SOURCE: Shillingsburg, Miriam J. “The Ascent of Woman, Southern Style: Hentz, King, Chopin.” In Southern Literature in Transition: Heritage and Promise, edited by Philip Castille and William Osborne, pp. 127-40. Memphis: Memphis State University Press, 1983.

[In the following essay, Shillingsburg studies representative works by Caroline Hentz, Grace King, and Kate Chopin as they reflect women's changing views in the late nineteenth-century American South.]

When one considers the “role of woman” in nineteenth-century America, various stereotypes come to mind: the bustling New England matron, the political activist, and the plantation belle on a pedestal, to name only a few. Our common conception of the upper-class southern woman is that she was either satisfied with her position on the pedestal, or if not, as with Mary Boykin Chesnut, she dared not say so out loud. While both these conceptions are truthful ones, they do not tell the whole story of the southern woman, and particularly they do not accurately reveal her attitude toward her position. I find, rather, an undercurrent of discontent among nineteenth-century southern women, one that was voiced not only in private diaries, but at regular intervals in the extremely popular fiction that they wrote and read.

While many fewer women than men wrote, those who did write have been disproportionately neglected by scholars of southern literature. According to the most recent compilation of published scholarship on southern literature, only two women writers before 1865 were studied between 1968 and 1975.¹ These two attracted only biographical notices and publication of some primary material. In the postbellum period, only eight women attracted even one scholarly nod, with titles about Kate Chopin equalling the number attracted by all seven others combined, including Ellen Glasgow. The writings of these women are, at their worst, no worse than a host of writings by men who are studied. And at their best, these works can tell us much about the real feelings of half the population of the nineteenth century. Looking at three representative nineteenth-century women, we can discern a change in the women's own attitude toward themselves in the latter part of the century.

The three novels discussed in this paper show the ways in which three female characters bucked convention and their “place” in society, the reactions of those societies to their rebellion, and the degree of success each heroine (and quite likely each author) felt in being her own self in spite of the circumscriptions of being a female in the South. These widely read novels were written between 1852 and 1899 by women of differing social and marital experiences. Caroline Lee Hentz, author of Eoline (1852), died a married woman who had supported her children and ailing husband for several years by writing; spinster Grace Elizabeth King, her family impoverished by the Civil War, wrote her own fantasies of young women's restoration to their plantations followed by happy marriages; and Kate Chopin, whose 1899 The Awakening has lately received much attention from feminists, died a widow.

The novels of these women each have a female central character who, I believe, strongly reflects the authors' own experiences of rebellion and, to some extent perhaps, a sense of failure. It is significant, I think, that these authors use the arts—literature, music, and painting—as metaphors for meaningful achievement for southern women, for it is through art that a woman can capture and control her experiences. We see a definite movement from Hentz's antebellum romance in which the central character's defiance is merely a hook to hang a love plot on, to King's examination of the society's values during Reconstruction with love and marriage the proper reward for a young girl's acquiring the acceptable values, to Chopin's questioning the entire set of assumptions which underlay the relationships between men and women. But if these women used their fiction for self-examination, as I suspect they did, their society seems never to have examined itself.

Eoline; or, Magnolia Vale² gives a typical representation of Mrs. Hentz's female character. In spite of its conventional plotting and characterization, it contains nevertheless an obvious undercurrent of discontent and latent feminism. Planter Kingsly Glenmore has contrived with his neighbor that his daughter Eoline should marry Mr. Cleveland's son Horace. Even though Horace “has consented to obey his father” and marry Eoline, she “can imagine nothing so dreadful as the loveless union” she believes her father intends to force on her [p. 21]. The issue then becomes solely one of “filial disobedience” opposed to paternal “authority.” Mrs. Hentz makes clear this conflict both dramatically and through authorial commentary. When the father insists, for example, “‘I do love you—I do wish your happiness; and I know better than yourself, how to secure it. You will thank me, one day, for the authority I now exert. Eoline, you must obey me in this. You must marry Horace Cleveland’” [p. 10], the author says that Mr. Glenmore

knew of no sovereign more absolute than his own will. … That Eoline, so gentle, and yielding in all minor things, so childlike and affectionate in her daily demeanor, so attentive to all the sweet courtesies of life, so anxious to please him in the minutest particular … should now undauntedly brave his authority, resist his will, and thwart the favorite plan he had been maturing from her infancy—he could not, would not believe.

