In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:From Parnassus to EdenChristopher McDonoughFor Rebekah SmithIn these pages some seven years ago, Robert Renehan (1992) discussed the passage from book 19 of the Odyssey in which the young Odysseus’ cousins sing a healing incantation over his wound in the wilderness of Mount Parnassus. 1 Renehan was specifically interested in bringing to light the Old Irish comparanda, so as to display the Indo-European roots of this particular form of (...) magical healing; he was clear in stating, nonetheless, that such practices are found in many other parts of the world. To encounter this custom, however, it is not necessary to study ancient Ireland or Greece, as I discovered by surprise in class one day.When lecturing on the Odyssey in the past, I have always enjoyed lingering over this particular scene, presenting to students Erich Auerbach’s ideas on mimesis as well as more general folkloric material. 2 In addition to the Irish evidence adduced by Renehan, I have usually mentioned anecdotes about the brauchers (wizards) of the Pennsylvania Dutch, some of whom could still blood by chanting—even over the telephone (see Dorson 1964, 115). Thus it was, in the fall of 1995, that I was giving a guest lecture on book 19 for a classical mythology class at the University of North Carolina at Greensboro. I had just finished reciting some of the stories above, when a student raised his hand to ask, “Is that anything like talking out fire?” Before I could respond, another student also spoke up. “I was thinking that, too,” she said.A few others were nodding their heads in recognition, though the majority of the class looked perplexed. I certainly was, since I had no idea what they were talking about. The first student explained that he [End Page 297] was from Eden, North Carolina, a Piedmont town near the Virginia border; that, in this area, there were old women who could talk out fire; that, if a person had been burned, such a woman could be hired to speak to the fire and convince it to leave the body; that his own grandmother was such a woman; and that he himself as a child had had a burn talked out of his hand, which hand—the very hand he had raised!—he now raised again as dramatic testimony of the treatment. A few other students said that they too were familiar with the custom, though none had quite so intimate a familiarity as he.In the days that followed I did a little research on the topic, fearing that I may have been hoodwinked by some true son of crafty Autolykos. But his story checked out: the phenomenon of “talking the fire out of a burn” is well attested in North Carolina and throughout the South. 3 While folklorists have collected many accounts of this type of healing, perhaps the most vivid description is given by Southern writer Harry Crews. In A Childhood: The Biography of a Place (1978 = 1993, 17–170), a memoir of his upbringing in Depression-era rural Georgia, the author relates that, while playing as a boy, he had fallen into a cast-iron tub filled with boiling water for skinning hogs; over two-thirds of his body was scalded and, he recalls, the skin of his left hand came off “like a wet glove.” His family was too remote and too poor for a hospital trip, and had to rely on some makeshift arrangements set up by the local doctor. Shortly thereafter, however, they were visited by a rough character named Hollis Toomey, known throughout the area for his ability to talk out fire. Crews recounts what happened next:Hollis Toomey’s voice was low like the quiet rasping of a file on metal. I couldn’t hear most of what he had to say, but that was all right because I stopped burning before he ever started talking. He talked to the fire like an old and respected adversary, but one he had beaten consistently and had come to beat again. I don’t remember him once looking at my face while he explained: “Fire, this boy is mine. This bed is mine... (shrink)

The poem numbered 18 in the collection known as the Oxford poems was written a little before the middle of the twelfth century. Composed in rhyming octosyllabic verse, the poem has three parts. It begins by praising the bishop and clergy of Amiens for an act of charity on behalf of the destitute poet. It continues with a celebration of the cathedral school of Reims under Master Alberic. It concludes with a biting attack upon an anonymous teacher who is unfit (...) to be heard by the students of Reims. The author calls himself Primas, incorporating this name as an internal signature within the body of the poem. Primas has been identified with a certain Hugh of Orléans, who in his day enjoyed a reputation for wit and humor. (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:American Journal of Philology 127.2 (2006) 293-303 [Access article in PDF] Some Late Sonnets of Gildersleeve Found at Sewanee Christopher M. McDonough University of the South e-mail: cmcdonou@sewanee.edu Basil Lanneau Gildersleeve, the eminent classicist who founded this journal, is remembered primarily as an authority on matters of grammar and philology; he was in addition something of a poet, although of limited ability, who specialized in sonnets.1 In the archives (...) of the University of the South in Sewanee, Tennessee, I recently found a number of sonnets written by Gildersleeve, all of them apparently from late in his long life.2 As these may be of interest to the readership of this journal, AJP's current editor has graciously allowed these nugae of her distinguished predecessor to be reprinted here.What follows below are seven sonnets written when Gildersleeve was evidently in or nearly in his nineties,3 all of which were copied in longhand by his niece, Mrs. Leon D. (Eleanor) Kirby, a longtime Sewanee resident.4 When and why Mrs. Kirby made these transcriptions is uncertain, [End Page 293] although her reasons appear to have been personal.5 She was not a practiced amanuensis (see below n. 14), and the text of the sonnets is largely as she copied them out, with only minor corrections.6 Because these require in places a little explication, I have supplied a brief commentary as well. From the appearance of his name fairly littering the footnotes, readers will ascertain that Professor Ward Briggs has been tremendously helpful to me in putting together this "Brief Mention."It was in one of his own late "Brief Mentions," in fact, that Gildersleeve outlined his theory that "the modern sonnet [is] an analogon on a large scale" to the elegiac distich (AJP 41.2 [1920]: 200 = Miller 1930, 402). As he continues, "The octave... represents the hexameter, the sextet, the pentameter, and the likeness to the latter is heightened by the use of terza rima."7 He ends his remarks on the matter thus: The Greeks kept prose and poetry steadily apart... but the elegiac distich was open to all; and I may claim Hellenic authority for introducing my sonnets into the company of grave grammarians. If that chiffonier Diogenes Laertius might try his hand on epigram, why not I try mine at sonnets? [End Page 294]In a letter to Paul Shorey, Gildersleeve had assessed his own poetic endeavors as "mere embroideries of more or less familiar texts" that are "at best... bits of versified rhetoric" (Briggs 1987, 346). On the other hand, as Shorey himself had maintained in a long New York Times tribute, "Everything that Gildersleeve did counted" (January 27, 1924, 14). No doubt the sonnets are of greater historical than literary value, although this is a judgment better perhaps left to the individual tastes of AJP's current company of grave grammarians. 1. Callimachus to Heraclitus (The Old Greek Page) They told me Heraclitus, thou wast dead. Death is the common lot, too well I know, Of every thing that lives and moves below The brazen heavens. But Ah! what tears I shed When I recalled how oft the hours sped. Unheeded they would come unheeded go While our discourse kept up its happy flow Until the sun sank to his ocean bed Long since, long since, my Halicarnassian friend [... thou hast returned to dust.] Thy play is over, and thy work is done. The angel Azrael who makes an end Of mortal men, thy tuneful voice hath hushed And yet thy Nightingales live on, sing on. 2. To Joseph Packard They told me Joseph Packard, thou wast dead Death is the common lot, too well I know, Of every thing that lives and moves below The brazen heavens. But Ah! what tears I shed, When I recalled how oft the hours sped. Unheeded they would come, unheeded go While our discourse kept up its happy flow. [Until the sun sank to his ocean bed] And now dear comrade, old Confederate friend Ashes to ashes art thou, dust to dust. The... (shrink)