Littérature scientifique sur le sujet « (1893 : Chicago, Ill.) »

Straipsnyje nagrinėjama Amerikos lietuvių spaudos (laikraščių ir kny­gų) istorijos sritis – lietuviškos spaustuvės. Svarbiausias dėmesys ir vieta ski­riami spaustuvių darbininkams, su spaustuvių veikla ir amatu susijusiems žmonėms, jų darbo, buities ir kitiems klausimams. Faktų ir žinių daugiausia rasta aptariamojo laikotarpio Amerikos lie­tuvių periodikoje. Duomenų ir svarbių teiginių taip pat teikia vėliau išleisti Amerikos lietuvių istorijos veikalai (Stasio Michelsono „Lietuvių išeivija Amerikoje 1868–1961“ (S. Bostone 1962 m.); Antano Kučo „Amerikos lietuvių istorija“ Bostone 1971 m.; Aleksandro Ambroze`o „Chicagos lietu­vių istorija 1868–1959“ (Čikaga, Ill., 1967); Alfonso Eidinto „Litovskaja emigracija v strany Severnoj i južnoj Ameriki v 1868–1940 g.“ (Vilnius, 1989 m.) ir kt. Nors minėti veikalai nėra skirti spaustuvių istorijai, bet jų skyriuose, skirsniuose, kitose vietose yra nagrinėjamai temai svarbios fakto­grafinės bei kitos medžiagos. Šiuo požiūriu išskirtinos Antano Miluko knygos: „Pirmieji Amerikos lietu­viai profesionalai ir kronika“ (Philadelphia, Pa, t. 1, 1929 m); „Spaudos lais­vės ir Amerikos lietuvių organizuotės sukaktuvės“ (2-as leid., Philadelphia, Pa, 1930 m.); „Amerikos lietuviai XIX šimtmetyje 1868–1900“ (Philadelphia, Pa, 1938 m. ir kt.). A.Miluko darbai turtingi naujos medžiagos, kuri, beje, susijusi ir su spaustuvių, jų steigėjų ir kita istorija. Duomenys straipsniui rinkti iš bibliografinių darbų, kurie leidžia nu­statyti konkretaus laikotarpio spaustuvių skaičių, jų gyvavimo vietą, savi­ninkus, leidėjus, redaktorius, spausdintą produkciją ir pan. Iš jų išskirtini šie: Vaclovo Biržiškos „Amerikos lietuvių spauda 1874–1910“ (Chicago, Ill., 1994), į kurį įeina V. Biržiškos 1951 m. rašytas straipsnis tokiu pat pavadinimu lietuvių ir anglų kalbomis ir bibliografijos redaktorės Stasės Vaškelienės papildymai; taip pat „Lietuvos TSR bibliografija“ (Serija A., t. 2. Vilnius, 1985 m.), kurioje yra Danutės Gargasaitės straipsnis „JAV lie­tuvių knyga (1874–1904); „Lietuvos bibliografija. Knygos lietuvių kalba 1905–1917“ (t. 3. V., 2006 m.), kur galima rasti Violetos Černiauskaitės straipsnį „Lietuviškoji knyga nepriklausomos valstybės atkūrimo išvakarėse 1905–1917 metais“. Straipsnio autoriui buvo naudingi Amerikos lietuviškų spaustuvių (ypač laikraščių) jubiliejiniai leidiniai: Dominyko T. Bačkausko „Aprašymas apie drukarnę „Saulės“ ir „Linksmos valandos“ knygoje „Kalendorius ant 1904“ (Mahanoj Sitis, 1903); F. V. (Pranciškaus Vytauto) Bačkausko „25 metai „Saulės“ gyvenimo sukaktuvės“ knygoje „Laikraščio „Saulė“ kalendorius ant meto 1913“ (Mahanoj Sitis, 1912); „Vienybės lietuvnikų“ 25 metų sukaktuvių jubiliejus (1886–1911)“ (Bruklinas, 1911); Lietuvos istorija: Lietuva (1917, Nr. 52). Šiuose leidiniuose skelbiami redaktorių, leidėjų, skaitytojų straipsniai, atsiminimai ir pan. Nuodugniau lietuviškų spaustuvių istoriją nagrinėjo Amerikos lietuvių publicistas, spaudos istorikas Vytautas Širvydas („Amerikos lietuvių knygos 1875–1904“ knygoje „Kovos metai dėl spaudos“ (Chicago, Ill., 1957)). Kitas specialus to laikotarpio Amerikos lietuviškų spaustuvių ir knygų leidybos jose darbas priklauso knygotyrininkei D. Gargasaitei („JAV lietu­vių spaustuvės (iki 1904 m.)“ – Knygotyra, t. 9 (16), sąs., 1, 1983). Šios autorės 1980 m. parašytas darbas turi tvirtą istoriografinį pagrindą, pa­remtas gausia, kai kur nauja faktologija. Be bendresnio įvadinio teksto apie spaustuves, jį sudaro autorės surinktos ir susistemintos žinios apie septynio­lika reikšmingiausių ar ne tiek produktyvių 1875–1904 m. lietuviškų spaus­tuvių, pateikta žinių ir apie jų savininkus bei knygų leidėjus. Amerikos lietuviškas spaustuves kūrė ir jose triūsė šimtai žmonių, kurių vaidmuo, kaip rašoma, „lietuvių spausdinto žodžio istorijoje yra labai svar­bus“ (Tylūs ir nematomi karžygiai // Laisvė, 1916, Nr. 69). Vienų vardai žinomi, kitų neišliko, jie neminimi mūsų žurnalistikos istorijoje, apie kitus trūksta žinių. Bet apie žinomiausius, daugiau nusipelniusius lietuvių kul­tūrai apskritai yra išleista monografijų ir studijų. Pirmo spaustuvininko, leidėjo ir redaktoriaus Mykolo Tvarausko gyvenimas ir veikla apžvelgiama leidinyje „M. Tvarauskas. Pirmoji Amerikos lietuviška knyga“ (V., 1997). Jonui Šliūpui skirta ne viena knyga, bet reikšmingiausia yra istoriko Juozo Jakšto „Dr. Jonas Šliūpas, jo raštai ir tautinė veikla“ (Chicago, Ill., 1979). Apie Antaną Miluką paskelbti šie darbai: Julijos Pranaitytės „Kun. A. Mi­luko darbuotė“ (Philadelphia, Pa, 1931) ir Vlado Mingėlos „Kun. Antanas Milukas“ (Detroit, 1962). Antano Olšausko biografijai ir veiklai nušviesti sudarytas rinkinys „Antanas Olšauskas ir Lietuva“ (Sodus, 1934). Vytau­to Širvydo monografijoje „Juozas O. Širvydas (1875–1935)“ (Cleveland, 1941) aptariamas šio veikėjo ir redaktoriaus gyvenimas, žurnalistinė ir li­teratūrinė kūryba. Amerikos lietuviškų spaustuvių, laikraščių bei žymių veikėjų biografijos knygose pateikiamos platesniame visuomeniniame kultūriniame kontekste, bet nemenkas dėmesys skiriamas ir jų kaip spaustuvininkų leidėjų veiklai. Periodikoje, enciklopedijose, žinynuose randame įvairaus pobūdžio straipsnių ir apie kitus spaustuvininkus, kurių darbų palikimas turėjo dide­lę vertę. Tai žinomi šio amato žmonės, tokie kaip Juozas Paukštys, Juozas J. Paukštys, Dominykas Bačkauskas ir kt. Šiame darbe atsižvelgta į kitų mokslininkų, autorių veikalus ir leidinius, į jų faktologiją, apibūdinimus ir teiginius. Jais taip pat pasinaudota. Vis dėl­to, šio straipsnio autoriaus nuomone, netikslinga kartoti tai, kas jau pada­ryta nušviečiant Amerikos lietuviškų spaustuvių (ypač iki 1904 m.) istoriją. Tad darbe stengtasi iškelti ir nušviesti naujus ar kitokius temos klausimus ir aspektus. Straipsnyje konspektiškai rašoma apie tolesnio periodo (1904–1919 m.) spaustuves, daugiausia medžiagos pateikiama apie spaustuvių darbininkus, jų atsiradimą ir augimą, apie jų darbo ir buities sąlygas, jų reikalavimus, profesinę organizaciją ir kt. Kai kurie iš šios temos dalykų atsispindi isto­riografinėje dalyje, į kurią dar įtrauktas ir vienas kitas specialesnis straips­nis, kaip antai: Julijos Pranaitytės „Amerikos lietuvių leidėjai“, išspaus­dintas knygoje „Aušros 40 m. sukaktuvėse“ (1883–1923) (Philadelphia, Pa.,1923); Rojaus Mizaros „Žvilgsnis į praeitį“. V., 1960; Antano Aukš­taičio (Broniaus Raguočio) „Kovoje už savo teises“, kuris buvo publikuotas „Gimtajame krašte“ 1982 m. rugpjūčio 5 d. Prie straipsnio pridedamas priedas – „Amerikos lietuviškų spaustuvi­ninkų (1874–1919) sąrašas. Jis sudarytas, remiantis to laiko periodika, bibliografijos leidiniais, enciklopedijomis (ypač Bostono Lietuvių enciklo­pedija), spaustuvių istorijos darbais, kitais šaltiniais. Šį sąrašą reikia priimti su tam tikromis išlygomis, kaip mėginimą, kuriame yra spragų, netikslumų ir pan.

