Many fixed and movable festivals in ancient Mexico were occasions for human sacrifice. The sun in particular was offered hearts and blood, ostensibly because its vitality and, therefore, life itself depended on such oblations. Numerous festivals also included ritual cannibalism, apparently because it was thought to facilitate communion with the gods.

In the United States, the technological optimism that accompanied the birth and diffusion of the magnetic telegraph between 1844 and 1880 had few predecessors-if any. Commercial telegraphy was barely a year old in 1847 when the telegraph was seen as “facilitating Human Intercourse and producing Harmony among Men and Nations\….[I]t may be regarded as an important element in Moral Progress.” “The telegraph system is invaluable,” a business journalist declared twenty years later, “and when the missing links shall have been completed of the great chain that will bring all civilized nations into instantaneous communication with each other, it will also be found to be the most potent of all the means of civilization, and the most effective in breaking down the barriers of evil prejudice and custom that interfere with the universal exchange of commodities.”

The magnitude of contrasts within modern empires is incontrovertible. In the opinion of some scholars, the range of human experience they encompassed is so immense that it is impracticable to study adequately even one empire in its entirety. This premise has contributed to the formation of clusters of scholars with circumscribed areas of interest, whose research demonstrates unequivocally the distinctive characters of the various societies under each empire's jurisdiction, and the diverse effects of imperial policies upon them. Other scholars elect to concentrate upon the imperial macrocosm, but their work often highlights imperial differentiation too. Analyses such as those which hinge upon a core-periphery nexus and focus upon antitheses within metropolitan and colonial relationships are inherently inclined to give prominence to contrasts within an empire. Some studies, moreover, convey the impression of an improbable degree of cohesion and identity of interest within the metropolitan community and within each different colonized group of an empire's subjects. The revolts against the West, against the Dutch, the British, the French, and so on, helped to promote and reinforce this idea. These revolts also revealed that amongst peoples under imperial subjection there was a degree of identification with each other, in their relationships to members of the metropolitan society.

It is increasingly fashionable for anthropologists to castigate themselves (or at least to castigate other anthropologists) for failing to take into account the larger or global processes that affect the small communities they study. We accuse ourselves, for example, of treating peasant communities as if they were primitive isolates and of failing to consider the external forces that created those communities and that cause them to operate the way they do. While this accusation may be warranted for the earliest work on peasant communities, I suggest that for quite some time now the anthropological perspective regarding these communities has shifted. In fact, I will argue here that many anthropologists have been all too ready to accept global views of peasant communities and social relations without proper consideration of the interplay between local and global processes.

Neither the unremitting imposition of alien ways nor the faithful preservation of local ones, colonialism proceeds by the melding of imperial practices with indigenous social forms, creating new arrangements that look like old ones. Moreover, colonialism is an intersubjective, interpractical relationship; as a growing number of historical and anthropological studies have shown, the natives are unlikely to be passive receivers of imposed forms. However difficult their circumstances, the colonized busily construe and misconstrue the colonizers and their social practices, manipulating both to their own advantage. What follows is a “working misunderstanding.”

From its beginning Japanese industry was marked by a scattering of large and heavily capitalized enterprises which, as their size and number increased between 1890 and 1920, became the scene of labor unrest. In historical accounts of this early period of labor relations, workers are strangely shadowy figures, considering their centrality. They come into focus mainly at moments of crisis when they are seen to be overcoming their past, increasing their consciousness both of rights and of the need for organization and class solidarity. This developing consciousness issued at last in a sudden growth of unions between 1918 and the mid-1920s. Even before this time, however, because of fear of unions and government intervention and the need to reduce the amount of labor turnover, management had begun efforts to bring workers under greater psychological control. These efforts were now intensified, and the measures adopted—welfare services, greater security of employment, semiannual bonuses, separation pay, regular raises, factory committees—aided by a stagnant economy and unemployment throughout the 1920s, were spectacularly successful. By the early 1930s the unions were everywhere in retreat from large enterprises. The victory over worker consciousness seemed won and in fact held until 1945, when, in the aftermath of national defeat, the struggle was renewed.

