The Rumble of a Distant Drum opens in 1673 when Marquette and Jolliet sailed down the Mississippi River and found the Quapaw already in residence in the Arkansas Post, where the Arkansas River flowed into the Mississippi. Here, they established the first European settlement in this part of the country, thirty years before New Orleans and eighty years before St. Louis. Morris S. Arnold draws on his many years of archival research and writing on colonial Arkansas to produce this elegant account of the cultural intersections of the French and Spanish with the native American peoples. He demonstrates that the Quapaws and Frenchmen created a highly symbiotic society in which the two disparate peoples became connected in complex and subtle ways - through intermarriage, trade, religious practice, and political/military alliances.

Winner of the 2001 Booker Worthen Literary Prize Winner of the 2002 S. G. Ragsdale Award for Arkansas History The Rumble of a Distant Drum opens in 1673 when Marquette and Jolliet sailed down the Mississippi River and found the Quapaw living in the area where the Arkansas River flowed into the Mississippi. In 1686 Henri de Tonti would found Arkansas Post in this same location. It was the first European settlement in this part of the country, established thirty years before New Orleans and eighty before St. Louis. Morris S. Arnold draws on his many years of archival research and writing on colonial Arkansas to produce this elegant account of the cultural intersections of the French and Spanish with the native American peoples. He demonstrates that the Quapaws and Frenchmen created a highly symbiotic society in which the two disparate peoples became connected in complex and subtle ways—through intermarriage, trade, religious practice, and political/military alliances.

We were riding on top of the world. We were two women in our fifties and we probably should have been anywhere other than where we were at that moment. The scenery was spectacular, but I was beginning to wonder if it was worth dying for . . . literally. The loose rocks and tight switchbacks had cost us precious time. This was not a place we wanted to get caught after dark. Edie and I rode in silence as we negotiated the treacherous footing. We had known we would face danger on this ride, but I had never envisioned anything like the scenario we were currently dealing with. My senses seemed cross wired. At a time when I should have logically been bordering on panic, I found myself engulfed in an eerie sense of calm. Fear was a luxury we couldn’t afford at the moment. If we got off this mountain alive, there would be plenty of time to be scared as we recalled the ordeal. The trail was incredibly narrow. The climb had been steep and rugged. We would reach an altitude in excess of seven thousand four hundred feet as we rode the crest of Mt. Francis. On our immediate left, a sheer rock wall rose vertically with occasional outcroppings that jutted into the trail. Our knees, at times, rubbed the craggy rock face. A glance to the right brought no comfort. A severe drop off afforded us a view of the tops of trees, hundreds of feet below. We were riding on a trail that was no more than a narrow ledge on the face of the mountain. For some reason known only to them, both horses insisted on walking along the extreme outer edge of the trail. They seemed to feel more comfortable on the edge, rather than being crowded by the wall. Both Edie and I found ourselves sitting off center and leaning slightly toward the wall. If our horses lost their footing, we hoped to be able to jump clear of them and land on the trail. A lump the size of a softball threatened to choke me each time I heard a piece of the trail crumble beneath our horse’s feet, sending rock and dirt tumbling over the edge. We had reached a point of no return. We had no idea what lay ahead of us . . . there was no way to turn around . . . no way to back the horses out of where we were . . . and at this point, dismounting was a physical impossibility due to the close proximity of the rock face and the narrow width of the trail. We both knew that we were in a potentially life threatening situation. If a cougar or a snake spooked the horses, we would all have a one way ticket to the rocky bottom of the canyon far below. That gruesome thought was still in my mind when our bad situation grew decidedly more complicated. As I focused on the trail ahead, my mind rejected what my eyes could clearly see. Thirty feet ahead of us, the trail simply disappeared! All I could see beyond that point was air . . . and lots of it. I wondered if Edie, who rode only a few feet behind me, saw what I saw . . . She did.

Poets, academics, and those who simply speak a language are subject to mysterious intuitions about the perceptual qualities and emotional symbolism of the sounds of speech. Such intuitions are Reuven Tsur's point of departure in this investigation into the expressive effect of sound patterns, addressing questions of great concern for literary theorists and critics as well as for linguists and psychologists. Research in recent decades has established two distinct types of aural perception: a nonspeech mode, in which the acoustic signals are received in the manner of musical sounds or natural noises; and a speech mode, in which acoustic signals are excluded from awareness and only an abstract phonetic category is perceived. Here, Tsur proposes a third type of speech perception, a poetic mode in which some part of the acoustic signal becomes accessible, however faintly, to consciousness. Using Roman Jakobson's model of childhood acquisition of the phonological system, Tsur shows how the nonreferential babbling sounds made by infants form a basis for aesthetic valuation of language. He tests the intersubjective and intercultural validity of various spatial and tactile metaphors for certain sounds. Illustrating his insights with reference to particular literary texts, Tsur considers the relative merits of cognitive and psychoanalytic approaches to the emotional symbolism of speech sounds.

This book, first published in 1931, shows in a simple, sound and lucid manner how the genius of two poets (Omar Khayyam and FitzGerald) brought together by the genius of an Orientalist (Professor Cowell) culminated in a very strange, very beautiful and profound English poem. This book is concerned with the genuineness of the verses ascribed to Omar Khayyam, and consists of a comparison of the original Arabic, a paraphrase, and FitzGerald’s first and fourth editions.

Provides coverage of literary and historical quotations. An easy-to-use keyword index traces quotations and their authors, while the appendix material, including Catchphrases, Film Lines, Official Advice, and Political Slogans, offers further topics of interest.