War (26), among others.  	  77 word-lists of early modern travel accounts and histories, though only Murray’s Indian Giving offers a sustained reading of that early textual representation of the language exchange, making his analysis of the “Vocabvla Barbara,” John Smith’s Map of Virginia, and Roger William’s A key into the language of America both unique and insightful. Murray focuses on the linguistic, religious, and material economies of exchange in these word-lists, yet this nearest approximation to the Amerindian word-lists does not attempt to reconstruct the moment of exchange, in part because one primary text, Williams’s A key into the language of America, was written alone by the English trader and missionary on his voyage home from the colonies. Despite a rich tradition of scholarly interventions into the field of linguistic imperialism and the early modern language encounter, there are no thorough attempts to re-articulate the precise moment of the coercive consultation event back into the historical narrative.  Because of the strange quality of the word-lists, certain colonial narratives have not yet been brought to light and certain narrative contradictions, or aporias, have not been questioned adequately. The previous chapter developed some of the tools necessary for analyzing the word-lists, these strange narratives that arrive to us in de-narrativized form. Here I will deploy narrative re-articulation to a survey of English and Spanish word-lists in order to bring up to the level of narrative the coercive consultation events that precipitate the writing of the Amerindian word-lists, as well as consider an Amerindian perspective on the translations made by Europeans. In the first section I read Hakluyt’s Principal Navigations (1589) where we encounter a violent scene from Martin Frobisher’s expedition (1576) that appears to deny the possibility of language exchange. Through a contextual reading and an awareness of merismus, I discover the body of the most likely Amerindian to contribute to the word-list. The second example is likewise from Hakluyt’s collection of English and Spanish travel accounts, this time from the voyage of John Davis (1585). Here I develop further the  	  78 implications of sexual intimacy and reproduction hinted at in the travel account of Cabeza de Vaca and I elaborate the concept of colonial decency, whereby certain unsavoury events are repressed in the narration of colonial encounters. The third text, John Smith’s Map of Virginia (1612), is similar to the first in being an example of the extreme violence that was often a condition necessary for the possibility of the word-list; the rhetorical strategy of congeries allows me to bring together certain lexical items into groups that then form into a coherent narrative of the coercive consultation event. The fourth text will function differently from the previous ones because it will provide us with a view of the language exchange from a mestizo author whose identity as an Amerindian is founded on his mastery of an Amerindian language. Inca Garcilaso de la Vega complicates the “fiction of translation” in his Comentarios reales (1609) by subverting and refuting Spanish translations of Quechua words and thus presents us with what I call “counter-translation,” the purposeful retranslation and denial of translatability by a native speaker. De la Vega’s views on translation are relevant to the word-list later published in Pablo José de Arriaga’s La extirpación de la idolatría en el Piru (1621). Finally, the fifth text presents us with the most felicitous outcome of our interrogation of the word-lists by establishing the collaboration of an Amerindian language consultant, the Powhatan Kempes. William Strachey’s Historie of Travell into Virginia Britania (1612) is therefore the final text in my survey of the word-list because it gives us a glimpse of the often-erased Amerindian translator whom I discover only by pushing against the colonial impulse to negate Amerindian presence and by re-articulating the word-list to the main narrative. 3.2 Merismus: “he bit his tong in twayne within his mouth” Peacham’s rhetorical category of merismus is important for understanding both the effect of the word-list on the reader and the ideological underpinning of its construction.  	  79 The Oxford English Dictionary defines merismus as “A form of synecdoche in which two [or more] contrasting or complementary parts are made to represent the whole” (“Merismus”). The effect is a kind of atomistic view of the world in parts, the existence of a person or thing denoted by the de-articulated presence of its individual components. As a feature of de-articulation, this atomization likewise results in the Amerindian languages being represented in individual parts, predominantly isolated noun-words. The ideological underpinning is one in which full presence, perhaps given by the name of the person or thing, is merely suggested by the parts themselves, thus leaving the representation of the whole to mere rhetorical effect. That is, the atomization of a language consultant, for example, is consistent with an ideology of domination that interpolates him or her as a functional part of imperial expansion, one who translates to the benefit of colonists. In this first analysis, merismus plays an important role in the representation of the language slave and also in his reaction to the coercive consultation event. This word-list occurs in Martin Frobisher’s voyage to North America in search of the Northwest Passage to Cathay (China). This English-Inuktitut word-list is included in Christopher Hall’s narrative of the expedition which is edited and compiled in Hakluyt’s Principal Navigations (1589) where at least five other bilingual word-lists are presented in the volumes relating to the Americas (although the list included in Francis Drake’s account of the circumnavigation is from Java). Unlike Pigafetta’s description of the language encounter, this narrative leaves the consultation event entirely de-articulated and omitted from the travel account. There is no explicit indication of the source of the Amerindian words, yet the narrative indicates a likely consultant when Frobisher and his crew, like Colón and Magalhães before him, abduct an Inuit man through subterfuge. While searching for five English sailors taken by the Amerindians, Hall describes Frobisher’s crew drawing their ship  	  80 near a number of fishing Inuit to gain information, and momentarily frustrated in their attempts, they “intised one boate to our ships side, with a Bell, and in giuing him the Bell, we tooke him, and his boate, and so kept him” (Hakluyt 80). This is all the information that Hall provides regarding the Inuit man whose speech is de-articulated from the narrative, appearing as a language supplement without a source, “The language of the people of Meta incognita” (81): Argoteyt, a hand. Cangnawe, a nose. Arered, an eye. Keiotot, a tooth. Mutchatet, the head. Chewat, an eare. Comagaye, a legge. Atoniagay, a foote. Callagay, a paire of breeches. Attegay, a coate. Polleuetagay, a knife. Accaskay, a shippe. Coblone, a thumbe. Teckkere, the foremost finger. Ketteckle, the middle finger. Mekellacane, the fourth finger. Yacketrone, the little finger.  	  81 Like the Patagonians, the Inuit man is abducted through subterfuge and yet unlike “Paul” he remains unnamed and physically undescribed. In George Best’s version of events, he refers to the Inuit as Frobisher’s “newe pray (which was sufficient witnesse of the captaines farre and tedious travell towards the unknown partes of the worlde […] whose language was neyther knowne nor understood of anye” (A True Discourse 74).35 The abduction of the Amerindian will prove the expedition’s passage to the Americas and Best clearly suggests that his language was heard and yet not understood. This final point creates a problem for the narrative, an aporia. The word-list appears as a kind of disjecta membra after the travel account. The Inuit hostage is taken aboard in Hall’s account and then disappears from his narrative, the only indication of his continued presence on the return trip home is the appearance of the word-list that appends – without comment on its origin or the process of language exchange  – his narrative of Frobisher’s voyage. It is as if the abducted Amerindian were swallowed by the ship that carries him as an unwilling captive back to England with the crew, and that his only means of expression is the anaemic “dialogue” that is offered as a supplement to the text.36 Yet Hall, Best, and Michael Lok all record the abduction event differently, leaving the word-list in an even more precarious relation to the main narrative of the colonial encounter. Best reports of the kidnapping that when the Inuit “founde himself in captivitie, for very choler and disdain, he bit his tong in twayne within his mouth,” a wound that leads to his death a short time after his arrival in London (74; see also Vaughan 2). Hall and Lok fail to mention the Inuit’s brave and tragic severing of his own tongue and Lok appears to contradict the 	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  35 Best does not include the Inuktitut word-list in his version of the first voyage. 36 Although the Inuit’s forced sojourn to London was brief, he was exhibited for profit both in life and death and his portrait was drawn by a number of artists, two of which were hired by the Cathay Company (Vaughan 3). “Had the captive of 1571 lived,” writes Vaughan, “he would surely have been trained as an interpreter for Frobisher’s second voyage to Meta Incognita” (4).  	  82 chronology of Best’s account, stating that after abduction Frobisher “made signes to him presently that yf he would bring his [5] men he should go againe at liberty, but he would not seem to vnderstand his meaning,” adding later, “the capitayn […] could here no newes of his men nor bote nor could perceive by the prysoner [w]hat wold come agayn” (86). In Lok’s narrative, then, the Inuit man does not immediately sever his own tongue but is put under “sure garde” and Frobisher confers with him first through gesture and again through some unknown medium, possibly speech. It is unusual that Lok would fail to mention that one of the reasons for the breakdown in communication was the fact that the Inuit no longer had a tongue. It is possible that the Inuit’s violent reaction was made with the full knowledge that humans were abducted for the information they possessed (whether linguistic data or geographical knowledge) and biting off his tongue assured the safety of his community by protecting them from abduction or reprisal.37 In both Best’s and Lok’s account, the compatriots of the Inuit man call to him frantically from the shore, described as “hallowing or howling showts” (86). The actual unfolding of the consultation event is elided from all of the narratives and this fact creates an almost irresolvable aporia of a potentially tongue-less language consultant.38 By biting his tongue off the Inuit prevents himself from becoming a lengua and creates for our investigation an almost insurmountable problem: How do we identify the source of the Inuktitut language data if the only acknowledged captive is 	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  37 Another possible motivation is the captive’s belief in the mystical power of language, an avenue of investigation that I have not pursued here. The vitality of cabalism in the early modern period and Queen Elizabeth’s arcane philosopher John Dee’s search for a universal language suggest that belief in the magical properties of language was not uncommon. See Eco, The Search for the Perfect Language; Hudson, Writing and European Thought; and Olender, Las lenguas del paraíso. 38 It is also possible that, like Paul before him, this Amerindian language slave appears in Shakespeare’s The Tempest when Trinculo quips that Englishmen “will not give a doit to relieve a lame beggar,” but “will lay out ten so see a dead Indian” (2.2.31-2). Weaver connects this line to the more temporally proximate arrival of the Amerindians abducted by George Waymouth in 1605 (Red Atlantic 57-8).  	  