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“As the old technologies become automatic and invisible, we find ourselves more concerned with fighting or embracing what’s new”—Dennis Baron, From Pencils to Pixels: The Stage of Literacy Technologies In a world where nothing is certain… and even the objectivity of science is qualified by relativity and uncertainty, the single human voice, telling its own story, can seem the only authentic way of rendering consciousness. – David Lodge (“Sense and Sensibility”) Leon Edel expressed the central puzzle of writing biography as “every life takes its own form and a biographer must find the ideal and unique literary form that will express it” (qtd. in Novarr 165). My primary challenge in writing Poisoned: The Trials of Mary Dean – a biography in the form of a (fictionalised) first-person memoir purportedly written by the subject herself – was the location of a textual voice for Mary that, if not her own, could have credibly belonged to a woman of her time, place and circumstance. The ‘Dean case’ caused a sensation across Australia in the mid-1890s when George Dean was arrested for the attempted murder of his 20-year-old wife, Mary. George was a handsome Sydney ferry master who had played the romantic lead in a series of spectacular rescues, flinging himself into the harbour to save women passengers who had fallen overboard. When on trial for repeatedly poisoning his wife, his actions and motivations were not probed; instead, Mary’s character and behaviour and, by extrapolation, those of the entire female sex, were examined and analysed. This approach climaxed in defence counsel claims that Mary poisoned herself to frame her husband, but George was found guilty and sentenced to hang, the mandatory punishment for attempted murder at that time. Despite the persuasive prosecution evidence and the jury’s unanimous verdict, the Sydney press initiated a public outcry. After a series of inflamed community meetings and with a general election approaching, the Premier called for a Royal Commission into Dean’s conviction. This inquiry came to the extraordinary conclusion that: the facts, as shown, are quite as compatible with the hypothesis that Mrs. Dean ... administered the arsenic to herself – possibly at the prompting of her mother and without any intention of taking a fatal dose – as that the poison was administered to her by her husband with an intent to kill. (Regina v George Dean 16) George was freed with a Royal Pardon and Mary was publicly reviled as a pariah of the lowest order. This unhappy situation continued even after it was revealed that her husband had confessed his guilt to his solicitor, and charges of conspiracy and perjury were brought against George and his lawyers who were then members of the New South Wales Parliament. Although the lawyers both escaped relatively unscathed, George Dean was gaoled for 14 years. This was despite Mary’s story having obvious potential for a compelling biographical narrative. To begin with, she experiences the terror of suspecting her own husband is poisoning her as she convalesces after the birth of their child. She survives repeated doses of strychnine and arsenic, only to confront the humiliating certainty that her husband was desperate to be rid of her. Then, weak and ill, she has to endure the ordeal of police-court proceedings and a criminal trial when she is damned as a witch conspiring with her wicked mother to ruin her husband. Withstanding assertions that her childhood home was a brothel and she a prostitute, she spends long weeks in hospital knowing her husband is under sentence of execution, only to be released, destitute, with a sickly child she has poisoned with her own breast milk. Still physically debilitated, she is called before a Royal Commission where she is again violently cross-examined and, on the day of her twenty-first birthday, is confronted with the knowledge that not only was her mother a transported convict, but that she is, herself, of illegitimate birth. When the Commission finds in her husband’s favour, Mary has to watch her poisoner pardoned, freed and feted as a popular celebrity, while she faces an increasingly viperous press, and is jeered at and spat on in the streets. Next, she is forced to testify at yet another series of public trials and finally, even when her husband confesses his crime and is gaoled for perjury (his Royal Pardon saving him from again facing an attempted murder charge), she is ostracised as the penniless wife of a common criminal and illegitimate daughter of a transported convict. Despite this, and having little more than the shame of divorce to look forward to, Mary nevertheless regains her health and, four years after her final court appearance, marries a respectable shopkeeper. A year later, in 1902, she gives birth to her second child. together with examples written by women of her time, class and education, fabricating an extended letter (written by Mary, but based on historical evidence) seemed a viable textual solution. For centuries, domestic letters were a major means of autobiographical expression for ‘non-literary’, working-class women and, moreover, a textual format within which Mary (silenced for over a century) could finally relate her own version of events. These decisions aligned with what John Burnett has identified as the most common motivations for a working-class person to write an autobiographical narrative: “belief that he [sic] had some important … personal triumph over difficulties and misfortune … to leave for one’s children or grandchildren” (11). This relatively common human desire also tailored neatly with a central theme animating Mary’s life – that ignorance about the past can poison your future. To create a textual voice for Mary in her narrative, I utilised the literary process of ‘ventriloquising’ or providing a believable (fictional) voice for a historical character – the term ‘literary ventriloquism’ was coined by David Lodge in 1987 for how novelists create (and readers ‘hear’) the various voices in literary works (100). While biographies including Andrew Motion’s Wainewright the Poisoner (2000) and, as Richard Freadman has noted, Gertrude Stein’s The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas (1933) have effectively employed varieties of biographical ventriloquism, this is a literary device more frequently used by fiction writers. It is also interesting to note that when skilled fiction writers employ ventriloquism, their resulting works are often perceived as much as biography-histories as imaginative pieces. Peter Carey’s The True History of the Kelly Gang (2000) is the invented document of which Kelly biographers dream, an autobiographical account supposedly written by Kelly so his infant daughter might “comprehend the injustice we poor Irish suffered” (5), but the voice Carey created was so credible that historians (including Ian Jones and Alex McDermott) debated its authenticity. This was despite Carey making no claims for the historical accuracy of his work. Of course, I primarily tested my text against such press interviews, Mary’s own letters and the articulations of her voice reported in the trial and other court records. Not that the latter group of texts can be taken as ‘verbatim’ transcriptions. Although court and other legal records provide, as Karen Dubinskyhas noted, “a window into instances of personal life … we can hear people talking about love, emotional and sexual intimacy, power, betrayal and broken promises” (4), such texts are profoundly mediated documents. The citations we now read in print passed through many hands – Mary’s testimonies would have been initially noted by the court stenographer, then transcribed, corrected, edited, typeset, corrected again, printed and bound – with each stage in the process incorporating inaccuracies, omissions and changes into the text. And, however accurate, such transcripts are never complete, neither indicating the tone in which answers were given, nor the speakers’ hesitations, pauses or accompanying gestures. The transcripts I used also record many examples of Lyndal Roper’s “forced discourse”, where Mary was directed to give only usually abbreviated responses to questions, questions which no doubt often directed the tone, content and even wording of her answers (54). Despite these limitations, it was following Mary in court through these texts, cringing at the humiliation and bullying she was subjected to, rallying when she showed spirit and almost cheering when she was finally vindicated, which allowed me to feel a real human connection with her as my subject. It was via these texts (and her own letters) that I also became aware that Mary Dean had been a person who, at the same time as she was living her life, was also (as are we all) remembering, forgetting and, probably, fabricating stories about that life – stories which, at times, challenged and contradicted each other. My aim was always to move beyond finding a persuasive textual voice for Mary, that is one which seemed authentic (and suitable for a novel), to one able to tell some of the contradictory stories of Mary’s life, as she no longer could. Ultimately, I wanted every utterance of my textual rendering of her speech to declare (as J. M. Coetzee has one of his characters say): “I live, I suffer, I am here. With cunning and treachery, if necessary, I fight against becoming one of the forgotten ones of history” (3). Works Cited Allen, Judith A. Sex and Secrets: Crimes Involving Australian Women Since 1880. Melbourne: Oxford U P, 1990. Burnett, John, ed. Useful Toil: Autobiographies of Working People from the 1820s to the 1920s. London: Allen Lane, 1976. Carey, Peter. The True History of the Kelly Gang, St. Lucia: U of Queensland P, 2000. Coetzee, J. M. In the Heart of the Country. London: Secker and Warburg, 1977. Daily Telegraph, 9 October 1895: 5. Dubinsky, Karen. Improper Advances: Rape and Heterosexual Conflict in Ontario, 1880-1929. Chicago and London: U of Chicago P, 1993. Freadman, Richard. â??Prose and Cons of a Bizarre Lifeâ?. The Age 27 May 2000: Saturday Extra, 7. Holmes, Katie. Spaces in Her Day: Australian Womenâ??s Diaries of the 1920s-1930s. St. Leonards: Allen and Unwin, 1995. â??Interview with Mrs. Dean.â? Truth 5 May 1895: 7. Jones, Ian. â??Not in Nedâ??s Natureâ?. The Weekend Australian 18-9 Aug. 2001: R12-3. Lodge, David. â??After Bakhtin.â? The Linguistics of Writing. Ed. Nigel Fabb, Derek Attridge, Alan Durant and Colin MacCabe. New York: Methuen, 1987: 89-102. Lodge, David. â??Sense and Sensibilityâ?. The Guardian Unlimited 2 Nov. 2002. [accessed 12/11/02] <http://books.guardian.co..uk/review/story/0,12084,823955,00.php> McDermott, Alex. â??Ned Kellyâ??s Yawp.â? Australian Book Review Mar. 2002: 16-8. McDermott, Alex. â??The Apocalyptic Chant of Edward Kellyâ?. The Jerilderie Letter. Melbourne: Text, 2001. v-xxxiv. Motion, Andrew. Wainewright the Poisoner. London: Faber, 2000. Novarr, David. The Lines of Life: Theories of Biography, 1880-1970. West Layfayette, In.: Perdue U P, 1986. Peers, Juliet. What No Man Had Ever Done Before. Malvern, Vic.: Dawn Revival, 1992. Regina v George Dean: Report of the Royal Commission, Appointed Seventh Day of May, 1895. Sydney: Government, 1895. Roper, Lyndal. Oedipus and the Devil: Witchcraft, Sexuality and Religion in Early Modern Europe. London and New York: Routledge, 1994. Seymour, Mary. Letter to George Clements, 12 October 1891. Letters to Frank Brereton, 22 October 1891, 30 December 1891, 25 April 1892. Regina v George Dean: Report of the Royal Commission: 244-46. Spender, Dale. â??Journal on a Journal.â? Womenâ??s Studies International Forum 10.1 (1987): 1-5. Sydney Morning Herald. 9 October 1895: 8, 10 October 1895: 5. Links http://books.guardian.co..uk/review/story/0 Citation reference for this article MLA Style Brien, Donna Lee. "Imagining Mary Dean " M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture <http://www.media-culture.org.au/0401/07-brien.php>. APA Style Brien, D. (2004, Jan 12). Imagining Mary Dean . M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture, 7, <http://www.media-culture.org.au/0401/07-brien.php>