[pp. 10-11]

The conflict of wills reaches its climax in the first chapter when the father gives Eoline an ultimatum:

“… if you persist in this rebellion, I will no longer consider you as my daughter. … The independence in which you glory, shall be your only inheritance. I will neither share my home, nor my fortune, with an ingrate who mocks at my authority, and resists my will. This is the alternative—choose this moment. On one side, wealth, talents, influence, friends, and favor—on the other, poverty, disgrace, and banishment.”

[p. 11]

When the daughter chooses “poverty and banishment—it cannot be disgrace,” her father calls her “insufferable,” “insolent,” and “enough to drive one mad” [p. 11].

Several points applicable to the other books I shall discuss should be made about Eoline's conflict. First, Eoline is an heiress, an upperclass woman, and therefore she does have a choice. Lower-class southern females, in these books and others, and, apparently, in real life, had no choice. It is important, however, for Eoline and her spiritual sisters who would oppose the system that the only choice was to fall down the social ladder and in the process, of course, off the pedestal. This is made explicit first by the compliments of a European traveller who “wished [she] were the daughter of a poor man, so that [she] might be compelled to give [her] voice to the world” [p. 6], and then by her father's ruminations about Eoline's new position in a female seminary: “… shall she be made a musical drudge, a hireling, a slave. … who plunges herself into banishment and degradation” [p. 23]. When her employer incorrectly assumes that she has “been taught by eminent masters … educated for a music teacher,” Eoline agrees that it was “family misfortunes, I presume?” which forced her to become a teacher [pp. 53-54]. Still Eoline, unlike the women who live in vulgar cabins, does not have to work; she can instead marry Horace Cleveland and double her fortune, if not her pleasure. Instead, however, the defiant Eoline goes from a bad situation into a worse one.

Secondly, Eoline's conflict is the traditional one of the powerful versus the powerless, in this case specifically represented in the twofold symbol of male-female and father-child. Eoline must walk a figurative tightrope between achieving too much power, becoming unfeminine, and remaining too passive, languishing into apathy. She is, therefore, juxtaposed to two models of female behavior, the first of whom, Miss Manly, is the strong-willed owner of the seminary; the second, the passive, ghost-like Amelia. Although nothing of Miss Manly's past is known, she appears to be a self-made woman (like Mrs. Hentz). Eoline had “hoped to have found in Miss Manly the guardianship of a mother, and the tenderness of a friend” [p. 44], but instead she found “a wonderful disciplinarian, and as she conduct[ed] her school with true military order, and as she [had] … a commanding appearance, [the students] call[ed] her the Colonel” [p. 70]. Later, however, we discover that “Miss Manly was not that strange anomaly, a woman without a heart, which Eoline had at first supposed her to be. She had a heart, though covered with a coat of mail” [p. 98].

It is clear that Col. Manly's problem is not her strong will but the lack of “all softer emotions” [p. 188]. When the young romantic St. Leon languishes, “trembling on the verge of death” [p. 183] from “an affection of the heart” [p. 189], Eoline's promise to marry him saves his life. The specific comparison between the heroine and Col. Manly (who is enamoured of St. Leon) is made by one of the children: “Miss Manly is kind and devoted, but she lacks the softness and gentleness of womanhood, she is wanting in what Nature has lavished on you” [p. 202]. Although Hentz's point is that a woman's will must be tempered by tenderness, she also warns her readers about the dangers of passivity.

The daughter of Glenmore's friend, Amelia (née) Wilton provides the second negative role model. Though formerly as beautiful as Eoline, she has become a walking ghost, the result of “a loveless, ill-assorted marriage … that has frozen the fountains of youthful feelings, paralized [sic] the spring of youthful energy, and turned her heart to stone” [p. 113]. Wilton explains to Glenmore that Amelia

“had but one fault—a too yielding temper. Ever swayed by the will of others, ever sacrificing her own wishes to those around her, it was impossible to discover whether she had a wish or will of her own. … We encouraged her to lean on her own judgment, to think, feel and act for herself, but she never would do it.”

[pp. 113-114]

At last, when sought in marriage, Amelia's response was “‘I am willing to marry him if you think it best that I should’” [p. 114].