83 physically incapable of speech? It seems that given this problem of identification my reconstruction of the coercive consultation event is even more necessary because it restores to the historical narrative an event that is impossible within the account provided by the chroniclers and explorers. We also must not ignore the distinct possibility that the sequence of events is reversed in the travel account and that the Inuit man bit off his tongue because of the consultation event. With this in mind, I examine the word-list as the only entry point to the details of this particularly violent language exchange. The overwhelming presence of the body in this list serves as a narrative substitute for the body of the abducted Inuit who is negated by the historical record. While it is certain that there is a level of intimacy that occurs in the naming of body parts, one also has the sense that the interaction is spatially limited because the range of substantives is so narrow. That is, the setting for the consultation event is given in the translation (“Accaskay, a shippe”), but does not move further beyond the body than garments (“Callagay, a paire of breeches;” “Attegay, a coate”) and personal belongings (“Polleuetagay, a knife”) (Hakluyt 81), the last item suggestive of either trade or physical threats or both. Knives were indispensible tools and therefore popular trade items. John Janes, for example, notes in a later travel account that the Inuit are especially interested in trading for iron (238). Yet just as the knife may represent the promise of reward for the Inuit man’s compliance in the language exchange, it may also present a threat directed at him for a refusal to articulate the words that his captors try to elicit. With the presence of the word, it is clear that the English imposed their morphosyntactics on Inuktitut, dividing the polysynthetic language into parts that were not natural to the structure of the language. The consultation also involved a complex process of ostension because of the limited exposure that the English and Inuit had to each other’s language. To speculate: we can imagine the two interlocutors sitting across  	  84 from each other, the Inuit restrained in shackles, the European setting his paper, pen, and ink before him, just as Pigafetta did fifty years earlier. There may be a number of crewmembers watching in the wings. The Englishman dictates the terms of the language exchange by pointing to a body part (“Arered, an eye”), he records the answer, repeats it to his captive while pointing to his eye, corrects the transcription and moves on to the next item.  Thus begins merismus as the Inuit is represented through parts. Thus, also, do we have a conversation that suggests physical intimacy, the touching of one’s own body and the body of the other. The vocabulary is short, suggesting that the consultation event was unproductive and devolved into confused misunderstanding, or the abducted Inuit was uncooperative, or that he forced the interview to end by silencing himself permanently, biting out his own tongue. There is no explicit indication of the amount of time spent coaxing linguistic data from the slave, but seventeen total lexemes is a rather poor inventory for even a short interview. The field of reference for this list is so limited, so microscopic, that one has the sense of close-quarters, restraint, and resistance. Beginning with “Argoteyt, a hand” and digressing through other substantives, the list ends with the parts of the hand: “Coblone, a thumbe;” “Teckkere, the foremost finger;” “Ketteckle, the middle finger;” “Mekellacane, the fourth finger;” “Yacketrone, the little finger” (81). The fact that the hand is so central to this narrative is peculiar and implies that the consultation involved a level of physical intimacy; the touching of the hand and the fingers would, however, constitute an event of dangerous proximity with a furious and frightened hostage. If we consider that merismus is a rhetorical device for dividing up the world, one must wonder what purpose the dividing the Inuit’s body to such a degree would serve colonists and explorers? Is it solely the manufacture of authority in the writer? In a text that ostensibly serves to inform readers  	  85 and potential colonists about the New World the division of the body into parts and the parts into sub-parts would under no conditions be considered utile however dulce it might otherwise seem. The body is therefore asserted in the de-articulated narrative as the source of language learning through denotation. Christopher Hall’s Inuktitut word-list from Frobisher’s first voyage to Meta Incognita presents a narrative lacuna in the place of the language consultant. From the accounts of George Best and Michael Lok, the Inuit man who approaches the Gabriel to catch a bell that Frobisher purposefully throws short is the same Inuit who bites his tongue off out of “coller.” Hall, however, makes no note of his tongue being bitten off nor does he indicate the source of the linguistic data. Yet the word-list appears in Hakluyt’s anthology directly after Hall’s narrative of the first Frobisher expedition. What are we to make of this? A few possibilities present themselves: there is either a different Inuit consultant who is the source of the Inuktitut words and who is never mentioned by the travel account; or, the enraged Inuit who literally de-articulates himself did so after the coercive consultation event had already begun. Both prospects are troubling. Hall’s word-list of “The language of the people of Meta incognita” is a disconcerting example of Peacham’s merismus, as the presence of the Inuit man is disappeared from the main narrative, his body de-articulated into smaller and smaller parts, until all that is left of him is “the little finger” and a disembodied voice in a linguistic appendix. 3.3 Colonial Decency: “Icune, Come hither” John Janes presents “The language of the Esquimaux” in a bilingual word-list of thirty-seven items that is likewise published in Hakluyt’s Principal Navigations.39 A merchant in 	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  39 Volume XIV contains a word-list from Jacques Cartier’s second voyage, but, as is typical, it is much reduced from the original five-page list in The Voyage of Jacques Cartier (English translation 1580). Hakluyt provides no explanation for this editorial decision.   	  86 the crew of the 1585 voyage of John Davis also in search of the Northwest Passage, Janes writes a word-list that is an early example of the inclusion of phrases and the suggestion of omitted scenes of sexual intimacy. In the previous chapter I noted that early modern narratives of encounters with Amerindians often purposefully omitted the representation of sexual intimacy and reproduction, such as in Cabeza de Vaca’s Naufragios. Perhaps because of his role as a merchant, Janes’s narrative is laden with lists, especially of commodities and especially when recounting the moments in which the “theeuish Islanders” steal from the ship while on board for trading purposes (238). These commodity lists provide an implicit narrative of the material exchange between the English and the Inuit, a process documented thoroughly by David Murray in Indian Giving. Despite being a merchant, Janes has difficulty recognizing that the “Seale skinnes, and sammon peale” brought on board are not tribute to the English but rather part of the material economy of exchange founded on the gift as described by Murray (Indian Giving 20, 39). Janes’s narrative is antagonistic to the presence of the Inuit despite the evidence of mutually beneficial trade and the curiously intimate tone in the de-articulated encounter of the word-list. It appears that the consultation event occurred on the main deck and likely during one of these lively trading sessions, though the only explicit information Janes provides is, “they pronounce their language very hollow, and deepe in the throat: these words following we learned from them” (Hakluyt 238-9). Noel Elizabeth Currie finds that many travel accounts describing colonial encounters “render [women] invisible in the account of the voyage” and that their presence can only be restored through analysis of textual supplements, such as illustrations or engravings or, in our case, word-lists (Constructing Colonial Discourse 77). In John Janes’s account there are no women. But then there is also no distinction between genders whatever, the Inuit being referred to as simply “these people” and “Islanders.” Nor is it absolutely necessary that  	  87 women be involved in what emerges from the word-list as a scene of close physical proximity, celebration, and possible seduction. Currie’s intelligent reading of the illustrations in James Cook’s Voyages (1784) represent a parallel investigation into the de-articulated colonial encounters residing in supplementary textual features and her analysis reveals how a colonial discourse of impartiality, commercial trade, and scientific rigor can obscure the more salacious and perhaps rapacious aspects of the text. 40 Although Currie refers to the obfuscating character of the travel account as “colonial discourse” generally, her analysis of the Nootka Sound encounter coupled with my own reading of Janes’s encounter with the Inuit as represented by the word-list more precisely contribute to what I call colonial decency, the purposeful elision of sexual relations between Europeans and indigenous peoples.41 	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  40 Murray notes that a similar concern for sexual reserve and decorum led to a phrase in William Wood’s New-England’s Prospect (1634) being concealed behind a Latin translation. Only in a 1639 edition does the phrase appear in English as “kiss my arsehole” (Indian Giving 215). Although Douglas, who was canon of St. Paul’s, redacted sexual encounters between the English and the islanders from Cook’s journal, the contents of the word-list cohere into vignettes of intense physical proximity. In a list of over 1200 lexical items, Cook provides translations for body parts, painting little scenes of familiarity: “Punctuated Arches on the hips,” “The Hips,” “Hips, the back punctuated arches of the hips;” “A black Mark on the skin,” “A Mole upon the skin;” “A Pimple” followed by “To pinch with the fingers;” “The Veins that run under the skin;” “The Nipple of the breast;” “Tickle, to tickle a person;” “The Part below the tongue;” and the most suggestive sequence, “To grasp with the hand, “Grasping the antagonist’s thigh when dancing,” “To groan,” “The groin,” “To grow as a plant,” “To grunt, or strain”  (Three Voyages, 275-301). There is in the virtual syntax here the implication of scenes involving physical touch and vocal response despite the list following a proscribed alphabetic order. Bear in mind that the choice of lexemes is not absolutely determined by alphabetical order, for any particular item might be replaced by a number of synonyms. This suggestive vignette is not exceptional in the narrative that emerges from Cook’s word-list, yet it does contradict Douglas’s excised edition of Cook’s the travel account.  41 The suggestion that explorers and their crews had sexual relations with indigenous people, often through abduction and rape, is supported by the development of rules precisely prohibiting those actions, such as in the Orders to bee observed by the Commanders of the Fleet, and land Companies, under the charge and conduct of Sr. Walter Rauleigh (1617). This text, published in Peter Force’s Tracts and other papers relating principally to the origin, settlement, and progress of the colonies in North America, contains two rules that specifically address the issue: “no Man shall force any woman, bee shee Christian or Heathen upon paine of death” (145) and “you shall not take any thing from any Indian by force, for from thence forth we shall never be releeved; but you must use them with all courtesie” (146).  	  