IntroductionBallarat’s Theatre Royal was the first permanent theatre built in inland Australia. Upon opening in 1858, it was acclaimed as having “the handsomest theatrical exterior in the colony” (Star, “Editorial” 7 Dec. 1889) and later acknowledged as “the grandest playhouse in all Australia” (Spielvogel, Papers Vol. 1 160). Born of Gold Rush optimism, the Royal was loved by many, yet the over-arching story of its ill-fated existence has failed to surface, in any coherent fashion, in official history. This article takes some first steps toward retrieving lost knowledge from fragmented archival records, and piecing together the story of why this purpose-built theatre ceased operation within a twenty-year period. A short history of the venue will be provided, to develop context. It will be argued that while a combination of factors, most of which were symptomatic of unfortunate timing, destroyed the longevity of the Royal, the principal problem was one of stigmatisation. This was an era in which the societal pressure to visibly conform to conservative values was intense and competition in the pursuit of profits was fierce.The cultural silence that befell the story of the Royal, after its demise, is explicable in relation to history being written by the victors and a loss of spokespeople since that time. As theatre arts historiographer McConachie (131) highlights, “Theatres, like places for worship and spectator sports, hold memories of the past in addition to providing a practical and cognitive framework for performance events in the present.” When that place, “a bounded area denoted by human agency and memory” (131), is lost in time, so too may be the socio-cultural lessons from the period, if not actively recalled and reconsidered. The purpose of this article is to present the beginning of an investigation into the disjointed narrative of Ballarat’s Theatre Royal. Its ultimate failure demonstrates how dominant community based entertainment became in Ballarat from the 1860s onwards, effectively crushing prospects for mid-range professional theatre. There is value in considering the evolution of the theatre’s lifespan and its possible legacy effects. The connection between historical consciousness and the performing arts culture of by-gone days offers potential to reveal specks of cross-relevance for regional Australian theatrical offerings today.In the BeginningThe proliferation of entertainment venues in Ballarat East during the 1850s was a consequence of the initial discovery of surface alluvial gold and the ongoing success of deep-lead mining activities in the immediate area. This attracted extraordinary numbers of people from all over the world who hoped to strike it rich. Given the tough nature of life on the early gold diggings, most disposable income was spent on evening entertainment. As a result, numerous venues sprang into operation to cater for demand. All were either canvas tents or makeshift wooden structures: vibrant in socio-cultural activity, however humble the presentation values. It is widely agreed (Withers, Bate and Brereton) that noteworthy improvements occurred from 1856 onwards in the artistry of the performers, audience tastes, the quality of theatrical structures and living standards in general. Residents began to make their exit from flood and fire prone Ballarat East, moving to Ballarat West. The Royal was the first substantial entertainment venture to be established in this new, affluent, government surveyed township area. Although the initial idea was to draw in some of the patronage which had flourished in Ballarat East, Brereton (14) believed “There can be no doubt that it was [primarily] intended to attract those with good taste and culture”. This article will contend that how society defined ‘good taste’ turned out to be problematic for the Royal.The tumultuous mid-1850s have attracted extensive academic and popular attention, primarily because they were colourful and politically significant times. The period thereafter has attracted little scholarly interest, unless tied to the history of surviving organisations. Four significant structures designed to incorporate theatrical entertainment were erected and opened in Ballarat from 1858 onwards: The Royal was swiftly followed by the Mechanics Institute 1859, Alfred Hall 1867 and Academy of Music 1874-75. As philosopher Albert Borgmann (41) highlighted, the erection of “magnificent settings in which the public could gather and enjoy itself” was the dominant urban aspiration for cultural consumption in the nineteenth century. Men of influence in Victorian cities believed strongly in progress and grand investments as a conscious demonstration of power, combined with Puritan vales, teetotalism and aggressive self-assertiveness (Briggs 287-88). At the ceremonial laying of the foundation stone for the Royal on 20 January 1858, eminent tragedian, Gustavos Brooke, announced “… may there be raised a superstructure perfect in all its parts, and honourable to the builder.” He proclaimed the memorial bottle to be “a lasting memento of the greatness of Ballarat in erecting such a theatre” and philosophised that “the stage not only refines the manners, but it is the best teacher of morals, for it is the truest and most intelligible picture of life. It stamps the image of virtue on the mind …” (Star, “Laying” 21 Jan. 1858). These initial aspirations seem somewhat ambitious when viewed with the benefit of hindsight. Ballarat’s Theatre Royal opened in December 1858, ironically with Jerrold’s comedy ‘Time Works Wonders’. The large auditorium holding around 1500 people “was crowded to overflowing and was considered altogether brilliant in its newness and beauty” by all in attendance (Star, “Local and General” 30 Dec. 1858). Generous descriptions abound of how splendid it was, in architectural terms, but also in relation to scenery, decorations and all appointments. Underneath the theatre were two shops, four bars, elegant dining rooms, a kitchen and 24 bedrooms. A large saloon was planned to be attached soon-after. The overall cost of the build was estimated at a substantial 10,000 pounds.The First Act: 1858-1864In the early years, the Royal was deemed a success. The pleasure-seeking public of Ballarat came en masse and the glory days seemed like they might continue unabated. By the early 1860s, Ballarat was known as a great theatrical centre for performing arts, its population was famous both nationally and internationally for an appreciation of good acting, and the Royal was considered the home of the best dramatic art in Ballarat (Withers 260). Like other theatres of the 1850s diggings, it had its own resident company of actors, musicians, scenic artists and backstage crew. Numerous acclaimed performers came to visit and these were prosperous and happy times for the Royal’s lively theatrical community. As early as 1859, however, there was evident rivalry between the Royal and the Mechanics Institute, as suggested on numerous occasions in the Ballarat Star. As a multi-purpose venue for education and the betterment of the working classes, the latter venue had the distinct advantage of holding the moral high ground. Over time this competition increased as audiences decreased. As people shifted to family-focussed entertainments, these absorbed their time and attention. The transformation of a transient population into a township of families ultimately suffocated prospects for professional entertainment in Ballarat. Consumer interest turned to the growth of strong amateur societies with the establishment of the Welsh Eisteddfod 1863; Harmonic Society 1864; Bell Ringers’ Club 1866 and Glee and Madrigal Union 1867 (Brereton 38). By 1863, the Royal was reported to have “scanty patronage” and Proprietor Symonds was in financial trouble (Star, “News and Notes” 15 Sep. 1864). It was announced that the theatre would open for the last time on Saturday, 29 October 1864 (Australasian). On that same date, the Royal was purchased by Rowlands & Lewis, the cordial makers. They promptly on-sold it to the Ballarat Temperance League, who soon discovered that there was a contract in place with Bouchier, the previous owner, who still held the hotel next door, stating that “all proprietors … were bound to keep it open as a theatre” (Withers 260-61). Having invested immense energy into the quest to purchase it, the Temperance League backed out of the deal. Prominent Hotelier Walter Craig bought it for less than 3,000 pounds. It is possible that this stymied effort to quell the distribution of liquor in the heart of the city evoked the ire of the Protestant community, who were on a dedicated mission “to attack widespread drunkenness, profligacy, licentiousness and agnosticism,” and forming an interdenominational Bible and Tract Society in 1866 (Bate 176). This caused a segment of the population to consider the Royal a ‘lost cause’ and steer clear of it, advising ‘respectable’ families to do the same, and so the stigma grew. Social solidarity of this type had significant impact in an era in which people openly demonstrated their morality by way of unified public actions.The Second Act: 1865-1868The Royal closed for renovations until May 1865. Of the various alterations made to the interior and its fittings, the most telling was the effort to separate the ladies from the ‘town women’, presumably to reassure ‘respectable’ female patrons. To this end, a ladies’ retiring room was added, in a position convenient to the dress circle. The architectural rejuvenation of the Royal was cited as an illustration of great progress in Sturt Street (Ballarat Star, “News and Notes” 27 May 1865). Soon after, the Royal hosted the Italian Opera Company.However, by 1866 there was speculation that the Royal may be converted into a dry goods store. References to what sort of impression the failing of theatre would convey to the “old folks at home” in relation to “progress in civilisation'' and "social habits" indicated the distress of loyal theatre-goers. Impassioned pleas were written to the press to help preserve the “Temple of Thespus” for the legitimate use for which it was intended (Ballarat Star, “Messenger” and “Letters to the Editor” 30 Aug. 1866). By late 1867, a third venue materialised. The Alfred Hall was built for the reception of Ballarat’s first Royal visitor, the Duke of Edinburgh. On the night