Hentz makes the theme of the powerful versus the powerless clear throughout this her first novel, but in 1852 she must have felt the necessity for a conventional ending. That is, Eoline and Horace do marry, apparently to live happily ever after. But it is only after defiance of her parent, loss of her cherished privacy, a narrow escape from her pledge to marry the dying young man, and numerous other complications of honor, duty, will, pride, and love, that she discovers the merits of her neighbor, thereby fulfilling her father's will.

Thirdly, the way a southern lady expressed her self seems to have been not through her choice of mate, nor pride in her children, certainly not in a “career” however loosely defined, not even through pride in domestic work. Rather the respectable outlet open to such a woman seems to have been only through the arts. Eoline excels in singing and playing stringed instruments, and while at her father's home she has no other apparent interests but reading. When turned out of Eden, Eoline becomes a music teacher, often finding an outlet for sadness or pleasure in her music. In short, as Hentz develops this theme, music is an expression of Eoline's self, not a way of making a living, although fortunately the two functions do overlap for our heroine.

The author herself saw as the major theme of the book Eoline's resisting “the immolation of her principles and her feelings”; and it is that, Hentz states, which “exalts [her] into a heroine, and as such her history is worthy to be recorded” [p. 16]. She reiterates this theme of individual principle in many voices; for example, Eoline tells Wilton “When a young lady is forced to act independently … she is very apt to incur the censure of the world. Strength of principle may be mistaken for obstinancy, and self-reliance be branded as self-will” [p. 206]. Likewise St. Leon is unacceptable to Eoline because he lacks a “manly spirit” (that is, he is not as strong-willed as Eoline); therefore, she makes a match between him and the passive Amelia. And finally Horace Cleveland says that they love each other “as we always would have done had we been left to our own free will” [p. 250].

Thus the story of a rather unconventional young woman has a conventional ending. In Mrs. Hentz's enormously popular works, such a girl is usually the central figure, and in her later novels this heroine pushes farther and farther the limits of convention. Hentz's latest volumes carried such bittersweet titles as Courtship and Marriage; or Joys and Sorrows of American Life and Love After Marriage, and the way she could get by with writing this kind of latent feminism is that she gives her upper-class heroines a happy ending. As long as Love Conquers All and All's Well That Ends Well, people were not “turned off” by a strident feminist message. Her tactic seems to have been to push out and then retreat. Whereas a woman like Margaret Fuller in Boston received damning reviews for her straightforward protest, Woman in the Nineteenth Century, Mrs. Hentz's books were bought and read, perhaps merely reinforcing the status quo, perhaps subtly inciting young girls to rebellion to try to free themselves from cultural enslavement to male authority.

Unlike Mrs. Hentz, who was mainly writing conventional romantic plots of aristocratic boy-marries-aristocratic girl, Grace Elizabeth King is more interested in the psychological motivation of her characters. In the topsy-turvy world of postbellum New Orleans, she became one of the earliest writers in America to chronicle a young woman's initiation into the adult world. She is primarily interested in the acquisition of the values—racial, social, and marital—of the late adolescent female, the young woman reaching the age when she would have to make the crucial decision on marriage. King is concerned not only with what those values are, but also with how they are acquired. Her first book, Monsieur Motte (1888), a series of four related stories which treats seriously the initiation of Marie Modeste into womanhood, shows a character imbedded in a specific time and place, and largely controlled by that time and place.³ In this sense, King is moving from the romanticism of Hentz to the psychological realism of Kate Chopin and other writers a decade later.

In the first story “Monsieur Motte,” the black hairdresser Marcélite gathers for the orphaned Marie Modeste's graduation ball the required silk dancing boots, white gown, and the gloves, on behalf of Marie's uncle Monsieur Motte, who it is believed has supported the niece during her ten years at boarding school. He is to arrive from his business on the afternoon of the ball which eventually will lead to her marriage. However, when the ceremony is over and Marie Modeste has not yet seen this uncle, she recognizes her plight as a woman without a protector:

What had her weak little body not endured in patient ignorance? But the others were not ignorant,—the teachers, Marcélite, her uncle! … She saw it now, and she felt a woman's indignation and pity over it. … She leaned her head against the side of her bed and wept, not for herself, but for all women and all orphans.