88  Just as the previous word-lists reveal violent details from the language encounter, Janes’s bilingual word-list suggests events of physical intimacy, yet is somewhat more speculative because of the limited number of translated words. Furthermore, unlike the earlier coercive consultation events, Janes does not indicate that there was an abduction precipitating the linguistic exchange and so the identity of the Inuit consultant is an absolute mystery. Contrary to the kidnappings, with the presence of the Inuit on board the ship for the purpose of trade, we can restage a scene that is far more celebratory than punitive. Janes opens the scene by translating the words, “Kesinyo, Eate some” and “Madlycoyte, Musicke,” followed shortly by “Yliaoute, I meane no harme” (Hakluyt 238). The word-list then goes on to offer substantives relevant to a scene of economic exchange as they “go fetch” such items as a dart (spear or harpoon), a knife, iron, a stag, a needle, fish, a skin, a coat, a bracelet, a seal, and thread (238). Interspersed among these substantives are several body parts and verbs of a suggestive nature and it is these terms that form for us a congeries of physical proximity and sexual intimacy. Typical of the body as represented by the word-list is the inclusion of such items as “Vderah, A nose” and “Blete, An eye,” but less typical is the inclusion of “Vgnake, A tongue.” One must ask what interest men such John Janes have in parts of the body that are generally concealed? Is the tongue, as suggested in the previous section, a synecdoche not just for the whole consultant but also for a consultant who functions as an interpreter? The word-list’s narrative of intimacy develops from this uncommon body part and from the inclusion of the revelatory phrase “Canyglow, Kiss me.” If we set these two terms in relation to others, a scene emerges: “Kesinyo, Eate some,” “Madlycoyte, Musicke,” “Yliaoute, I meane no harme,” “Mysacoah, Wash it,” “Canyglow, Kiss me,” “Sambah, Below,” “Cooah, Go to him,” “Icune, Come hither,” “Goucah, Come downe,” “Vgnake, A tongue,”  	  89 “Macuah, A beard,” “Quoysah, Giue it to me” (238). The virtual syntax between these items draws them together into a scene of feasting and music beginning above deck where the English and Inuit mingle. The English musicians in John Davis’s crew play instruments to delight and pacify the Inuit. There is flirtation and coaxing as the two societies engage with each other, the sailors perhaps saying “come hither” in the direction of the companionways leading below deck, suggested twice with “below” and “come down.” The significance of “wash it” is perhaps explained by the experience of Cook’s crew in Nootka Sound. Although Cook’s editor John Douglas purged many scenes of sexual indecency from his account, Currie explains that the illustrations of women from Nootka Sound represent them after a “ceremony of purification” that removed a dark, protective grease from their skin in a prelude to sexual intercourse (Constructing Colonial Discourse 75-7). A discourse of colonial decency in travel accounts make such degrees of intimacy between Europeans and Amerindians, much as other forms of violence, un-narratable, and so we must search for them in recondite textual features. Janes’s word-list is unusual for this collection in that the coercive consultation event appears to have been occasioned by trade and a scene of music and feasting. The celebratory and intimate tone of the word-list suggests that the language exchange was not prefaced by abduction, confinement, and restraint. Perhaps it is for this reason that Janes includes a translation for a delicate and hidden body part and why the narrative of the word-list is more of merriment, negotiation, and persuasion. Although the language consultant is unnamed here, we are not given the impression either by the travel account’s main narrative or the word-list that the elicitation process anticipated his or her death. By connecting phrases and substantives into islands of significance, creating a congeries of unusual body parts or dialogue uncharacteristic of trade, the virtual syntax begins to tell a story utterly ignored and  	  90 omitted by the main narrative. A deep reading of these word-lists, however, is always on the point of breaking rather than bending the text – pushing it beyond historical verifiability. Nonetheless, it is because of the paucity of narrative material, the way that scant narrative material contradicts the main narrative, and the conscious efforts to suppress certain details – such as Douglas’s concern for decency – that a speculative reading is appropriate.  3.4 Congeries: “Ka ka torawincs yowo . What call you this [?]” John Smith’s accounts of the settlement of Jamestown in 1606 and his tense negotiations with the Powhatan are the site of much recent literary criticism. Murray’s Indian Giving provides a brief but exceptional reading of Smith’s Powhatan (also called Virginia Algonquian) word-list published in the preface to his Map of Virginia (1612), though Murray does not speculate on the necessary and hidden consultation event. Philip Barbour’s introduction to the Complete Works of Captain John Smith notes that, while humbly apologizing for “his own rough pen,” Smith “left to posterity one of the basic ethnological studies of the tidewater Algonkians of the early seventeenth century” (“Introduction” lx). “[Smith’s] writings,” declares Barbour, “reflect weakness and uncertainty in style, conservative use of dialect words in English in company with occasional borrowings from foreign languages, and the particularity of putting down his thoughts at random, in his own way, with little regard to organization” (lxix). This lack of regard for organization is what characterizes the “forty-six random words” of Smith’s Powhatan word-list, which additionally includes “the numerals from one to ten, twenty to a hundred by tens, and a thousand, and ten phrases or sentences” (Barbour, “Earliest Reconnaissance” 21).  Of all the word-lists I’ve encountered, Smith’s has attracted the most scholarly attention. Barbour demonstrates that both Smith and William Strachey drew knowledge from Hakluyt’s Principal Navigation, especially the few Carolina Algonquian words found in  	  91 Thomas Hariot’s account of the Roanoke colony, A Brief and True Report of the New Found Land of Virginia (1588) (22).42 Barbour shows that Smith’s flawed understanding of Powhatan propagates errors in translation, such as “crenepo” for “woman,” derived from Hakluyt rather than an Algonquian consultant (35). In Studies in Southeastern Indian Languages James Crawford notes that, because missionary activity was absent in Virginia and North Carolina, our knowledge of the Algonquian languages there are “restricted to a few poorly recorded vocabularies” (7). Frank Siebert attempts to question, verify, and correct Smith’s Powhatan translations through historical linguistics and reveals Smith’s rather tenuous grasp on the Algonquian as well as the morphosyntactic gap between the languages. Despite his failings as a linguist, Smith produced a bilingual word-list to inform and delight readers back home. Like many amateur linguists before him, he justifies the inclusion of the list, “Because many doe desire to knowe the maner of their Language, I haue inserted these few words” (Map of Virginia 136).  The problem of language difference was something that Smith was acutely aware of and even if his linguistic efforts were clumsy, it seems he genuinely desired to instruct the English in Powhatan culture and language. Smith’s attempts to foster an alliance with the Powhatan Algonquians are credited with saving the faltering colony and because of these complex and dangerous negotiations his writing is invaluable for historical linguists as well as historians and literary scholars of early America. To improve communication between the societies he delivered two young boys to Wahunsenacawh to serve as language slaves, Thomas Savage and Henry Spelman. The second of these was later killed, like many interpreters, for suspicions of his allegiance in the retaliation of the Patowemeke for a 	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  42 Hariot’s work contains the first example of the term for chief among the Powhatan, werowance (OED). Hariot writes, “In some places of the countrey one onely towne belongeth to the gouernment of a Wiróans or chiefe Lorde” (Brief and True Report 48).  	  92 massacre committed by the English (in which poor Spelman was not involved) (Bach, Colonial Transformations 22). Not only were interpreters created through violence, they were also subject to constant suspicion that could lead to their death through violence. For a poignant example, Jill Lepore quotes a 1675 letter from John Allyn to Fitz-John Winthrop: “beware of having any linguist in your company, least he so hide himself as that you leave him behind you!” (Name of War 43). While Smith provides no explicit indication of the word-list’s audience, his promotion of colonization through the Virginia Company and his awareness of the problem of language difference indicate that this list was conceived as a primer for future colonists and a glossary to facilitate comprehension of his Map. Yet the contents of the word-list are not obviously beneficial for colonization nor are they contextually specific in the way of Richard Eden’s colonial vocabulary.  Printed after his return to England, the Map of Virginia represents one of the many promotional tracts published by the Virginia Company in the hope of attracting investors and colonists to the struggling settlement. The Powhatan-English word-list appends the document without indication of its source and precedes a map of tidewater Virginia (with many Algonquian place-names) and the narrative of the first year of colonization from Smith’s point-of-view. This lack of any context again presents the word-list as disjecta membra. It begins with a phrase that begs the translation of an object’s name: “Ka ka torawincs yowo. What call you this” (136). Oddly, the phrase is not punctuated with a question mark, giving it a rather petulant tone from the beginning. In this phrase we also have an example of language learning that is incomprehensible without ostension. The meaning of the phrase can only be completed through gesturing to an object present at the language encounter and using the demonstrative. Wittgenstein perceptibly notes that “the word ‘this’ has been called the only genuine name; so that anything else we call a name was one only in an inexact,  	  93 approximate sense” (PI §38). The “this” of the interrogatory phrase thrusts us into the language encounter as it gestures toward the object of inquiry, the thing or person denoted. From Smith’s initial translation, we have the expression of a desire to learn and also a recognition of the problem of language difference. The English reader is taught first and foremost to ask for the names of things and to gesture at them, and they are also taught, through the absence of a question mark, a rather haughty tone consistent with Smith’s style and political reputation. The representation of the Powhatan language in individual words exemplifies the theory of the word and signifies an important orthographical decision by Smith, who divides the initial phrase into four distinct words and in so doing establishes writing conventions for English audiences. Dixon and Aikhenvald, citing Van Wyk, describe two different conventions for writing word divisions: disjunctive, “according to which relatively simple, and, therefore, relatively short, linguistic units are written and regarded as words,” and conjunctive, “according to which simple units are joined to form long words with complex morphological structures” (Word 8). From my discussion of the word in the previous chapter it should be apparent that neither of these approaches to representing language in phonemic writing is founded on a unit naturally occurring in polysynthetic languages such as Powhatan. Smith’s decision to represent “What call you this” disjunctively gives a false impression to the English reader that the content of this phrase could be parsed into individual words. His desire to make Powhatan more like English creates spaces and potential pauses, as he also does with “woyawgh tawgh” for “I am hungry,” which Barbour notes, “should probably be one word” (“Earliest Reconnaissance” 47).  