prior to the grand day at the Alfred, following a private dinner at Craig’s Hotel, Prince Alfred was led by an escorted torchlight procession to a gala performance at Craig’s very own Theatre Royal. The Prince’s arrival caused a sensation that completely disrupted the show (Spielvogel, Papers Vol. 1 165). While visiting Ballarat, the Prince laid the stone for the new Temperance Hall (Bate 159). This would not have been required had the League secured the Royal for their use three years earlier.Thereafter, the Royal was unable to reach the heights of what Brereton (15) calls the “Golden Age of Ballarat Theatre” from 1855 to 1865. Notably, the Mechanics Institute also experienced financial constraints during the 1860s and these challenges were magnified during the 1870s (Hazelwood 89). The late sixties saw the Royal reduced to the ‘ordinary’ in terms of the calibre of productions (Brereton 15). Having done his best to improve the physical attributes and prestige of the venue, Craig may have realised he was up against a growing stigma and considerable competition. He sold the Royal to R.S. Mitchell for 5,500 pounds in 1868.Another New Owner: 1869-1873For the Saturday performance of Richard III in 1869, under the new Proprietor, it was reported that “From pit to gallery every seat was full” and for many it was standing room only (Ballarat Star, “Theatre Royal” 1 Feb. 1869). Later that year, Othello attracted people with “a critical appreciation of histrionic matters” (Ballarat Star, “News and Notes” 19 July 1869). The situation appeared briefly promising. Unfortunately, larger economic factors were soon at play. During 1869, Ballarat went ‘mad’ with mine share gambling. In 1870 the economic bubble burst, and hundreds of people in Ballarat were financially ruined. Over the next ten years the population fell from 60,000 to less than 40,000 (Spielvogel, Papers Vol. 3 39). The last surviving theatre in Ballarat East, the much-loved Charles Napier, put on its final show in September 1869 (Brereton 15). By 1870 the Royal was referred to as a “second-class theatre” and was said to be such bad repute that “it would be most difficult to draw respectable classes” (Ballarat Star, “News and Notes” 17 Jan. 1870). It seems the remaining theatre patrons from the East swung over to support the Royal, which wasn’t necessarily in the best interests of its reputation. During this same period, family-oriented crowds of “the pleasure-seeking public of Ballarat” were attending events at the newly fashionable Alfred Hall (Ballarat Courier, “Theatre Royal” June 1870). There were occasional high points still to come for the Royal. In 1872, opera drew a crowded house “even to the last night of the season” which according to the press, “gave proof, if proof were wanting, that the people of Ballarat not only appreciate, but are willing to patronise to the full any high-class entertainment” (Ballarat Courier, “Theatre Royal” 26 Aug. 1872). The difficulty, however, lay in the deterioration of the Royal’s reputation. It had developed negative connotations among local temperance and morality movements, along with their extensive family, friendship and business networks. Regarding collective consumption, sociologist John Urry wrote “for those engaged in the collective tourist gaze … congregation is paramount” (140). Applying this socio-cultural principle to the behaviour of Victorian theatre-going audiences of the 1870s, it was compelling for audiences to move with the masses and support popular events at the fresh Alfred Hall rather than the fading Royal. Large crowds jostling for elbow room was perceived as the hallmark of a successful event back then, as is most often the case now.The Third Act: 1874-1878An additional complication faced by the Royal was the long-term effect of the application of straw across the ceiling. Acoustics were initially poor, and straw was intended to rectify the problem. This caused the venue to develop a reputation for being stuffy and led to the further indignity of the Royal suffering an infestation of fleas (Jenkins 22); a misfortune which caused some to label it “The Royal Bug House” (Reid 117). Considering how much food was thrown at the stage in this era, it is not surprising that rotten debris attracted insects. In 1873, the Royal closed for another round of renovations. The interior was redesigned, and the front demolished and rebuilt. This was primarily to create retail store frontage to supplement income (Reid 117). It was reported that the best theatrical frontage in Australasia was lost, and in its place was “a modestly handsome elevation” for which all play-goers of Ballarat should be thankful, as the miracle required of the rebuild was that of “exorcising the foul smells from the old theatre and making it bright and pretty and sweet” (Ballarat Star, “News and Notes” 26 Jan. 1874). The effort at rejuvenation seemed effective for a period. A “large and respectable audience” turned out to see the Fakir of Oolu, master of the weird, mystical, and strange. The magician’s show “was received with cheers from all parts of the house, and is certainly a very attractive novelty” (Ballarat Courier, “Theatre Royal” 29 Mar. 1875). That same day, the Combination Star Company gave a concert at the Mechanics Institute. Indicating the competitive tussle, the press stated: “The attendance, however, doubtless owing to attractions elsewhere, was only moderately large” (Courier, “Concert at the Mechanics’” 29 Mar. 1875). In the early 1870s, there had been calls from sectors of society for a new venue to be built in Ballarat, consistent with its status. The developer and proprietor, Sir William Clarke, intended to offer a “higher class” of entertainment for up to 1700 people, superior to the “broad farces” at the Royal (Freund n.p.) In 1875, the Academy of Music opened, at a cost of twelve thousand pounds, just one block away from the Royal.As the decade of decreasing population wore on, it is intriguing to consider an unprecedented “riotous” incident in 1877. Levity's Original Royal Marionettes opened at the Royal with ‘Beauty and the Beast’ to calamitous response. The Company Managers, Wittington & Lovell made clear that the performance had scarcely commenced when the “storm” arose and they believed “the assault to be premeditated” (Wittington and Lovell in Argus, “The Riot” 6 Apr. 1877). Paid thuggery, with the intent of spooking regular patrons, was the implication. They pointed out that “It is evident that the ringleaders of the riot came into the theatre ready armed with every variety of missiles calculated to get a good hit at the figures and scenery, and thereby create a disturbance.” The mob assaulted the stage with “head-breaking” lemonade bottles, causing costly damage, then chased the frightened puppeteers down Sturt Street (Mount Alexander Mail, “Items of News” 4 Apr. 1877). The following night’s performance, by contrast, was perfectly calm (Ballarat Star, “News and Notes” 7 Apr. 1877). Just three months later, Webb’s Royal Marionette pantomimes appeared at the Mechanics’ Institute. The press wrote “this is not to be confounded, with the exhibition which created something like a riot at the Theatre Royal last Easter” (Ballarat Star, “News and Notes” 5 July 1877).The final performance at the Royal was the American Rockerfellers’ Minstrel Company. The last newspaper references to the Royal were placed in the context of other “treats in store” at The Academy of Music, and forthcoming offerings at the Mechanics Institute (Star, “Advertising” 3 July 1878). The Royal had experienced three re-openings and a series of short-term managements, often ending in loss or even bankruptcy. When it wound up, investors were left to cover the losses, while the owner was forced to find more profitable uses for the building (Freund n.p.). At face value, it seemed that four performing arts venues was one too many for Ballarat audiences to support. By August 1878 the Royal’s two shop fronts were up for lease. Thereafter, the building was given over entirely to retail drapery sales (Withers 260). ReflectionsThe Royal was erected, at enormous expense, in a moment of unbridled optimism, after several popular theatres in Ballarat East had burned to the ground. Ultimately the timing for such a lavish investment was poor. It suffered an inflexible old-fashioned structure, high overheads, ongoing staffing costs, changing demographics, economic crisis, increased competition, decreased population, the growth of local community-based theatre, temperance agitation and the impact of negative rumour and hear-say.The struggles endured by the various owners and managers of, and investors in, the Royal reflected broader changes within the larger community. The tension between the fixed nature of the place and the fluid needs of the public was problematic. Shifting demographics meant the Royal was negatively affected by conservative values, altered tastes and competing entertainment options. Built in the 1850s, it was sound, but structurally rigid, dated and polluted with the bacterial irritations of the times. “Resident professional companies could not compete with those touring from Melbourne” by whom it was considered “… hard to use and did not satisfy the needs of touring companies who required facilities equivalent to those in the metropolitan theatres” (Freund n.p.). Meanwhile, the prevalence of fund-raising concerts, created by charitable groups and member based community organisations, detracted from people’s interest in supporting professional performances. After-all, amateur concerts enabled families to “embrace the values of British middle class morality” (Doggett 295) at a safe distance from grog shops and saloons. Children aged 5-14 constituted only ten percent of the Ballarat population in 1857, but by 1871 settler families had created a population in which school aged children comprised twenty-five of the whole (Bate 146). This had significant ramifications for the type of theatrical entertainments required. By the late sixties, as many as 2000 children would perform at a time, and therefore entrance fees were able to be kept at affordable levels for extended family members. Just one year after the demise of the Royal, a new secular improvement society became active, holding amateur events and expanding over time to become what we now know as the Royal South Street Society. This showed that the appetite for home-grown entertainment was indeed sizeable. It was a function that the Royal was unable to service, despite several ardent attempts. Conclusion The greatest misfortune of the Royal was that it became stigmatised, from the mid 1860s onwards. In an era when people were either attempting to be pure of manners or were considered socially undesirable, it was hard for a cultural venue to survive which occupied the commercial middle ground, as the Royal did. It is also conceivable that the Royal was ‘framed’, by one or two of its competitor venues, or their allies, just one year before its closure. The Theatre Royal’s negative stigma as a venue for rough and intemperate human remnants of early Ballarat East had proven insurmountable. The Royal’s awkward position between high-class entrepreneurial culture and wholesome family-based community values, both of which were considered tasteful, left it out-of-step with the times and vulnerable to the judgement of those with either vested interests or social commitments elsewhere. This had long-term resonance for the subsequent development of entertainment options within Ballarat, placing the pendulum of favour either on elite theatre or accessible community based entertainments. The cultural middle-ground was sparse. The eventual loss of the building, the physical place of so much dramatic energy and emotion, as fondly recalled by Withers (260), inevitably contributed to the Royal fading from intergenerational memory. The telling of the ‘real story’ behind the rise and fall of the Ballarat Theatre Royal requires further exploration. If contemporary cultural industries are genuinely concerned “with the re-presentation of the supposed history and culture of a place”, as Urry believed (154), then untold stories such as that of Ballarat’s Theatre Royal require scholarly attention. This article represents the first attempt to examine its troubled history in a holistic fashion and locate it within a context ripe for cultural analysis.ReferencesBate, Weston. Lucky City: The First Generation at Ballarat 1851–1901. Carlton South: Melbourne UP, 1978.Brereton, Roslyn. Entertainment and Recreation on the Victorian Goldfields in the 1850s. BA (Honours) Thesis. Melbourne: University of Melbourne, 1967.Borgmann, Albert. Crossing the Postmodern Divide. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1992. Briggs, Asa. Victorian Cities: Manchester, Leeds, Birmingham, Middlesbrough, Melbourne. London: Penguin, 1968.Doggett, Anne. “And for Harmony Most Ardently We Long”: Musical Life in Ballarat, 1851-187. PhD Thesis. Ballarat: Ballarat University, 2006.Freund, Peter. Her Maj: A History of Her Majesty's Theatre. Ballarat: Currency Press, 2007.Hazelwood, Jennifer. A Public Want and a Public Duty: The Role of the Mechanics Institute in the Cultural, Social and Educational Development of Ballarat from 1851 to 1880. PhD Thesis. Ballarat: University of Ballarat 2007.Jenkins, Lloyd. Another Five Ballarat Cameos. Ballarat: Lloyd Jenkins, 1989.McConachie, Bruce. Engaging Audiences: A Cognitive Approach to Spectating in the Theatre. New York: Palgrave MacMillan, 2008.Reide, John, and John Chisholm. Ballarat Golden City: A Pictorial History. Bacchus Marsh: Joval Publications, 1989.Spielvogel, Nathan. Spielvogel Papers, Volume 1. 4th ed. Bakery Hill: Ballarat Historical Society, 2016.Spielvogel, Nathan. Spielvogel Papers, Volume 3. 4th ed. Bakery Hill: Ballarat Historical Society, 2016.Urry, John. Consuming Places. London: Routledge, 1995.Withers, William. History of Ballarat (1870) and some Ballarat Reminiscences (1895/96). Ballarat: Ballarat Heritage Services, 1999.NewspapersThe Age.The Argus (Melbourne).The Australasian.The Ballarat Courier.The Ballarat Star.Coolgardie Miner.The Malcolm Chronicle and Leonora Advertiser.Mount Alexander Mail.The Star (Ballarat).

In foregrounding the performative character of hate speech, legal scholars and activists have sought to demonstrate why hate speech should be prohibited not only on the basis of what it says but on the basis of what it does. In this article I examine the conditions upon which hate speech has been posited as performative speech in order to consider how virtual environments trouble existing understandings of hate speech. In particular, this article seeks to show how cyberspace may in fact create the conditions for a more immediate and radical recontextualisation and recirculation of hate speech where speed operates as a potential source of resistance. In foregrounding the performative character of hate speech, legal scholars and activists have sought to demonstrate why hate speech should be prohibited not only on the basis of what it says but on the basis of what it does. In this article I examine the conditions upon which hate speech has been posited as performative speech in order to consider how virtual environments trouble existing understandings of hate speech. In particular, this article seeks to show how cyberspace may in fact create the conditions for a more immediate and radical recontextualisation and recirculation of hate speech where speed operates as a potential source of resistance. Judith Butler maintains that "speech is always in some ways out of our control" (15). This is not to suggest that our speech is bound to misfire. Instead, Butler's claim draws attention to the range of possibilities located precisely within the failed speech act, revealing how such misfires offer the possibility that certain words which carry the potential to injure may eventually become "disjointed from their power to injure and recontextualised in more affirmative modes" (15). Whereas Langston suggests that such speech events inevitably work to silence intended victims, Butler recognises how the subject may also be inaugurated through such linguistic injuries. She maintains that to be injured through language is to "suffer a loss of context, that is, not to know where you are" (4). The "loss of context" or disorientation she claims might result from hate speech not only suggests that hate speech is context-specific but also that hate speech, understood as a performance, might transform or even produce a speaker's social location. In this view, the very words used to "put someone in their place" may also enable people to speak up from their position on the margins of power. Thus, the repetition of hate speech does not necessarily reinforce certain words' power to injure but may result in a pattern of "slippages" which enables the meaning and force of such speech to eventually come undone. In order to understand the impact of hate speech in virtual environments, it is useful to consider how the spatial and temporal character of cyberspace affects the repetitions to which Butler refers. While we typically speak of cyber-space, the emergence of cyberspace has arguably resulted in an increased preoccupation with time. For Virilio, the shift from space to time appears to be most visible in cyberspace, which he maintains does not represent a space so much as a particular temporal dimension where speed, not territory, holds the most strategic value. However, he further maintains that we have also reached a moment when humans, who have already surpassed the sound and heat barriers, are left with nothing to race against but speed of light -- something which can never be surpassed. And, as he warns, like other technological revolutions, this one is bound to result in an accident, this time not a physical one but instead one which will throw history itself into a disarray. "Cyberspace looms up like a transfer accident in substantial reality", he warns, "what gets damaged is no longer the substance, the materiality of the tangible world, it is the whole of its constitution" (Open Sky 131). Thus, cyberspace not only appears to give rise to an accelerated sort of time but to create the conditions under which we run the risk of suffering a "fundamental loss of orientation" (Speed and Information). I would like to consider how the speed and subsequent loss of orientation Virilio associates with virtual environments may in fact be the very condition which opens up the possibility for a more immediate and radical recontextualisation of hate speech in such spaces. In positing cyberspace as a radically discontinuous space, Virilio implies that cyberspace may represent a break with history itself. One need only consider how quickly existing forms of inequity have become entrenched in cyberspace to understand the extent to which it is not an entirely new or autonomous space. It follows then that the pattern of perlocutionary effects which apparently enables certain words to injure is not disrupted simply because such words are circulating in a virtual space. However, this is not to suggest that subordinate speech necessarily acts identically on line and off. If to be injured through language is to "suffer a loss of context, that is, not to know where you are" (Butler 4), what might it mean to suffer a loss of context in cyberspace? What might it mean to become disoriented in a space where one's context is always and already destabilised? And, what sorts of possibilities are created in cyberspace when one is thrust into an ill-fitting or undesirable social location? I maintain that in cyberspace the potential to suffer a loss of context as a result of a linguistic injury is always partially foreclosed by the fact that one never knows precisely where one is to begin with. It follows that in cyberspace the intended victim of a verbal assault is also at least less likely to become disarmed, debilitated, and silenced. Without overemphasising the agency one gains in virtual environments, is it not possible that one's ability to "talk back", while not guaranteed, may be made significantly more likely, if only due to the fact that one's rhetorical skills are unlikely to be rendered worthless in the face of physical threats? To illustrate the extent to which the illocutionary force of hate speech may be undermined by the spatial and temporal character of virtual environments, I draw attention to Reverend Phelps's "godhatesfags.com" site. Once you move past the yellow construction sign reading "Warning -- Gospel Preaching Ahead", you discover a list of Bible Passages which apparently confirm the site's claim that "god hates fags". The site also contains a list of so-called "fag churches" and a variety of news items that draw attention to the supposed dangers of the growing global gay agenda. However, while the Website is clearly offensive, it also seems to produce the possibility for politically promising misinterpretations. The Website's editorials on subjects as diverse as Canada's "gay Mafia" and Finland's allegedly lesbian Prime Minister and news about Phelps's intention to carry out "missionary work" in both of these demonic nations seems more likely to amuse than offend many of the site's visitors. The site's tendency to misinterpellate everyone from lesbians to P-FLAG mothers as "fags" may be read as another amusing misfire, another failed attempt on the part of Phelps to demonise gays, lesbians, and their supporters. While Phelps's claims are bound to misfire in any context, the ability to find Phelps's claims immediately humourous appears to be at least partially linked to their context. People who seek to prohibit hate speech not only on the basis of what it says but also on the basis of what it does typically maintain that the effects of hate speech are immediate, final, and ultimately, debilitating (Langston; MacKinnon; Matsuda et al.). In cyberspace, such claims appear to be even less easily established than in the material world. As previously argued, the speed associated with virtual environments seems to produce a disorienting effect, making the potential to suffer a "loss of context" in the face of a linguistic "attack" at least less likely. In addition, in contrast to the material world, where an encounter with hate speech is likely to lead to a feeling of entrapment if not complete debilitation, cyberspace invests people with an unprecedented degree of mobility. As a result, in sharp contrast to the experience