[p. 78-79]

The next morning when the headmistress and Marie vainly seek an explanation for the uncle's absence, Marcélite is nowhere to be found. Days later a drunken and disheveled Marcélite staggers back to the school, confessing “But don't tell my bébé, don't let her know. My God! It will kill her! She's got no uncle—no Monsieur Motte! It was all a lie. It was me,—me a nigger, that sent her to school and paid for her—” [p. 96].

The real issue becomes clear when Marie asks to be taken home with Marcélite, although the headmistress has promised her a place teaching at the school. Marcélite recognizes the problem instantly—it having been her own concern all these years: “Go to my home! A white young lady like you go live with a nigger like me! … What! You don't think you ain't white! Oh, God! Strike me dead!” [pp. 100-101].

Fortunately the black hairdresser can produce the proper documentation, “a little worn-out prayer-book, but all filled with written papers and locks of hair and dates and certificates,—frail fluttering scraps that dropped all over the table, but unanswerable champions for the honor of dead men and the purity of dead women” [p. 102]. The two final paragraphs of the story show black and white women clasping hands and the resolution is perfect—because Marie is, after all, pure white.

In 1885 King wrote in a letter to her sister:

It seems to me, white as well as black women have a sad showing in what some people call romance. I am very tired, and I should think others are too, of these local stories, but as I recollect little things, I think I shall try and write them. If no one else does it better, one of these days they may prove a pleasant record and serve to bring us all nearer together blacks and whites.⁴

The important things about this story are, I think, exactly what King said they were—bringing the women of two races together and displaying the love and depth of emotion they share in defiance of their culture. Of course, it is the black woman who defies the culture by supporting the white child—giving her a chance in the finest boarding school available. The white woman, as the culture demands, must remain ignorant of her benefactress. Still Marie shows considerable respect and affection for Marcélite without having an overt reason to do so. But a hundred years later we find the ending a cop-out, a backing off from facing the real issue: the white Marie's ambiguous relationship with the black Marcélite. But the requirements of the society and of the reading public were that she be found pure white; and apparently King herself condoned that position.

But what is more important is that the author is exploring the values—and some of them are racial—of a seventeen-year-old girl. What would have happened if Marcélite had been unable to produce the worn prayerbook? If she had been required to “go home with” the Negress, what would her life have been like? To what extent is the shaping influence in the young girl's life the attempt to please the fictitious uncle? Or worst of all, what if Marcélite had merely reared the white child herself as perhaps the dying mother had actually expected her to do? These questions are not answered by King, but at least in an oblique fashion she has asked them. She has made a tentative step toward remedying the “sad showing in what some people call romance” of both black and white women, especially of the adolescent.

In the second chapter of Monsieur Motte, King rather explicitly ascribes Marie's problems to the fact that she is a woman. While Hentz's heroine is the inferior mainly because of a parent-child relationship rather than a male-female one, King makes it very clear that women have some problems because they are women: their mercurial dispositions and the inability of women whether black or white to control their own lives are named particularly. When Marie spends the summer on a sugar plantation, the mistress, impressed with Marie's naive joy, comments:

Why must women be always looking for the unattainable,—why cannot we be contented? … if it is the will of God, why must we have these feelings, these moments … ? She will crave to know it, and then, like me, she will crave acquittance of the knowledge and the refreshment of ignorance again. It is always with us women the fight between the heart and the soul.

[p. 143]

Marie believes she has “no future” because she has “no home, no husband, no children … no pleasure.” At times she felt “martyrdom the only proper vocation of women” [p. 148], for “She was at the pitiable age [King tells us] when sensitiveness is a disease, before moral courage has had time to develop” [p. 149]. While the adolescent Marie broods, she gives the “silent treatment” to her bonne Marcélite, who longs for “one moment of equality and confidence!” [p. 150]. The destinies of women in the Creole society, Grace King says, are “suprise-boxes to us women; we never know what is going to come out of them: our own plans, our own ideas count for nothing. … Men are the serious occupation, women are the playthings, of fate” [pp. 158-159].