Turning to the contents of Smith’s Powhatan translations, we find a logic of trade and economy in the terms of word-list, a natural colonial vocabulary that is perturbed by  	  94 later lexical items. There is also a miscellaneousness to the non-alphabetical list and certain words shock the reader with their abrupt change in register and context. Because the list is short, I will narrate it briefly in a modern English translation: man, woman, boy, houses, skins or garments, shoes, beds, fire, bow, arrows, swords, target (shield), guns, axes, pickaxes, knives, shears, pipes, copper, metal, woods, leaves, land, stone, cuckold, water, fish, sturgeon, flesh, blood, friends, enemies, the worst enemies, the best friends, followed by some phrases and basic numbers, then days, suns, nights, moons, years, stars, heavens, gods, petty gods, deaths, lives, and additional phrases (Smith 136). One can see the settlers’ benefit in learning the names of objects highly prized by the Powhatans, especially the metal commodities for which new words were invented, such as “Accowprets” for “shears,” which Barbour calls “a made-up name for a novel artefact” (“Earliest Reconnaissance” 31). But the word-list surprises in its obtuseness. There are no translations for the common foods that proved essential to the survival of Jamestown, such as corn, deer, eels, and shellfish, or the kinship relations that were essential in building cultural dialogue, such as father and brother. Defying colonial decency, the inclusion of the lexical item “cuckold” as “wepenter” is almost comical in its inutility: it is pure miscellaneousness, almost a puckish ploy for outrage. Although these substantives (there are no verbs outside the sentences) reflect trade, the inclusion of “cuckold” represents for Karen Robertson “one fissure of curiosity about patriarchal sexual arrangements intersecting the material” (qtd. in Murray, Indian Giving 84). I say that there are no verbs, but this is misleading, for a closer look at Smith’s “cuckold” reveals the “word” to be a far more ambiguous action. “Wepenter,” for which Barbour proposes the correction “wepenten,” is more accurately “to lie with” or “to lie with each other” or “he sleeps with him or her” (“Earliest Reconnaissance” 46). Barbour reconstructs the meaning by comparing the Powhatan with Natick, Delaware, and Cree, and in no  	  95 instance does he discover a connotation of infidelity or wounded masculine pride. Robertson’s encountering “patriarchal sexual arrangements” in the word reflects more about Smith’s miscomprehension of the Powhatan language and his own sexual desire than it does about any real Powhatan cultural category, a situation tantamount to Lodge’s reading of Fitzgerald’s list in the previous chapter. Jeffrey Knapp categorizes this strange lexeme as a joke, writing, “What looks frivolous about the vocabulary […] is that Smith lists too ‘few’ [Powhatan words] to make the vocabulary useful, [and] makes jokes about the list (for instance, by inserting among the words for land, stone, water, and fish the Indian term for cuckold)” (Empire Nowhere 209). Nevertheless, I find this stylistic explanation contrary to Smith’s petulant, self-important discourse that so much ostracized him from the Jamestown founders. Smith’s (and later Strachey’s) representation of the wives of Wahunsenacawh as an oriental harem, as well as Smith’s captivity and professed sexual liaison with his Turkish master’s Greek mistress while he was a slave, may inform this lexeme more than anything else. Then again, it could merely be a huckster’s wink, for Smith was an accomplished propagandist who tenaciously built support for the colonial project by any means.  But where does this word-list come from? We know that Smith composed the Map of Virginia when he was already back in England. As with many of the colonizers, Smith kept a journal, though it is unclear if it is from this journal, his memory, or some other texts that the word-list was developed. His drawing the term “crenepo” from an English source-text seems to indicate that Smith referred and possibly deferred to other colonial narratives. Bach speculates that Smith had access to Strachey’s Powhatan word-list, though this is somewhat obviated by their distinct translations for the word “cuckold:” “wepenter” vs. “winpenton” (Colonial Transformations 212). There are no scenes of explicit language consultation to which we can point with absolute certainty in Smith’s narrative of the settlement of Jamestown and,  	  96 as indicated, the word-list appears wholly beyond context. However, in his earlier publication A True Relation of Such Occurrences and Accidents of Noate as Hath Hapned in Virginia (1608) there is a scene of colonial encounter suggestive of linguistic consultation which is often overlooked in the discussion of Smith’s managing of the Jamestown settlement.  Because of the tense and often violent relations with the Virginia natives there was suspicion that additional ambushes were being plotted, so the counsel at Jamestown desired credible information on the Amerindians’ war plans. Taking action, Smith relates a scene in which we recognize many of the elements common to the coercive consultation event:  The Counsell concluded that I should terrifie them with some torture, to know if I could know their intent. The next day I bound one in hold to the maine Mast, and presenting sixe Muskets with match in the cockes, forced him to desire life, to answere my demaunds he could not, but one of his Comouodos was of the counsel of Paspahegh, that could satisfie me: I, releasing him out of sight, I affrieghted the other, first with the rack, then with Muskets, which seeing, he desired me to stay, and hee would confesse to this execution: Maister Scrivener come, his discourse was to this effect (True Relation 89). At first blush, this event does not appear to be an appropriate source for Powhatan linguistic data, given Smith’s physical and mental occupation with the interrogation. Yet our knowledge of the consultation event as well as further evidence makes this scene of forced consolation a plausible source for at least some of Smith’s word-list. It is, first and foremost, a scene of extreme coercion. It includes the abduction of two Amerindians, threats to one of their lives, his restraint by ropes or fetters, isolation from other community members, and a forced “dialogue” in the Powhatan language that is witnessed by the suggestively-named Matthew Scrivener, an English colonist who was briefly acting governor and later  	  97 Jamestown’s secretary. As Smith was occupied with the torture and interrogation of a man called “Macanoe” (93), it is likely that Scrivener recorded this event because the details of the confession are complicated and include mention of several local Amerindian nations, their plans for ambush, their relations to the Powhatan, and the eventual plot to abduct Captain Newport after a feast set out in his honour. The amount of information attained regarding the intended abduction of Newport strongly suggests that it was deliberately documented; the importance of accurately translating the Powhatan confession likewise recommends a written record. This bit of speculation is supported by Scrivener’s role as colony secretary as well as the following phrases that conclude Smith’s word-list.  Perceiving the consultation process behind the linguistic data, Murray writes, “One of the inherent possibilities of the word-list, especially as it begins to incorporate sentences or phrases as grammatical examples and variations, is dialogue” (86). Unique among critical analyses of these word-lists, however, David Read recognizes “a hidden narrative underlying the otherwise colorless organization,” and provides a brief, two-page reading of the Smith’s Powhatan lexicon (New World, Known World 23). This narrative is drawn out of the brute sequence by the discovery of unifying themes, the identification of rhetorical patterns, and the cementing of a virtual syntax. Read places “two strange sequences” (23) of substantives and phrases in relation because they cohere into congeries, “diverse things of like nature.” These sequences are first, the congeries of substantives related to human bodies (flesh and blood) and human relations (friends, enemies, the worst enemies, the best of friends) and second, the dialogue that ends the word-list. The work of re-articulating the coercive consultation event to the sample of Powhatan words, is entreated by violent confrontation, colonial inutility, and terms of political negotiation suggested in the contents of the list. Although Read never speculates on its origin, he does comment, “The nature of that  	  98 exchange is extremely ambiguous,” and adds, “[t]he interest of the sequence lies in its very impression of historicity, in the way in which it appears to represent a distinct exchange between Smith and the speakers of [Virginia] Algonquian” (24, emphasis mine). This final statement is close to the mark, for the dialogue is far too situational for it to be of any general value, as Read notes, “the utility of the passage for lay students of Algonquian is hard to detect” (24).  The connection between “flesh” and “blood” and the threat of torture is apparent enough and the importance of phrases such as “the worst enemies” and “the best of friends” are also highly relevant to an exchange in which political relations are the subject of interrogation. Likewise, the question “Tawnor nehiegh Powhatan. where dwels Powwhatan” (Map of Virginia 139) is germane to the discussion because the Paspahegh man reveals that the Paspahegh, Chickahamanian, Youghtanum, Pamunka, Mattapanient, and Kiskiack are colluding with Wahunsenacawh to lay a trap for Captain Newport. The later sequence of phrases builds a dramatic tension that is out of the ordinary to a casual encounter between equals. The response to the question above, “Now he dwels a great way hence at Orapaks,” is answered with strong rejection from Smith that smacks of a hard-nosed interrogation, “You lie, he staid ever at Werowocomoco” (139).43 This accusation and the response from the consultant (“Truely he is there I doe not lie” [139]) establish an asymmetrical power relation between the two interlocutors that might not be feasible were the Amerindian consultant not restrained, isolated, or physically threatened. The last three phrases in this situationally fixed and impossible to generalize conversation are commands given to an unseen Amerindian: “Run you then to the king Mawmarynough and bid him come hither,” “Get you gone, & come againe quickly,” and “Bid Pokahontas bring hither two little Baskets, 	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  43 For a discussion of the accusation of lying in Amerindian vocabularies, such as Williams’s A Key to the language of America, see Laura Murray, “Vocabularies of Native American Languages: A Literary and Historical Approach to an Elusive Genre” (596-7).  	  99 and I will give her white beads to make her a chaine” (139). These phrases might be directed to the Paspahegh man who was “releas[ed] […] out of sight” (89) because he held no vital information. The Paspahegh whom Smith threatens and interrogates appears to be Macanoe, though it is difficult to tell from the text because Smith is not overly concerned with naming his Amerindian adversaries individually. He writes of “[t]he confession of Macanoe, which was the counseller of Paspahegh” several pages after the description of the interrogation (93). The fact that the Paspahegh nation paid tribute to the Powhatans means Macanoe would be familiar with Wahunsenacawh’s daughter, Pocahontas, who provided the Jamestown colony with food for survival on a number of occasions, thus the “two little Baskets” that Smith demands. Not only is the word-list not discordant to a scene of violent interrogation, it veritably harmonizes with this specific, historical moment.  