one might have encountering Phelps's message in a public space near their home, the person who encounters Phelps's message online, where neither proximity nor distance hold their traditional values, can escape both quickly and with little effort. However, it is also important to consider the extent to which the speed associated with virtual spaces may also affect the pace at which potentially injurious words, images, and ideas are recirculated and recontextualised. Building on Butler, I have emphasised that hate speech is always repeatable speech. If we take for granted the fact that cyberspace not only increases the amount of speech generated but also the rate at which such speech is recontextualised and redeployed, it would appear as if the potential exists both for the amount of hate speech in circulation to increase and for such speech to be repeated more often and more rapidly. If we further accept the claim that the repetition of hate speech is always an imperfect one, bound to result in some loss of meaning or minor transgression, it becomes possible to see how this highly indeterminable context may also enable hate speech to be reclaimed more quickly. Once again, "godhatesfags.com" serves as a useful example. Shortly after Phelps's Website appeared, online monitoring organisations, including Hate Watch, established direct links to the site. The link between Hate Watch and "godhatesfags.com" not only serves to place Phelps's online activities under surveillance but also to recontextualise the site. Viewed through their link, Phelps's site is quite literally framed by the Hate Watch site, and subsequently, recontextualised by their anti-hate discourse in a surprisingly direct manner. In addition, various features of Phelps's site have also been parodied and appropriated. "Godhatesfigs.com", which among other features includes a list of bible passages which allegedly confirm the Website's claim that "god hates figs", is one such example. The creators of "Godlovesfags.com" gained notoriety when they managed to steal Phelps's domain name and redirect all "godhatesfags" visitors to their counter site for seventy-two hours. "Godhatesphelps" is another site that seeks to parody and repeat aspects of Phelps's message in an effort to reveal the absurd nature of Phelps's claims. Shortly after Phelps's Website appeared, online monitoring organisations, including Hate Watch, established direct links to the site. The link between Hate Watch and "godhatesfags.com" not only serves to place Phelps's online activities under surveillance but also to recontextualise the site. Viewed through their link, Phelps's site is quite literally framed by the Hate Watch site, and subsequently, recontextualised by their anti-hate discourse in a surprisingly direct manner. In addition, various features of Phelps's site have also been parodied and appropriated. "Godhatesfigs.com", which among other features includes a list of bible passages which allegedly confirm the Website's claim that "god hates figs", is one such example. The creators of "Godlovesfags.com" gained notoriety when they managed to steal Phelps's domain name and redirect all "godhatesfags" visitors to their counter site for seventy-two hours. "Godhatesphelps" is another site that seeks to parody and repeat aspects of Phelps's message in an effort to reveal the absurd nature of Phelps's claims. References Austin, J.L. How to Do Things with Words. 15th ed. Cambridge: Harvard UP, 1997. (Original work published in 1962.) Butler, Judith. Excited Speech: A Politics of the Performative. New York: Routledge, 1997. Langston, Rae. Speech Acts and Unspeakable Acts. Philosophy and Public Affairs 22 (1993): 293-330. Matsuda, M.J., et al. Words That Wound: Critical Race Theory, Assaultive Speech, and the First Amendment. San Francisco: Westview Press, 1993. MacKinnon, C. Only Words. Cambridge: Harvard UP, 1993. Virilio, Paul. "Global Algorithm 1.7: The Silence of the Lambs: Paul Virilio in Conversation (with C.Oliveira)." CTHEORY 1995. 18 June 1999 <http://www.ctheory.com/ga1.7-silence.php>. Virilio, Paul. Open Sky. Trans. J. Rose. New York: Verso, 1997. Virilio, Paul. "Speed and Information: Cyberspace Alarm!" CTHEORY 18.3 (1995). 18 June 1999 <http://www.dds.nl/~n5m/texts/virilio.htm>. Virilio, Paul. Speed and Politics: An Essay on Dromololgy. Trans. M. Polizzotti. New York: Semiotext(e), 1986. Citation reference for this article MLA style: Kate Eichhorn. "Cyberhate and Performative Speech in Accelerated Time(s)." M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 3.3 (2000). [your date of access] <http://www.api-network.com/mc/0006/cyberhate.php>. Chicago style: Kate Eichhorn, "Cyberhate and Performative Speech in Accelerated Time(s)," M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 3, no. 3 (2000), <http://www.api-network.com/mc/0006/cyberhate.php> ([your date of access]). APA style: Kate Eichhorn. (2000) Cyberhate and performative speech in accelerated time(s). M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 3(3). <http://www.api-network.com/mc/0006/cyberhate.php> ([your date of access]).

The Leichhardt Highway is a six hundred-kilometre stretch of sealed inland road that joins the Australian Queensland border town of Goondiwindi with the Capricorn Highway, just south of the Tropic of Capricorn. Named after the young Prussian naturalist Ludwig Leichhardt, part of this roadway follows the route his party took as they crossed northern Australia from Morton Bay (Brisbane) to Port Essington (near Darwin). Ignoring the usual colonial practice of honouring the powerful and aristocratic, Leichhardt named the noteworthy features along this route after his supporters and fellow expeditioners. Many of these names are still in use and a series of public monuments have also been erected in the intervening century and a half to commemorate this journey. Unlike Leichhardt, who survived his epic trip, some contemporary travellers who navigate the remote roadway named in his honour do not arrive at their final destinations. Memorials to these violently interrupted lives line the highway, many enigmatically located in places where there is no obvious explanation for the lethal violence that occurred there. This examination profiles the memorials along Leichhardt’s highway as Gothic practice, in order to illuminate some of the uncanny paradoxes around public memorials, as well as the loaded emotional terrain such commemorative practices may inhabit. All humans know that death awaits them (Morell). Yet, despite this, and the unprecedented torrent of images of death and dying saturating news, television, and social media (Duwe; Sumiala; Bisceglio), Gorer’s mid-century ideas about the denial of death and Becker’s 1973 Pulitzer prize-winning description of the purpose of human civilization as a defence against this knowledge remains current in the contemporary trope that individuals (at least in the West) deny their mortality. Contributing to this enigmatic situation is how many deny the realities of aging and bodily decay—the promise of the “life extension” industries (Hall)—and are shielded from death by hospitals, palliative care providers, and the multimillion dollar funeral industry (Kiernan). Drawing on Piatti-Farnell’s concept of popular culture artefacts as “haunted/haunting” texts, the below describes how memorials to the dead can powerfully reconnect those who experience them with death’s reality, by providing an “encrypted passageway through which the dead re-join the living in a responsive cycle of exchange and experience” (Piatti-Farnell). While certainly very different to the “sublime” iconic Gothic structure, the Gothic ruin that Summers argued could be seen as “a sacred relic, a memorial, a symbol of infinite sadness, of tenderest sensibility and regret” (407), these memorials do function in both this way as melancholy/regret-inducing relics as well as in Piatti-Farnell’s sense of bringing the dead into everyday consciousness. Such memorialising activity also evokes one of Spooner’s features of the Gothic, by acknowledging “the legacies of the past and its burdens on the present” (8).Ludwig Leichhardt and His HighwayWhen Leichhardt returned to Sydney in 1846 from his 18-month journey across northern Australia, he was greeted with surprise and then acclaim. Having mounted his expedition without any backing from influential figures in the colony, his party was presumed lost only weeks after its departure. Yet, once Leichhardt and almost all his expedition returned, he was hailed “Prince of Explorers” (Erdos). When awarding him a significant purse raised by public subscription, then Speaker of the Legislative Council voiced what he believed would be the explorer’s lasting memorial —the public memory of his achievement: “the undying glory of having your name enrolled amongst those of the great men whose genius and enterprise have impelled them to seek for fame in the prosecution of geographical science” (ctd. Leichhardt 539). Despite this acclaim, Leichhardt was a controversial figure in his day; his future prestige not enhanced by his Prussian/Germanic background or his disappearance two years later attempting to cross the continent. What troubled the colonial political class, however, was his transgressive act of naming features along his route after commoners rather than the colony’s aristocrats. Today, the Leichhardt Highway closely follows Leichhardt’s 1844-45 route for some 130 kilometres from Miles, north through Wandoan to Taroom. In the first weeks of his journey, Leichhardt named 16 features in this area: 6 of the more major of these after the men in his party—including the Aboriginal man ‘Charley’ and boy John Murphy—4 more after the tradesmen and other non-aristocratic sponsors of his venture, and the remainder either in memory of the journey’s quotidian events or natural features there found. What we now accept as traditional memorialising practice could in this case be termed as Gothic, in that it upset the rational, normal order of its day, and by honouring humble shopkeepers, blacksmiths and Indigenous individuals, revealed the “disturbance and ambivalence” (Botting 4) that underlay colonial class relations (Macintyre). On 1 December 1844, Leichhardt also memorialised his own past, referencing the Gothic in naming a watercourse The Creek of the Ruined Castles due to the “high sandstone rocks, fissured and broken like pillars and walls and the high gates of the ruined castles of Germany” (57). Leichhardt also disturbed and disfigured the nature he so admired, famously carving his initials deep into trees along his route—a number of which still exist, including the so-called Leichhardt Tree, a large coolibah in Taroom’s main street. Leichhardt also wrote his own memorial, keeping detailed records of his experiences—both good and more regretful—in the form of field books, notebooks and letters, with his major volume about this expedition published in London in 1847. Leichhardt’s journey has since been memorialised in various ways along the route. The Leichhardt Tree has been further defaced with numerous plaques nailed into its ancient bark, and the town’s federal government-funded Bicentennial project raised a formal memorial—a large sandstone slab laid with three