In the book's third segment, Marie Modeste meets her future husband, Charles Montyon who, in the fourth story, discovers that he is not the rightful owner of his plantation, nor the legal one; however, after suitable complications, Marie discovers that the plantation in question rightfully and legally belongs to her. There fore, at age eighteen, orphan Marie Modeste Motte has “bought into” the culture. She has confirmed her pure white heritage, acquired the undying affection of her faithful Negro nurse, recovered her lost plantation complete with family portraits and plate, and found the man who earlier was willing to love her even without dowery; and in the postbellum society she is ready to marry him—a businessman, not a planter—solely for love. Once again, the story has a happy ending; yet in this book Grace King examines the treatment of women by their society in a more specific and personal way than did Hentz in Eoline, where nothing is assumed wrong about the society itself or its values. Although King's attitude on race was patronizing, if not actually racist as we would understand the term, she nevertheless showed genuine affection between the fictional women of the two races. And if she did show the young white woman finally accepting the values of her society, it is not without self-searching and growth.⁵ A decade later Marie might have found a sister in Edna Pontellier, who had also married a New Orleans businessman when she was about twenty, but for whom the romantic dream was to become merely an illusion.

Feminists and others have recently discovered Edna in Kate Chopin's astounding novel, The Awakening, published in 1899.⁶ It is the story, on the obvious level, of a young wife's awakening to sexual love outside her marriage. But at deeper levels it is the awakening of the self of Edna Pontellier in conflict with the culture, symbolized in part by Edna's stirring appreciation of music and by her fledgling attempts to paint.

Chopin's biographers agree that she had had a happy marriage with six children when her husband died in Kate's thirty-second year, in 1883. About five years later she began to write “hesitatingly,” and her earliest work is known mainly for its local color characteristics.⁷ Many of her works center on a strong, determined young woman, often a wife, who rebels against husband and society; but the endings of these stories are varied so as not to put forward a single solution for the “place” of women. One of the protagonists runs away from home only to return at the discovery of her impending motherhood; another only wants to spend some money frivolously; one converts from tomboy to feminine mystique.

However, with Edna, Chopin wrote what seems today a thoroughly honest account of a woman at odds with her society's values. This central figure is, like Eoline and Marie, an upper-class woman, the wife of a highly respected Creole businessman Léonce Pontellier. Because she is by upbringing a Presbyterian, Edna is unused to the customs of the less introspective, more free-wheeling Creole wives who spend their summers on Grand Isle. When Robert Lebrun flirts with them, they warn him that Edna “might make the unfortunate blunder of taking [him] seriously” [2:900]. And soon Robert and Edna appear to be in love. Therefore, Edna must make some choices; but once again they are not entirely free ones, and Edna suffers in consequence. She chooses “the inward life which questions” rather than “the outward existence which conforms” to society's requirements [2:893].

Edna's struggle is symbolized most specifically by her relationship with her husband and with her father. The night after she first heard Mademoiselle Reisz play Chopin, followed by her learning to swim “where no woman had swum before” [2:908], Edna falls asleep in the hammock. When Léonce asks her to come to bed, she declines, although “another time she would have … yielded to his desire … unthinkingly” [2:912]. But now, “she perceived that her will blazed up, stubborn and resistant. She could not at that moment have done other than denied and resisted” [2:912].

Later, Edna breaks the ritual which she “had religiously followed since her marriage, six years before,” by not receiving her Tuesday callers [2:932]. When Léonce asks her reason, she replies, “I simply felt like going out, and I went out. … I left no excuse. I told Joe to say I was out, and that was all” [2:932]. Léonce's only concern—like the later one when she moves out of his house—is that snubbing wives and daughters will adversely affect his business deals. She can resist, but finally she is powerless. The chapter concludes as Edna flings her wedding ring, the symbol of her bondage, “upon the carpet … stamped her heel upon it, striving to crush it. But her small boot heel did not make an indenture” [2:934]. Her lack of power is obvious when, at her maid's bidding, she replaces the ring on her finger. Likewise, Edna's relationship with her father has placed her in a powerless position, although by the time he visits her in New Orleans she has largely escaped his influence. He was “convinced … that he had bequeathed to all his daughters the germs of a masterful capability, which only depended upon their own efforts to be directed toward successful achievement” [2:950]; and, although she had defied him when she married Léonce six years ago, his influence on her personality had been considerable.