This re-articulation of the Powhatan word-list attempts to re-establish the “historicity” of a dialogue that is de-historicized by the structure of the list, its isolation from the main narrative, and the absence of an explicit language exchange in Smith’s account of the settlement of Jamestown. The presence of the known scribe Matthew Scrivener at the scene of torture and interrogation, the complexity of the information conveyed to Smith by the Paspahegh men, and our knowledge of the armature of the coercive consultation event (the fetters and weapons and writing instruments) give the word-list a coherence that is otherwise absent. The arbitrariness that characterizes Smith’s style, his “putting down his thoughts at random, in his own way, with little regard to organization,” conceal what is, by all indications, a historical encounter between the author and a language consultant, and not just a consultant, but one under extreme duress. My re-articulation of a historical scene to the word-list, each occurring in texts published four years apart, is a response to that initial question posed by Smith, “What call you this[?]” For the ostensible utility of the list is denied  	  100 by its very contents, and the actual scene of language exchange suggested by the demonstrative “this” is refused by the de-articulation of the list from the narrative – we have ostensive definition and the disappearance of the object simultaneously.  The militarization of the political relations with the Powhatan developed from Smith’s predominance in the beginning years of colonization and his successful courting of  Wahunsenacawh’s mercy and allegiance. Linguistic exchange between the English and the Powhatans was primarily for the sake of trade, as indicated obliquely by the contents of Smith’s word-list, but it was highly restricted to the military hierarchy that dominated intercultural relations, as testified by the instructions to colonists written by Thomas Gates et al, For the Colony in Virginea Britannia. Lawes Divine, Moral and Martiall (1612), edited by William Strachey. These instructions are deeply concerned with language use and include strictures against cursing, blasphemy, and sedition, as well as prohibitions against unauthorized trade with the Virginia natives (Gates 36-47). Wahunsenacawh is mentioned by name in the law: “No man or woman, (upon paine of death) shall runne away from the Colonie, to Powhathan, or any savage Weroance else whatsoever” (50). Likewise, martial law states, “No Souldier may speake or have any private conference with any of the salvages, without leave of his Captaine, nor his Captaine without leave of his chiefe Officer, upon paine of death” (60). What these instructions appear to indicate is that linguistic exchange with the Powhatan was highly formalized within a military structure. Barbour writes, “it is obvious that [Smith’s] instincts were militaristic; discipline and training for self-defence were among his mottos” (lxvii), and adds, “when Smith’s career led him to lay down the musket and the compass, he had to improvise with the pen” (lxix). This scene of torture and interrogation uncannily fits the dialogue that concludes Smith’s word-list and conforms to his character as a soldier-of-fortune turned ethnographer. Reading the word-list as a narrative, regardless of the actual  	  101 source of the linguistic data, draws our attention to the torture of Macanoe in Smith’s A True Relation, a colonial encounter that might otherwise escape a critical reading and remain wholly de-articulated from the consultation event. What is more, the reported speech in the word-list when combined with the scene of torture creates a profounder sense of the word-list belonging to the historical context, which is so important for a more elaborate and forthright narration of historical events.  3.5 Counter-Translations: “what they wanted to understand” An Amerindian author’s commentaries on the translations contained in a Quechua word-list offer for us a unique perspective on European linguistic imperialism, what I call here counter-translation in reference to the idea of the “counter-conquest.”44 Prior to this reading, my analysis has revealed hidden narratives of abduction, confinement, restraint, physical intimacy, and torture. Although colonial in nature and worthy of being reinserted into the historical narrative, the consultation events from which the following word-list was constructed are here bracketed momentarily to allow the intervention of an Amerindian author in the process of translation, a voice that invariably complicates the process of interpretation and reveals the gross simplification of the language exchange as represented by colonists. In order for us to access an Amerindian perspective on sixteenth- and seventeenth-century European imperial literature we must turn to the Spanish tradition, for in the English literature arising out of the colonization of the Americas there are no published Amerindians until the eighteenth century, a problem to which we will return in the 	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  44 In “The Discursive Encounter of Spain and America” Rolena Adorno classifies Cabeza de Vaca’s Naufragios as a “counter-conquest” narrative because, in her interpretation, it advocates a non-military or anti-reconquista approach to the colonization of the Americas (220). She links this to the Apologética historia sumaria and the life-work of Bartolomé de Las Casas, to which we might add other indigenistas like Alonso de la Vera Cruz and Vasco de Quiroga (see also Weaver 216-7). The counter-conquest was not an absolute rejection of Spanish imperial logic so much as an attenuation of expansion through military means.  	  102 following chapter. In this section I examine certain specific translations produced by the Spanish Jesuit Pablo José de Arriaga during a visita to the Andes that sought to discipline Quechua religious practices, by way of a critique of the shortcomings of European representations of the language exchange made by Inca Garcilaso de la Vega. Published in Lima, Arriaga’s La extirpación de la idolatría en el Piru (1621) documents the continuing Amerindian heresies practiced in the Andes and contains as a supplement a word-list of sixty-four Quechua substantives. Although the English translator and editor L. Clark Keating notes that the contemporary Father Dávila claimed Arriaga “did not know the Indian language,” he finds this difficult to believe given his “extensive use of individual words” and “some long phrases” (Extirpation 175). We have seen in examples of figures such as Smith that this understanding of language fluency is somewhat naïve – substantives and phrases do not a language make. Paraphrasing Wittgenstein, it is no more a move than placing the chessmen on the board. Arriaga’s text contains some two hundred Quechua words, largely defined with in-line translation, and a brief word-list that is mostly concerned with culinary items.45 Scattered among the alphabetical items are religious terms such as the word “huaca,” which Arriaga translates as “Ídolo, o adoratorio, tómase también por tesoro” (Extirpación 189) [“idol or place of worship; a sacred object; also taken in the sense of treasure”] (Extirpation 179).46 Steve J. Sterne notes that, igniting in Huamanga, Peru, the religious and political movement of Taki Onqoy or “the dancing sickness” sought to overthrow Christian dominion through the returning strength of the Andean huacas and the 	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  45 An absolute rarity of the tradition, English translator and editor L. Clark Keating not only preserves the word-list but also expands it to include the Quechua words given in-line translation. 46 Arriaga’s in-line presentation of the word as “ídolos y huacas” (“idols and huacas”) creates an equivalence of distance that the word-list closes (Extirpación 8, 14, etc.). Spanish editor Enrique Urbano provides a footnote indicating the same or similar Spanish translations of huaca from as early as 1560 in Domingo de Santo Tomás’s Lexicón o vocabulario de la lengua general de Perú, continuing through three other linguistic texts to the early seventeenth century.  	  103 necessary dissolution of Amerindian-Spanish collaboration in the 1560s (“Paradigms of Conquest” 21). Father Arriaga’s visita to the Andean highlands was motivated by this connection between linguistic, religious, and political practice and similar to the work of Bernardino de Sahagún in New Spain his objective was to secure orthodoxy in the indigenous community by studying their language and religion.  The term huaca is therefore translated as a threat to the Christian mission in Spanish America and as with earlier cases in our investigation, the one-to-one structure of the word-list oversimplifies the cross-cultural translation, a process that Eric Cheyfitz describes as “a congeries of contradictions that attempt to parade as linguistic coherence by constructing a fiction of translation” (Poetics of Imperialism 205). The fiction of translation within a set of contradictions is for Cheyfitz one definition of ideology (205) and we will see here how the mestizo author de la Vega subverts that imperial ideology by redefining or counter-translating Quechua religious terms with a kind of philological jujitsu.  In Language, Authority, and Indigenous History in the Comentarios reales de los Incas, Margarita Zamora argues that de la Vega’s Comentarios reales (1609) deploys early modern philological practices to show how “pagan Incas played a privileged role in Christian history” (4). De la Vega employs linguistic analysis as “a rhetorical strategy for the revision of what [he] considers the false versions of Inca[n] history written by Spaniards, and then, as an essential component in the process of integration and synthesis of two widely divergent worlds – the Incan and the European” (3-4). Rhetorically, he brings pre-Columbian Peru in line with Christian history, and vice versa, by minimizing the claims of heresy made by earlier Spanish clergymen, and characterizing Andean monotheism as proto-Christian (Elliot, Spain, Europe 187). In doing so, de la Vega subverts Spanish authority by demonstrating again and again their linguistic incompetence. His philological project forms part of a tradition of  	  104 Amerindian authors in Spanish America pushing back against Spanish imperial representations beginning in the sixteenth century, a tradition that is absent in Anglo America until the late eighteenth century at the earliest. De la Vega’s humanist-style resistance shows that the polyvalence of certain Quechua words confuses the Spaniards – though they do not admit as much – and his Comentarios aggressively and sometimes sarcastically amends the Spanish misrepresentation of Andean religious practices. In the Comentarios, in a chapter titled “De otras muchas cosas que el nombre Huaca significa” [Of many other meanings of the word Huaca], de la Vega strengthens his counter-translational project rhetorically while still not directly responding to the question of whether huaca may be translated as “idol” or “place of worship” or “treasure.” He writes,  dos historiadores españoles, que no supieron esta diferencia, dijeron: los indios entran llorando y guayando en sus templos a sus sacrificios, que huaca eso quiere decir. Habiendo tanta diferencia de este significado llorar a los otros, y siendo uno verbo y el otro nombre, verdad es que la diferente significación consiste solamente en la diferente pronunciación, sin mudar letra ni acento (95) [two Spanish historians, who did not know the difference, [stated] that the Indians enter their temples for their sacrifices weeping and wailing, for such is the meaning of huaca. Although the difference between this meaning of “mourn” and the others is so great and it is a verb and the other a noun, the difference is really shown by the different pronunciation, without changing any letter or accent] (Livermore 79) By emphasizing the phonetic proximity of two words here de la Vega simultaneously increases his own authority while diminishing that of the Spanish historians who are unable to distinguish the pronunciations that mark the difference between verb and noun. His chapter on huaca is an example of rhetorical and philological jujitsu whereby the authoritative  	  105 claims of Spanish eyewitnesses are turned against them and shown to be nothing but misperception, simplification, hubris, and the worst crime a humanist might commit: bad translation.  