bronze plaques—in the newly-named Ludwig Leichhardt Park. Leichhardt’s name also adorns many sites both along, and outside, the routes of his expeditions. While these fittingly include natural features such as the Leichhardt River in north-west Queensland (named in 1856 by Augustus Gregory who crossed it by searching for traces of the explorer’s ill-fated 1848 expedition), there are also many businesses across Queensland and the Northern Territory less appropriately carrying his name. More somber monuments to Leichhardt’s legacy also resulted from this journey. The first of these was the white settlement that followed his declaration that the countryside he moved through was well endowed with fertile soils. With squatters and settlers moving in and land taken up before Leichhardt had even arrived back in Sydney, the local Yeeman people were displaced, mistreated and completely eradicated within a decade (Elder). Mid-twentieth century, Patrick White’s literary reincarnation, Voss of the eponymous novel, and paintings by Sidney Nolan and Albert Tucker have enshrined in popular memory not only the difficult (and often described as Gothic) nature of the landscape through which Leichhardt travelled (Adams; Mollinson, and Bonham), but also the distinctive and contrary blend of intelligence, spiritual mysticism, recklessness, and stoicism Leichhardt brought to his task. Roadside Memorials Today, the Leichhardt Highway is also lined with a series of roadside shrines to those who have died much more recently. While, like centotaphs, tombstones, and cemeteries, these memorialise the dead, they differ in usually marking the exact location that death occurred. In 43 BC, Cicero articulated the idea of the dead living in memory, “The life of the dead consists in the recollection cherished of them by the living” (93), yet Nelson is one of very few contemporary writers to link roadside memorials to elements of Gothic sensibility. Such constructions can, however, be described as Gothic, in that they make the roadway unfamiliar by inscribing onto it the memory of corporeal trauma and, in the process, re-creating their locations as vivid sites of pain and suffering. These are also enigmatic sites. Traffic levels are generally low along the flat or gently undulating terrain and many of these memorials are located in locations where there is no obvious explanation for the violence that occurred there. They are loci of contradictions, in that they are both more private than other memorials, in being designed, and often made and erected, by family and friends of the deceased, and yet more public, visible to all who pass by (Campbell). Cemeteries are set apart from their surroundings; the roadside memorial is, in contrast, usually in open view along a thoroughfare. In further contrast to cemeteries, which contain many relatively standardised gravesites, individual roadside memorials encapsulate and express not only the vivid grief of family and friends but also—when they include vehicle wreckage or personal artefacts from the fatal incident—provide concrete evidence of the trauma that occurred. While the majority of individuals interned in cemeteries are long dead, roadside memorials mark relatively contemporary deaths, some so recent that there may still be tyre marks, debris and bloodstains marking the scene. In 2008, when I was regularly travelling this roadway, I documented, and researched, the six then extant memorial sites that marked the locations of ten fatalities from 1999 to 2006. (These were all still in place in mid-2014.) The fatal incidents are very diverse. While half involved trucks and/or road trains, at least three were single vehicle incidents, and the deceased ranged from 13 to 84 years of age. Excell argues that scholarship on roadside memorials should focus on “addressing the diversity of the material culture” (‘Contemporary Deathscapes’) and, in these terms, the Leichhardt Highway memorials vary from simple crosses to complex installations. All include crosses (mostly, but not exclusively, white), and almost all are inscribed with the name and birth/death dates of the deceased. Most include flowers or other plants (sometimes fresh but more often plastic), but sometimes also a range of relics from the crash and/or personal artefacts. These are, thus, unsettling sights, not least in the striking contrast they provide with the highway and surrounding road reserve. The specific location is a key component of their ability to re-sensitise viewers to the dangers of the route they are travelling. The first memorial travelling northwards, for instance, is situated at the very point at which the highway begins, some 18 kilometres from Goondiwindi. Two small white crosses decorated with plastic flowers are set poignantly close together. The inscriptions can also function as a means of mobilising connection with these dead strangers—a way of building Secomb’s “haunted community”, whereby community in the post-colonial age can only be built once past “murderous death” (131) is acknowledged. This memorial is inscribed with “Cec Hann 06 / A Good Bloke / A Good hoarseman [sic]” and “Pat Hann / A Good Woman” to tragically commemorate the deaths of an 84-year-old man and his 79-year-old wife from South Australia who died in the early afternoon of 5 June 2006 when their Ford Falcon, towing a caravan, pulled onto the highway and was hit by a prime mover pulling two trailers (Queensland Police, ‘Double Fatality’; Jones, and McColl). Further north along the highway are two memorials marking the most inexplicable of road deaths: the single vehicle fatality (Connolly, Cullen, and McTigue). Darren Ammenhauser, aged 29, is remembered with a single white cross with flowers and plaque attached to a post, inscribed hopefully, “Darren Ammenhauser 1971-2000 At Rest.” Further again, at Billa Billa Creek, a beautifully crafted metal cross attached to a fence is inscribed with the text, “Kenneth J. Forrester / RIP Jack / 21.10.25 – 27.4.05” marking the death of the 79-year-old driver whose vehicle veered off the highway to collide with a culvert on the creek. It was reported that the vehicle rolled over several times before coming to rest on its wheels and that Forrester was dead when the police arrived (Queensland Police, ‘Fatal Traffic Incident’). More complex memorials recollect both single and multiple deaths. One, set on both sides of the road, maps the physical trajectory of the fatal smash. This memorial comprises white crosses on both sides of road, attached to a tree on one side, and a number of ancillary sites including damaged tyres with crosses placed inside them on both sides of the road. Simple inscriptions relay the inability of such words to express real grief: “Gary (Gazza) Stevens / Sadly missed” and “Gary (Gazza) Stevens / Sadly missed / Forever in our hearts.” The oldest and most complex memorial on the route, commemorating the death of four individuals on 18 June 1999, is also situated on both sides of the road, marking the collision of two vehicles travelling in opposite directions. One memorial to a 62-year-old man comprises a cross with flowers, personal and automotive relics, and a plaque set inside a wooden fence and simply inscribed “John Henry Keenan / 23-11-1936–18-06-1999”. The second memorial contains three white crosses set side-by-side, together with flowers and relics, and reveals that members of three generations of the same family died at this location: “Raymond Campbell ‘Butch’ / 26-3-67–18-6-99” (32 years of age), “Lorraine Margaret Campbell ‘Lloydie’ / 29-11-46–18-6-99” (53 years), and “Raymond Jon Campbell RJ / 28-1-86–18-6-99” (13 years). The final memorial on this stretch of highway is dedicated to Jason John Zupp of Toowoomba who died two weeks before Christmas 2005. This consists of a white cross, decorated with flowers and inscribed: “Jason John Zupp / Loved & missed by all”—a phrase echoed in his newspaper obituary. The police media statement noted that, “at 11.24pm a prime mover carrying four empty trailers [stacked two high] has rolled on the Leichhardt Highway 17km north of Taroom” (Queensland Police, ‘Fatal Truck Accident’). The roadside memorial was placed alongside a ditch on a straight stretch of road where the body was found. The coroner’s report adds the following chilling information: “Mr Zupp was thrown out of the cabin and his body was found near the cabin. There is no evidence whatsoever that he had applied the brakes or in any way tried to prevent the crash … Jason was not wearing his seatbelt” (Cornack 5, 6). Cornack also remarked the truck was over length, the brakes had not been properly adjusted, and the trip that Zupp had undertaken could not been lawfully completed according to fatigue management regulations then in place (8). Although poignant and highly visible due to these memorials, these deaths form a small part of Australia’s road toll, and underscore our ambivalent relationship with the automobile, where road death is accepted as a necessary side-effect of the freedom of movement the technology offers (Ladd). These memorials thus animate highways as Gothic landscapes due to the “multifaceted” (Haider 56) nature of the fear, terror and horror their acknowledgement can bring. Since 1981, there have been, for instance, between some 1,600 and 3,300 road deaths each year in Australia and, while there is evidence of a long term downward trend, the number of deaths per annum has not changed markedly since 1991 (DITRDLG 1, 2), and has risen in some years since then. The U.S.A. marked its millionth road death in 1951 (Ladd) along the way to over 3,000,000 during the 20th century (Advocates). These deaths are far reaching, with U.K. research suggesting that each death there leaves an average of 6 people significantly affected, and that there are some 10 to 20 per cent of mourners who experience more complicated grief and longer term negative affects during this difficult time (‘Pathways Through Grief’). As the placing of roadside memorials has become a common occurrence the world over (Klaassens, Groote, and Vanclay; Grider; Cohen), these are now considered, in MacConville’s opinion, not only “an appropriate, but also an expected response to tragedy”. Hockey and Draper have explored the therapeutic value of the maintenance of “‘continuing bonds’ between the living and the dead” (3). This is, however, only one explanation for the reasons that individuals erect roadside memorials with research suggesting roadside memorials perform two main purposes in their linking of the past with the present—as not only sites of grieving and remembrance, but also of warning (Hartig, and Dunn; Everett; Excell, Roadside Memorials; MacConville). Clark adds that by “localis[ing] and personalis[ing] the road dead,” roadside memorials raise the profile of road trauma by connecting the emotionless statistics of road death directly to individual tragedy. They, thus, transform the highway into not only into a site of past horror, but one in which pain and terror could still happen, and happen at any moment. Despite their increasing commonality and their recognition as cultural artefacts, these memorials thus occupy “an uncomfortable place” both in terms of public policy and for some individuals (Lowe). While in some states