However, through art, Edna is able to control her father both literally and symbolically. As she sketches his portrait, “he sat rigid and unflinching, as he had faced the cannon's mouth in days gone by … he motioned [the children] away with an expressive action of the foot, loath to disturb the fixed lines of his countenance, his arms, or his rigid shoulders” [2:950-951]. Literally, then, she makes him rigid, unmovable, confined; and symbolically she shapes him by the act of painting his portrait. In a rather complex symbol, Chopin allows Edna to capture and control her world in painting just as Mlle. Reisz captivates the sensitive with her music. In fact, the courage of the artist is consistently stressed in the image of the bird which soars “above the level plain of tradition and prejudice” [2:966]. Art, then, is an acceptable way—because it appears harmless—for women to express their selves in this society, but, as Mlle. Reisz knows well, to succeed as an artist, one “must possess the courageous soul. … The soul that dares and defies” [2:946]. Therefore, fortuitously, Edna's artistic temperament and her restless spirit symbolically complement each other. Edna awakens to her true self and defies her society.

However, in 1899 the nation was not ready for an “awakened” woman, and Chopin knew this. Although younger and more charming than Edna's husband, Robert her lover is not ready to meet her needs. He admits that he tried not to love her because, he says, “you were not free; you were Léonce Pontellier's wife. … I was demented, dreaming of wild, impossible things, recalling men who had set their wives free” [2:991-992]. Edna's reply:

“You have been a very, very foolish boy, wasting your time dreaming of impossible things when you speak of Mr. Pontellier setting me free! I am no longer one of Mr. Pontellier's possessions to dispose of or not. I give myself where I choose. If he were to say, ‘Here, Robert, take her and be happy; she is yours,’ I should laugh at you both.”

[2:992]

While Edna attends a birth—another complicated metaphor—Robert leaves a note: “I love you. Good-by—because I love you” [2:997]. Unable either to think of “having” Edna without possessing her, or perhaps to face the censure of society in a divorce or an open love affair, Robert deserts the woman he loves telling himself it is because he loves her. Consequently, in an act of obvious defiance, Edna disrobes and walks into the sea while a bird with a broken wing reels and flutters down to the water. Edna's final vision as she drowns is of her father, who in his military uniform is a symbol of authority, discipline, and restraint.

Chopin's literary career ended with Edna's suicide. Readers and critics were not yet ready for her honesty and courage in expressing the needs of a woman who refused to obey the restrictive social conventions of the times. Juxtaposed against the fictional lives of an Eoline or a Marie Modeste (and most other protagonists of Hentz or King), Edna Pontellier's emotional honesty—her refusing to submit to the male-defined stereotype—achieves sharp focus. The juxtaposition, of course, provides sufficient reason for our taking a serious critical look at the work of Hentz, King, and other minor women writers of the nineteenth century; for it is through their vision that we can understand and define the dynamics of the reaction against stereotype in life as well as in fiction of the nineteenth century.

However, in the twentieth century, women in southern fiction begin to see that they have alternatives. They can remain unmarried for one thing, as is brilliantly demonstrated in Frances Newman's The Hard-Boiled Virgin (1926). But without the early stories of the Hentzes and Kings, perhaps there would not yet have been a Chopin, a Newman, certainly not a Flannery O'Connor, whose stories simply do not have to deal with the relationships between men and women as cultural phenomena. O'Connor's barnyard seductions are not sexual acts but spiritual ones; the characters are not merely men and women but forces of evil and good in the world. Only when a culture can “get over” or beyond a primary interest in sexual mores, can acts between the sexes become symbolic actions. These neglected southern women writers provide a context and a heritage in which to view the achievement and promise of their successors.

Notes

1. Jerry T. Williams, ed., Southern Literature 1968-1975: A Checklist of Scholarship (Boston: G. K. Hall, 1978).

2. Caroline Lee Hentz, Eoline; or, Magnolia Vale (Philadelphia: T. B. Peterson, 1852; rpt, Freeport, N.Y.: Books for Libraries Series, 1971).

3. Grace Elizabeth King, Monsieur Motte (Freeport, N.Y.: Books for Libraries Series, 1969).

4. Robert Bush, ed., Grace King of New Orleans (Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 1973), p. 14.

5. See Marie Fletcher, “Grace Elizabeth King: Her Delineation of the Southern Heroine,” Louisiana Studies 5 (Spring 1966): 50-60.

6. Kate Chopin, The Awakening, ed. Per Seyersted, The Complete Works of Kate Chopin, Vol. 2 (Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 1969), pp. 879-1000.

7. Seyersted, “Introduction,” 1:22.