De la Vega deflects the discussion of idolatry by turning away from huaca to tell a humorous anecdote about a Spanish friar who laboured for four years as a lecturer in San Pablo de Córdoba on the lengua general (Quechua) and could not distinguish between the two proper pronunciations of pacha for either “heaven” or “clothing” (96). The previous chapter in the Comentarios, “De muchos dioses que los historiadores españoles impropiamente aplican a los indios” [Of the many gods wrongly attributed to the Indians by the Spanish historians], however, provides an in-line translation for huaca as “cordillera” [mountain range], stating that the Andeans paid tribute, “no por tenerlas por dioses ni adorarlas, sino por la particular ventaja que hacían a las comunes” (96) [not because they were considered gods and therefore worthy of adoration, but because of their special superiority over the common run of things] (Royal Commentaries 77). One is given the impression that the translation of huaca will be resolved in the following chapter because of its title, but the secular definition remains and thus mitigates the pagan representation of the Incas. Repeating the declaration that huaca has many meanings (“diversas significaciones”), de la Vega continues his criticism by stating, “Sospecho que el nombre [Tangatanga] está corrupto porque los españoles corrompen todos los más que toman en boca” (Comentarios reales 97) [I suspect that the word [Tangatanga] is corrupt, because the Spanish corrupt all other languages they try to speak] (Royal Commentaries 80). Despite the title of this chapter de la Vega provides no definite translation for huaca, which is precisely the point of his criticism: none exists. There is no one-to-one Quechua-to-Spanish equivalent that will resolve the polyvalence of the term and thus make Andean paganism and heresy explicit and punishable.  	  106 What is unusual and valuable about this commentary is that a Amerindian with alphabetic literacy responds to claims about his language and characterizations of his culture with his own pen and ink and, importantly, through the rhetorical and philological practices of early modern humanism. De la Vega’s project systematically undermines the authority of Spanish chroniclers and their claims regarding indigenous languages, such as when he demonstrates the misunderstanding that gives origin of the name “Peru,” stating, “los cristianos entendieron conforme a su deseo” (Comentarios reales 22) [the Christians understood what they wanted to understand] (Royal Commentaries 16).47 Zamora categorizes these philological criticisms as part of his project to construct a proto-Christian Andean identity and demolish the pagan, barbarian Spanish representations. The recurring scenes of miscommunication support “one of Garcilaso’s basic premises – that the Europeans are incompetent interpreters of the language of the Indians” (68).  De la Vega’s Comentarios subvert Spanish authority by mystifying interpretation and positing multiple meanings for words, meanings that are only available to native speakers of Amerindian languages and only revealed through the writing of Amerindians. In the “Advertencia” that opens his Comentarios reales, de la Vega writes, Para atajar esta corrupción me sea lícito, pues soy indio, que en esta historia yo escriba como indio con las mismas letras que aquellas tales dicciones se deben escribir. Y no se les haga de mal a los que las leyeren ver la novedad presente en contra del mal uso introducido, que antes debe dar gusto leer aquellos nombres en su propiedad y pureza (10). [To avoid further corruption, I may be permitted, since I 	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  47 Pietro Martire d’Anghiera makes a similar observation on the linguistic incompetence of the conquistadors when he traces the origins of the name of the peninsula “Yucatán” to an Amerindian phrase meaning “no os entiendo” (Décadas 398) [I don’t understand you]. As with the name of Peru, we can see here the colonists understanding “according to their desire” and the place names of the Americas themselves exhibiting the problem of language difference and the fiction of translation.  	  107 am an Indian, to write like an Indian in this history, using the letters that should be used in these words. Let none who read take exception to this novelty in opposition to the incorrect usage that is usually adopted: they should rather be glad to be able to read the words written correctly and with purity] (Livermore 6).  Zamora claims that the use of Quechua in the Comentarios gives de la Vega the final word on interpretation and permits him to build on the resemblance system of meaning elaborated in Foucault’s Order of Things wherein meaning is constructed through the relation between signifier, signified, and the similarities they share. Through this understanding of language, it is therefore logical that the exotic customs and artefacts of the New World be represented in their original linguistic context in order to preserve that similarity – for de la Vega huaca cannot be reduced to idol. Zamora writes, “This complementary relationship between language and referent […] is at the heart of Garcilaso’s philological practice, allowing him to rely on the Quechua word as the ultimate interpretative authority, as well as the most appropriate vehicle of representation” (81). According to Zamora then, de la Vega’s philological intervention appears as an early example of linguistic relativism in that the possibility of translation for huaca across languages is extremely limited because there is no culturally based resemblance in Spanish for the term. By figuratively placing himself between the Quechua-speaking language consultants and the Castilian-speaking interviewers, de la Vega at once performs a denial of the possibility of translation and an adroit counter-translation while asserting that both of these positions depend on his absolute mastery of the Spanish and Andean languages, histories, and religious practices. In commenting on Incan history, de la Vega complicates and subverts Spanish representations of Andean religious practices and the lengua general by demonstrating through recurring scenes of the colonists’ linguistic incompetence the deep-rootedness of  	  108 misunderstanding. This writing is exemplary of re-articulation in a number of senses, for de la Vega resituates the Quechua word back into Andean culture while simultaneously positioning earlier translations of huaca in a linguistic context of multiple misunderstandings, one so riven by cultural incomprehension that foreign specialists in the language are incapable of making the most basic syntactic distinctions. Perhaps his greatest re-articulation of all is the representation of pre-Columbian Andean culture as proto-Christian, a counter-translation that is entirely antagonistic to Spanish depictions of their pagan and heretical past.  De la Vega’s linguistic authority is constructed on his identity not only as a native speaker but also as an aristocrat, a mestizo, a humanist, and a skilful and entertaining writer; his rhetoric amplifies the number of meanings for any given Quechua word, refusing the European practice of one-to-one translation, and pulling the veil back on Spanish linguistic proficiency. Despite being a serious and significant entry into the literary counter-conquest, the humorous anecdotes of Spanish linguistic ineptitude give de la Vega’s resistance and subversiveness a congenial tone which very likely contributed to the popular success of his writing. His counter-translation of huaca as “mountain range” neutralizes the pagan connotations of the word while his later refusal to provide a simple, one-word translation of this term with “diversas significaciones” places in question the entire word-list project. De la Vega intervenes into the project of Spanish linguistic imperialism to demonstrate just how wilful the process of translation is and what the stakes can be, for in questioning the linguistic work of authors like Pablo José de Arriaga the project of uprooting native spiritual practices becomes more tenuous, an extirpation that cannot depend on the simple translation of huaca as pagan idolatry.   	  109 3.6 The Face of Kempes: “Sakahocan, to write” William Strachey’s bilingual word-list, which is appended to The Historie of Travell into Virginia Britania (1612), builds on Smith’s and Hariot’s works, though his contribution is far more elaborate and complete, consisting of around 800 words and phrases. It is clear from the extent of Strachey’s list that he had long interviews with a Powhatan speaker, although like many of his contemporaries he never describes the consultation event explicitly. Unlike Smith’s brief word-list of forty-seven items, which may have been elicited in a single sitting (or “enhanced interrogation”), the one Strachey presents is obviously the work of a continued exchange and personal relationship with an unnamed Powhatan. The extent of this word-list means that it generically verges on being a dictionary – though it doesn’t satisfy all the criteria laid out in the previous chapter – and that it also gives us more evidence toward the identification of the Amerindian language consultant.  As with the previous section in which we identified the participation of an Amerindian in the war of words, Strachey’s word-list presents a unique opportunity for us to directly name the Amerindian involved in the translation process and to identify the influence of the consultant in the language exchange. The suggestion that the Powhatan speaker had as great an influence in shaping the list as Strachey is found initially in the organization of the lexical items, for throughout the alphabetical list most lettered sections begin with Powhatan-words-first organization (e.g. “Ahone – God,” “Boketawh – Fier,” etc.) and then transition abruptly to the transcription of English-words-first, usually after five or six terms. This peculiar organization resists the accessibility of the dictionary because the reader is uncertain under which language a specific term might fall. Furthermore, it suggests that the word-list was written in two distinct stages, where the Powhatan-first words represent an initial consultation event and the English-first words subsequent interviews and  	  110 exchanges. Because the Historie of Travell refuses to narrate the consultation event, our task here will be the literary detective work of re-articulating it from clues provided implicitly in the main story and the word-list.  Strachey is an eccentric writer whose lack of narrative structure is augmented by fanciful and unfounded speculation on the character of the Powhatan language, the “Language of the Indians” (12). There is a performative aspect to the word-list that positions Strachey as a learned gentleman, as, unlike Smith, he references Latin texts and the Bible with ease and even presumes to identify Amerindian languages and their origins.48 Siebert notes,  In comparison with most of his contemporaries, [Strachey’s] ‘ear’ for an exotic language appears to have been of a superior order, but in common with other English writers of his period he had little conception of consistency in sound representation or of uniform orthography (“Resurrecting Virginian Algonquian” 292).  The Historie of Travell uses in-line translation extensively, sometimes twice in a sentence, and the word-list that supplements the text is more obviously beneficial to colonists than Smith’s, and not just because of the sheer number of items.  Strachey’s justification of the list can be found in one version of the manuscript’s title, “A Short Dictionary […] By which, such who shall be Imployed thether may know the readyer how to confer, and how to truck and Trade with the People.” Unlike Smith, Strachey provides a translation for the main staples that kept the Jamestown colony from collapse, e.g. “Poketawes, which the West-Indians (our neighbours) call Maiz, their kynd of wheat” 	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  48 Contrary to Strachey, John Smith is far more likely to borrow vocabulary from living languages, such as the word “Camouodos,” a unique variation of the Spanish camaradas (Smith 89; also Barbour “Introduction” lxix). This would appear to contradict Fitzmaurice’s assertion that Smith modeled his writing rhetorically after his reading of Cicero, Aurelius, and Tacitus (Humanism in America 182-3).  	  