of the U.S.A. and in Ireland the erection of such memorials is facilitated by local authorities as components of road safety campaigns, in the U.K. there appears to be “a growing official opposition to the erection of memorials” (MacConville). Criticism has focused on the dangers (of distraction and obstruction) these structures pose to passing traffic and pedestrians, while others protest their erection on aesthetic grounds and even claim memorials can lower property values (Everett). While many ascertain a sense of hope and purpose in the physical act of creating such shrines (see, for instance, Grider; Davies), they form an uncanny presence along the highway and can provide dangerous psychological territory for the viewer (Brien). Alongside the townships, tourist sites, motels, and petrol stations vying to attract customers, they stain the roadway with the unmistakable sign that a violent death has happened—bringing death, and the dead, to the fore as a component of these journeys, and destabilising prominent cultural narratives of technological progress and safety (Richter, Barach, Ben-Michael, and Berman).Conclusion This investigation has followed Goddu who proposes that a Gothic text “registers its culture’s contradictions” (3) and, in profiling these memorials as “intimately connected to the culture that produces them” (Goddu 3) has proposed memorials as Gothic artefacts that can both disturb and reveal. Roadside memorials are, indeed, so loaded with emotional content that their close contemplation can be traumatising (Brien), yet they are inescapable while navigating the roadway. Part of their power resides in their ability to re-animate those persons killed in these violent in the minds of those viewing these memorials. In this way, these individuals are reincarnated as ghostly presences along the highway, forming channels via which the traveller can not only make human contact with the dead, but also come to recognise and ponder their own sense of mortality. While roadside memorials are thus like civic war memorials in bringing untimely death to the forefront of public view, roadside memorials provide a much more raw expression of the chaotic, anarchic and traumatic moment that separates the world of the living from that of the dead. While traditional memorials—such as those dedicated by, and to, Leichhardt—moreover, pay homage to the vitality of the lives of those they commemorate, roadside memorials not only acknowledge the alarming circumstances of unexpected death but also stand testament to the power of the paradox of the incontrovertibility of sudden death versus our lack of ability to postpone it. In this way, further research into these and other examples of Gothic memorialising practice has much to offer various areas of cultural study in Australia.ReferencesAdams, Brian. Sidney Nolan: Such Is Life. Hawthorn, Vic.: Hutchinson, 1987. Advocates for Highway and Auto Safety. “Motor Vehicle Traffic Fatalities & Fatality Rate: 1899-2003.” 2004. Becker, Ernest. The Denial of Death. New York: Simon & Schuster, 1973. Bisceglio, Paul. “How Social Media Is Changing the Way We Approach Death.” The Atlantic 20 Aug. 2013. Botting, Fred. Gothic: The New Critical Idiom. 2nd edition. Abingdon, UK: Routledge, 2014. 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Haider, Amna. “War Trauma and Gothic Landscapes of Dispossession and Dislocation in Pat Barker’s Regeneration Trilogy.” Gothic Studies 14.2 (2012): 55–73. Hall, Stephen S. Merchants of Immortality: Chasing the Dream of Human Life Extension. Boston: Houghton, Mifflin, Harcourt, 2003. Hartig, Kate V., and Kevin M. Dunn. “Roadside Memorials: Interpreting New Deathscapes in Newcastle, New South Wales.” Australian Geographical Studies 36 (1998): 5–20. Hockey, Jenny, and Janet Draper. “Beyond the Womb and the Tomb: Identity, (Dis)embodiment and the Life Course.” Body & Society 11.2 (2005): 41–57. Online version: 1–25. Jones, Ian, and Kaye McColl. (2006) “Highway Tragedy.” Goondiwindi Argus 9 Jun. 2006. Kiernan, Stephen P. “The Transformation of Death in America.” Final Acts: Death, Dying, and the Choices We Make. Eds. Nan Bauer-Maglin, and Donna Perry. Rutgers University: Rutgers UP, 2010. 163–182. Klaassens, M., P.D. Groote, and F.M. Vanclay. “Expressions of Private Mourning in Public Space: The Evolving Structure of Spontaneous and Permanent Roadside Memorials in the Netherlands.” Death Studies 37.2 (2013): 145–171. Ladd, Brian. Autophobia: Love and Hate in the Automotive Age. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 2008. Leichhardt, Ludwig. Journal of an Overland Expedition of Australia from Moreton Bay to Port Essington, A Distance of Upwards of 3000 Miles during the Years 1844–1845. London, T & W Boone, 1847. Facsimile ed. Sydney: Macarthur Press, n.d. Lowe, Tim. “Roadside Memorials in South Eastern Australia.” 7th International Conference on the Social Context of Death, Dying and Disposal. Bath, UK: University of Bath, 2005. MacConville, Una. “Roadside Memorials.” Bath, UK: Centre for Death & Society, Department of Social and Policy Sciences, University of Bath, 2007. Macintyre, Stuart. “The Making of the Australian Working Class: An Historiographical Survey.” Historical Studies 18.71 (1978): 233–253. 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Cette thèse examine l'évolution des fonctions et responsabilités des enseignants et directeurs d'école d'un des plus larges systèmes scolaires urbains américains à une période de vastes réformes éducatives. Dans les années 1890-1930, à Chicago, différents acteurs du monde de l'éducation participent à l'élaboration d'un nouveau modèle professionnel pour l'enseignement afin, notamment, d'améliorer la qualité des écoles publiques et de leur personnel. Une de leurs interrogations porte sur la définition et l'attribution du leadership : sur quels critères et à qui accorder la responsabilité de guider les élèves, les membres de la profession et la société chicagolaise dans son ensemble vers le progrès ? L'étude conjointe des réflexions alors menées en matière de normes professionnelles et des représentations et de l'exercice du métier par des enseignants et des directeurs d'école révèle que, loin de se limiter à un pouvoir de direction réservé aux plus hautes fonctions dans la hiérarchie du système scolaire, le leadership dans l'enseignement prend de multiples formes et concerne une variété d'acteurs. Émerge alors un portrait des enseignants et des directeurs d'école comme des professionnels agissant pour le bien commun et capables de prendre des initiatives et des responsabilités à la fois dans leur environnement professionnel et dans leur vie sociale
This research focuses on the evolution of the roles and responsibilities of school teachers and principals in one of the largest urban American school systems during a time of major educational reforms. In the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, groups of educators in Chicago produced a new professional model of teaching designed to improve the quality of public school education and faculty. One of their preoccupations was to define and attribute leadership: who should be responsible for leading the pupils, the profession, and the local community towards progress, and how should they be selected? Close analysis of the new professional norms educators promoted, of the ways in which teachers and principals represented their work and themselves, and of their activities in their professional and social lives paints a more expansive picture of educational leadership than we have imagined. It shows that it was not limited to supervision and decision-making by the upper echelons of the school system, but took on more diverse forms and had a wider variety of actors. This study shows that principals and teachers were professionals and active community leaders working for the common good both inside and outside the classroom

Abstract Known as La Nina de Cabora (the Daughter of Cabora) and La Santa de Cabora ( the Saint of Caborn), Teresa Urrea was a curandera or sanadora (healer), and somewhat of a psychic and mystic. Her brief life touched many lives in Mexico and the Southwest. She was born in 1873 in Sinaloa, Mexico, but lived about half of her life in the United States. As an adolescent she suffered an illness, a type of epilepsy with high fevers, that once left her in a trance or coma for several days. During this coma she heard voices that told her to minister to the ill. She believed this was her mission, and she devoted her life to healing others. Before she became ill she had already learned some healing rituals and remedies by working with an Indian curandera. She lived on a ranch in Cabora, Sonora, where she acquired a large following, especially among the Yaqui Indians, and became known as La Santa de Cabora. The government became suspicious of her influence over the Indians and President Porfirio Diaz had Teresa and her father arrested, exiling them to Nogales, Arizona. Between 1892 and 1900 they moved several times within Arizona, moving to El Paso for a brief period and then back, settling in Clifton, Arizona. In 1896, while Teresa and her father lived in Nogales, a group of Yaqui and Tomochi Indians, followers of her and calling themselves Teresitas, stormed the Mexican customhouse. The Mexican president blamed this attack on Teresa, accusing her of inciting a revolution.

Abstract On his arrival in Chicago in the fall of 1895, the Texas Populist John Flaherty found the reform movement in the big city mired in an ideological muddle. “To you Texas populists who have a fixed and sound idea of the political and monetary conditions,” he wrote the Southern Mercury back in Dallas, “it is incomprehensible how people can be so blind to their own best interests.” Chicago reformers “go and hear the single tax man and shout themselves hoarse over his panacea for the public ills. They shout the same acclaim to the international bi-metalic lunatic, and roar with delight at the 16 to 1 silver tongued orator.” In a “wilderness of doubt and uncertainty,” the clutter of innovations, schemes, and proposals competing for the attention of the city dweller contrasted sharply with the “keen kernels of truth, without husk or chaff,” that the rural reform press provided its readers.

Abstract In the winter of 1892, P. G. Temple set a modest proposal before the regular January meeting of the Gillespie County, Texas, Farmers’ Alliance. He suggested that the Alliance send a memorial to the managers of the Columbian World’s Fair in Chicago. The exposition, scheduled to open the next year, promised to put on display “the world’s resources and progress in every department of human effort.” In Temple’s view, justice demanded that the men and women responsible for producing this wealth also be represented at the fair. Temple proposed that the exposition managers Temple’s proposal captured much about how rural reformers understood the injustices and divisions cleaving American society. He gave expression to a social critique shared by millions of late nineteenth-century farmers: the submission of the laboring classes to the mounting burdens of debt, poverty, and overwork corresponded to the fantastic growth of monopoly, luxury, and ill-gotten corporate wealth.