111 (34). Yet his list also presents a number of mysteries, such as the translation of “Cheese or any curded matter made of milke, ootun” when the Powhatan did not practice herding and the early colony had no livestock.49 Another sign of eccentricity, Strachey also translates a Powhatan song of victory celebration over the English that is full of mocking phrases, which he declares,  may signifie how that they killed vs for all our Pocasacks, that is our Guns, and for all Capt Newport brought them Copper and could hurt Thomas Newport (a boy whose name indeed is Thomas Sauadge, whome Capt Newport leaving with Powhatan to learne the Language… (86).  In the hands of Smith, this war dance and victory song is transformed into the “shouts and cryes” of a “Virginia Maske,” what Bach calls, “a fiction of incomprehensibility […] a display of devil worship and ‘infernall passions’” (Colonial Transformations 212). Compared to the militaristic mind of Smith, Strachey offers a less petulant perspective, one that is as humanistic as de la Vega’s, one that is even willing to embrace irony, a character rare among European chroniclers of the language encounter. The eclecticism and potential eroticism located in such translated terms as “cuckold” and “Curled haire” adjacent to “a womans Secrett” reveal an interest, shared by Smith, in the sexual relations of the Powhatan people (180). This theme is also developed in the main narrative when Strachey describes an interview with a Powhatan man named Kempes who provides him with the names of all of Wahunsenacawh’s wives, or rather, “his women” (61). It is here in the narrative that we first encounter the form of the list, for the names of the 	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  	  49 James Rosier claims in A True Relation (1605) of the Weymouth expedition that the Abenakis “make butter and cheese of the milke they have of the Rain-Deere” (qtd. in Transatlantic Encounter 63), yet Vaughan corrects the account by adding, “the Abenakis had neither tame deer nor butter and cheese” (63). Strachey could be confused with the walnut milk produced by the Powhatan, though Barbour’s translation of walnut milk as “Pawcohicorra” does not resolve the mystery (“Earliest Reconnaissance” 40).  	  112 women are presented in three columns that interrupt the preceding and succeeding paragraphs. Strachey justifies the inclusion of the list, writing, “the names of the women I haue not thought altogither amisse to set downe as he [Kempes] gaue them vnto me,” describing how they are “very young women,” “about a dozen at present,” and “in whose Company [Chief Wahunsenacawh] takes more delight then in the rest” (61). The Oriental-like sexual immodesty would certainly have tongues wagging back in London and would add to the image of Wahunsenacawh as a lascivious and brutal sensualist. However, for our investigation here, the description of Kempes that contextualizes the information on Wahunsenacawh’s sex life is more to the point. “Kempes [is] an Indian,” Strachey writes, “who died the last yeare of the Scurvye at Iames towne, after he had dwelt with vs almost one whole yeare, much made of by our Lord Generall, and who could speake a pretty deale of English” (61). This description reveals several clues that strongly indicate that Kempes was consulted in the language exchange. Kempes’s first appearance in the text is set within a consultation event in which Strachey interviews him regarding the names of Wahunsenacawh’s wives. It is from this interview that Strachey provides his first list in the main narrative of the Historie of Travell, which is a formal break from the prose narrative that comes before and after. Given the phonetic complexity of the names for a student of the Powhatan language (Winganuske, Ashetoiske, Amopotoiske, Ottopomtacke), it can be assumed that Strachey wrote them down while he was interviewing Kempes, much in the way Pigafetta interviewed the Patagonian “Paul.”  Still further clues indicate Kempes’s collaboration: the Powhatan man is described as “speak[ing] a pretty deale of English” (61). Because English-Powhatan bilingualism was unusual among the communities of the English colonists and Virginian natives, Kempes is situated among a narrow cast of possible consultants. Although Strachey mentions other  	  113 Powhatan men who might serve as language consultants, Machumps and Amarice, the first of these visited England and would not have been available for interview and the second “had his braynes knock’t out for selling but a baskett of Corne, and lying in the English fort 2. or 3. daies” (62). The list of informants is short, then, and we know that Kempes spent sufficient time among the English in order to develop the bilingual word-list of about 800 lexical items. Although the translation is ultimately “puzzling” (“Earliest Reconnaissance” 43) to Barbour because it is only tangentially related to the Powhatan term for “stone,” the appearance of “Sakahocan, to write” (Strachey 200) recommends that the consultant was involved in the process to such a degree that he translated the physical armature of the language exchange and could perhaps be considered more than just a collaborator. To become familiar with the English writing technology to such a degree and to have possibly invented a Powhatan word to bridge the cultural gap would have required the kind of extended contact that only Kempes was capable of experiencing. We also know that he died of “scurvy,” and this here is precisely what provides the final clue in our case for Kempes as the Powhatan translator. Beyond his knowledge of Wahunsenacawh’s wives, and the relevance of such terms as “cuckold,” “a womans Secrett,” or “the privities or Secret of a man” to that specific conversation, we have one lexical item that in its gross inutility demands interpretation. Although much of Strachey’s list is pragmatic, at turns economic, religious, familial, corporeal, and agricultural, this phrase appears in the Powhatan-first section of the letter N, preceded by the words for “your companion,” “my self,” “a reed,” “a cane,” and “the sun” and succeeded by “sit down” and “sleep” (194). That phrase is, “Nepunche Neir – I am dead” and it seems incredible to translate, an impossible expression that would be extremely difficult to elicit were the situation not one of immanent death. Because it falls among words and phrases in the  	  114 Powhatan-first section, we are given the impression that this statement was offered not as a response to Strachey’s questions, not a verbal answer to ostension like so many other substantives in the list, but as a declaration from a man suffering his final hours. Even if such a translation is ultimately false – especially if such a translation is ultimately false – we are suddenly transported by the phrase to a precise historical event in which the transcriber witnesses the consultant’s final breaths. In Strachey’s text there is little to indicate the power differential found in other word-lists and the oscillation between Powhatan and English in the primary position at least suggests a more equitable relationship between the colonist and the native consultant. However, because of Kempes fatal sickness, we would still have to define the consultation event as coercive because it is likely that the language exchange occurred while he was languishing in bed. The presence of a European at the deathbed of an Amerindian was almost a colonial genre in and of itself. The New England Company published John Eliot’s The Dying Speeches of Several Indians (1685) to promote his evangelical efforts and in the preface to Roger Williams’s A key into the language of America we witness the demise Wequash who is purported to state, “me much pray to Jesus Christ […] me so big naughty Heart, me heart all one stone!” (23). Although Strachey claims that Kempes died of scurvy, it is very likely that he contracted a virulent disease like smallpox during his year-long stay among the English of Jamestown. Strachey, as the first secretary of the floundering colony, might have felt obliged to record Kempes’s final words for the benefit of those “who shall be Imployed thether,” even if those words appeared in de-articulated, de-narrativized form. Perhaps tellingly, interest in sexual relations is displayed exclusively in the English-first sections, which would indicate that Strachey elicited these terms through questions and ostension. On the contrary, the Powhatan-first sections signify that Kempes is directing the  	  115 dialogue. From the discovery of the phrase “I am dead” signs of disease and the deterioration of health and morale rise to the surface of the list, forming islands of meaning: the Powhatan-first translations, “God,” “farewell,” “I am sick,” “I am cold,” “warme your self,” “Now I vnderstand you,” “I am hungry,” “I burne,”  “come look [at] my head,” “Sleepe,” “I vnderstand you not,”  “I haue forgotten,” “a word of wonder,” “my beloved friend,” multiple references to tending a dying fire, such as “blow the fier with your mouth,” and the final, ominous term, “Sanckone – to sneese” (174-207) – all create a lexical congeries around the question of bodily health, close physical proximity, and intense intimacy. There are other congeries that are situationally appropriate from the English-first translations, such as, “the devil,” “To be melancholy or sad,” “the poxe,” “to be sick,” “the Soule or vitall breath of man,” “to speake softly,” “to warme one,” “weake” and “weary,” and “to weepe” (194-205).  A re-articulation of the word-list creates the following scene: the Englishman sits at the bedside of the sick and dying Powhatan, he tends the fire to warm their dwelling, he sets out his paper, pen, and ink and the consultation event begins, not with the threat of violence, but with an urgency borne of Kempes’s failing health. The fact that “Sanckone – to sneese” occurs under the letter Z and is the only entry for this final section suggests that it is the last translation that Kempes is strong enough to provide. Kempes’s long deterioration ends with the closing of the word-list. Taken together, these pregnant expressions and Strachey’s earlier description of Kempes dying from scurvy re-articulate the otherwise de-articulated word-list. Regardless of Kempes’s untimely expiration from the colonial narrative prior to the supplementary word-list – or perhaps because of it – the restitution of his agency in the narrative of the language encounter is vital and, in my understanding, an ethical response to de-articulation and the  	  116 imbalance of power so prevalent in the coercive consultation event. The virtual syntax of Strachey’s word-list can be built up from the brief description of his interview with Kempes whose naming of Wahunsenacawh’s wives precipitates the first list form in the narrative of the Historie of Travell. This proximity is the primary clue of Kempes’s collaboration in the Powhatan-English word-list and establishes him as a source for the kind of linguistic data that is presented in sequence. The description of his death by scurvy at Jamestown connects to the bizarrely specific phrase “I am dead,” a phrase that resists not only ostension but also the utilitarian claims made by Strachey’s title on “how to truck and Trade with the People.” Drawing the scene of Kempes’s death from “Scurvye” out of the word-list allows us to recuperate the actions and words of a historical figure that would otherwise remain de-narrativized and absent from the historical record.  To return briefly to the denotation game played with a child as demonstration of how conglomerations resist ostension in the previous chapter, let us pause momentarily to appreciate the perhaps intimate or, at the very least, extended interpersonal relationship between Kempes and Strachey, e.g. “my beloved friend” (205). Unique among the word-lists I analyze here, Strachey’s translation of the term “the Face” (183) indicates that he spent enough time with his consultant to bridge the communication gap that so frustrates the ostensive definition of the human visage. Jane Tompkins indicates the rarity of such a lexical item, writing, “Indian faces are virtually never described in the earliest accounts” (“‘Indians:’ Textualism, Morality” 72), and though Strachey does not delineate Kempes’s features precisely, at least he gives a place for the ear, nose, mouth, and eyes to settle upon. The year that Kempes spent in Jamestown permitted the kind of linguistic accommodation and personal familiarity necessary for a productive language exchange and so among the usual parts of the human body and parts of the face, we encounter a rare translation of an  	  117 Amerindian term for the human visage. Just as with the face, we are able to discover the role of Kempes by conglomerating individual details and clues dispersed over the plane of the text. It is with this final image of Kempes that I end my analysis of a survey of Amerindian word-lists from the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries.  3.7 Conclusion  A fuller examination of the word-lists in sixteenth- and seventeenth-century English and Spanish travel accounts and histories would build from this initial attempt to re-articulate the language encounter implicit in the linguistic data while also incorporating Amerindian perspectives on interpretations and European translation practices. Nonetheless, our reading of mere a handful of texts demonstrates some of the more tenacious obstacles to narrating the coercive consultation event from words in brute sequence as well as, with all humility, the reward of a more coherent and comprehensive historical narrative. Occurring after the abundant yet under-represented exchange of gestural communication – the first lacuna in the narrative of the New World language encounter – the first phase of European linguistic imperialism often resulted from the abduction and forced interview of Amerindian subjects. The details of the language exchange are almost always left out of the narrative of events despite the presence of the lexicon obviously requiring a moment of purposeful exchange. In my analysis of these lists, searching for implied narratives, I discover in the inutility of the translations possible accounts of coercion by physical violence, courageous Amerindian resistance, sexual intimacy, and the identification of the indigenous consultants Macanoe and Kempes as the sources of early Powhatan linguistic data.  Although the word-lists themselves are somewhat arbitrarily drawn from the broader tradition, they each function to model the kind of reading that pushes back against the logic of the colonial literature in which certain scenes of language encounter are elided from the  	  118 narrative. My discovery of sexual intimacy in Janes’s word-list, or in the earlier account of Cabeza de Vaca, support the contention that the European authors preferred, for decency, for decorum, or for the sake of their own hides, to keep certain details hidden just below the surface from readers back home. A perceptive reader, however, can access these historical events with the right tools in hand. The proposal that scenes of sexual intimacy are implicit in the textual supplement is therefore an attempt to destabilize a colonial discourse that would leave such stories below the level of narrative, de-articulated both in the sense of silenced and disconnected.  The explicit counter-translations of de la Vega syncopate with that initial, tragic scene of the Inuit man severing his own tongue, for the writing of “El Inca” consistently resists the easy translation of Quechua words, suggesting alternative, religiously neutralized interpretations or even refusing a Spanish definitions outright. Despite the underdeveloped form of the word-list generally indicating a language exchange that was based on underdeveloped or even antagonistic relationships between Europeans and Amerindians, I ascertain in Strachey’s list a narrative that binds a name to a face and thus establish, perhaps for the first time, the literary and linguistic contributions of the Powhatan Kempes.  In this survey of the first incorporation of Amerindian languages into the European textual tradition there is no marked difference between the English and the Spanish tradition: both present bilingual translations organized into opposing columns of individual lexical items, both present the linguistic data in a separate appendix or supplement, and both regularly de-articulate the language consultant from story. This uniformity appears to arrive from the fact that the notable English compilers of New World histories, such as Eden, Hakluyt, and Purchas, derived their model directly from the Spanish explorers, such as Pigafetta, and chroniclers, such as Pietro Martire d’Anghiera. It follows from this that the  	  119 earliest Amerindian word-lists in English come directly from the Spanish tradition and that English explorers, such as Francis Drake, and colonists, such as John Smith, would imitate this model.  Regardless of influence, at this stage of linguistic imperialism the arts of empire are at their most rudimentary, consisting only of words in list form produced largely by sailors and settlers. In the following stage, the arts of empire are more fully developed and the two traditions diverge enormously when arriving at the production and publication of Amerindian grammars. Before I deploy a narrative re-articulation of the Amerindian grammars, however, it is important to understand the reasons behind this significant divergence because the results were far reaching and characterized to a large degree the relations between settler communities and indigenous inhabitants. Therefore, to better understand the differences in English and Spanish linguistic imperialism, the following chapter serves as a bridge to my later close reading, a step back from the texts to engage with a number of intertwined historical arguments.          	  120 4 The Arts of Empire: Language Sciences and the Colonization of the Americas 4.1 Introduction Missionary linguists began reducing Amerindian languages to grammar in New Spain in the 1530s and in New England in the 1660s as part of the evangelical missions to convert indigenous communities to Christianity and civilize them through cultural assimilation. The grammatical description of indigenous languages advanced religious assimilation of the Amerindians by facilitating European fluency in Amerindian languages, the creation of alphabetically literate Amerindian converts, and the translation and printing of Christian texts in local and regional languages. Because of the complexity of the endeavour, the grammars did not rely on Amerindian language slaves in the way of word-lists but rather on the full and partial cooperation of fully and partially converted Amerindians. “En tal empresa participaron conjuntamente los hablantes de ellos y buen número de frailes misioneros” (Las primeras gramáticas del Nuevo Mundo 12) [Participating jointly in said project were the (Amerindian) speakers and a good number of missionary friars], write Ascención and Miguel León-Portilla, indicating that the tradition was one built communally – albeit with unresolved tensions and simmering resentments– between European evangelists and Amerindian consultants. The Amerindian-authored literature developing out of the European colonization of the Americas is tremendously lopsided in the colonies and this imbalance appears to depend precisely on the relation between missionaries and Amerindians and their ability to jointly reduce languages to grammar. The presence or absence of mission funds, the abundance or scarcity of religious humanists, and the theological impetus to convert unbelievers all coalesce behind that crucial relationship between the missionary linguist and the native speaker. Despite both English and Spanish  	  121 missionary linguistics producing a similar degree of de-articulation of the Amerindian consultant and his or her culture and history, here I attempt to come to grips with the enormous divergence in the productivity of the two linguistic traditions, a fact of the colonization of the Americas that is not explained by the roughly one hundred year difference from the Spanish conquest of New Spain to the English settlement of New England. That is, the Spanish head start does not resolve the problem of both more Amerindian grammars and more Amerindian writers in Spanish America. It is important to understand in broad terms the imperial legacy and linguistic ideology that de-articulated Amerindian presence in the moment of capturing language. Although the observations here contextualize the efforts of the missionary linguists John Eliot and Francisco Pareja, whose grammars are the focus of the following chapter, here I propose several interlocking historical arguments to explain the divergence in missionary linguistics in the English and Spanish colonies. For despite arriving at a comparable state in the language science of descriptive linguistics, Eliot and Pareja emerged from intellectual and religious backgrounds that contrarily hindered and fostered linguistic projects for cultural assimilation. In Reformation: Europe’s House Divided, Diarmaid MacCulloch gestures to the Puritan neglect of evangelizing the Amerindians, and even notices that Puritan linguist Roger Williams let his ministry and study of Narragansett lapse (540). MacCulloch then contrasts this with the missionary activity in Spanish America and questions the origins of the difference, writing, “[i]t cannot simply be accounted for by the early difficulties of the colonies in surviving at all, or the tensions and cultural incomprehensions between the two societies that sometimes boiled over into open warfare” (540). If not the difficulty of settlement and the problems of political negotiation, what then accounts for the differences?  	  122 The structure of this chapter moves from the establishment of a problem (different numbers of colonial Amerindian grammars), to the similarities in the English and Spanish responses, to the dissimilarities in the unfolding of English and Spanish linguistic imperialism. In the first section, I argue that the English tradition of descriptive linguistics in the American colonies is deficient in comparison with the Spanish, that early modern linguistic imperialism has not been adequately studied by English-speaking researchers, and correspondingly that a proper understanding of these propositions can only be arrived at through cross-linguistic comparative research. In the second, both England and Spain shared a Christian heritage that, combined with the intellectual tradition of humanism, formed a linguistic ideology valuing Latin above other languages. This section functions to reveal similarities between the English and the Spanish as a shared linguistic hierarchy structured both Amerindian grammars and Amerindian education. In the third section, the dissimilarities begin to accrue, for although the English and Spanish implemented linguistic imperialism internally in Europe prior to contact with the Americas and although they both had lively traditions in the language sciences, the Spanish were more active in reducing to grammar the non-hegemonic vernaculars in their domain. In the fourth section, I argue that the friars were the primary agents of linguistic imperialism because of their education and religious training, yet the Reformation in England caused the dissolution of the monastic system and the disbanding of the religious Orders there, perhaps the most significant factor in the divergence of English and Spanish linguistic imperialism. I also compare English and Spanish evangelism in New England and New Spain and argue that the Puritan mission was underfunded and poorly positioned institutionally relative to the Catholic mission, which had close ties to the Spanish Crown. In the final section, I demonstrate that the artefacts of  	  123 linguistic imperialism are currently being used to revive certain Amerindian languages and thus the tools of colonialism are turned against imperial history. The images that these interlocking arguments create is one of a robust Spanish linguistic imperial project that antedates the Columbian event and continues unmolested through the social upheavals of the Reformation, next to an image of a more meagre English tradition of linguistic imperialism in the British Isles with their capacity to reduce Amerindian languages to grammar hobbled by the dissolution of the monasteries and the social restructuring that developed from the split with the Catholic Church. These various and interrelated factors go a long way to explain the divergence in the E