A century ago the phrases “darkest Africa” and “the dark continent” were encountered often in European and American literature. The darkness, one would suppose, was in the minds of the writers, signifying their general ignorance of African geography and ethnography. Yet I doubt if many who spoke of darkest Africa thought of it in quite those terms. For most of them, the darkness was in the minds of the Africans themselves; a metaphor for their moral backwardness and for their ignorance of the higher arts of civilization. African darkness thus contrasted with European and American enlighten-ment—and the contrast provided moral justification for Europe's mission civilisatrice.

A history of the Maraka textile industry provides a glimpse into the fitful and uneven social and economic changes taking place during the nineteenth century in the area of the Western Sudan that is now part of Mali. Although the major historical events of this period are well understood, historians know very little about the social and economic history of the West African interior. Exactly how the abolition of the Atlantic slave trade, renewed Islamic militancy, and European territorial encroachment influenced African societies remains poorly understood. This is even more apparent for the Middle Niger valley, located near the geographical center of continental West Africa. Paradoxically, the gradual end of the Atlantic slave trade and the coincident expansion of the so-called legitimate trade in agricultural crops increased the use of slaves within Africa to meet demand for all types of African goods. The nineteenth century was thus an era of commodity production and market activity which was probably unparalleled in the history of West Africa prior to this period. The inhabitants of the Middle Niger participated in these changes, and this study describes what these changes meant to one group of African men and women.

This article has had a long incubation. Three stimuli operating in different ways over a period of time account for its genesis: my exposure to anthropological writings on the Bible, my field work research in Israel, and my teaching of social anthropology in Swansea. Education in England, both secular and religious (by the latter I mean attendance at Hebrew classes outside of school from age seven to thirteen, culminating in my bar mitzvah), had exposed me to both the Old and New Testaments but had failed to raise any enthusiasm or interest on my part. Only when I began to study anthropology as an undergraduate did I begin to consider the biblical stories that I had heard in my childhood and youth. One of my first, serendipitous discoveries was Isaac Schapera's paper, “The Sin of Cain” (1955), in which he examines the first case of fratricide recorded in the Bible and postulates why Cain was not punished in the usual manner for engaging in homicide. He argues that precisely because Cain murdered his brother he evaded the usual penalty: he placed his group in the dilemma of compounding the loss of one of its members if it were to practise retaliation, nor could it agree to accept compensation since it would be in the position of accepting from its members and then paying out again to the same members. Into this impasse God enters, truly a deus ex machina, to resolve the problem. Schapera supports his argument by examples derived from ethnographic studies that recorded similar problems of homicide, especially fratricide.

Brokers or middlemen have been called a key element in preindustrial economic development, facilitating the exchange of goods within the domestic economy and opening rural production systems to foreign markets. Though Chinese society historically boasted a vigorous brokerage system, many studies of Chinese brokers have viewed them as obstacles to the development of entrepreneurship and capitalist transformation. China's brokers were limited, it is argued, by larger structural constraints—the bonds of custom and community, a preindustrial mode of production, a particular form of state organization and ideology—that inhibited entrepreneurial activities. This view is best reflected in the writings of Marxist historians who claim that brokers in China's presocialist society were an integral part of a feudal system in which landlords and the state dominated the peasant/worker economy, preventing the flowering of the “capitalist sprouts” shooting forth from China's towns and villages.

This article examines some factors related to problems of demographic behaviour. To illustrate my arguments I will use as examples two case studies, one carried out in Argentina and the other in Ecuador. The original research was not cast in strictly demographic terms and therefore many of the relevant data cannot be presented in a precise way. However, many of my empirical findings and qualitative observations can be used in discussing problems concerning demographic behaviour.

The title of this essay is intentionally ambiguous because both sets of issues I propose to consider may conveniently be placed under its heading. I wish to discuss not only Marx's political theory, but also Marx's relationship to the tradition of political theory—or, more precisely, to a particular view of that tradition. Of course, as I shall attempt to demonstrate, these are not separable, but are interrelated subjects, such that a discussion of the one implicitly restates a discussion of the other.

In this essay I propose to examine an hypothesis about dowry payments in the light of certain evidence from Ireland. The sources of this evidence are, first, my own data collected during fieldwork in the small community of Beaufort, County Kerry, Ireland, and, second, the work of writers who have studied the question of dowry payment in Ireland, notably Conrad M. Arensberg, Solon T. Kimball, and K. H. Connell. The intent here is to draw attention to some of the deficiencies in Jack Goody's definition and discussion of dowry payments, and to offer alternatives to them. In particular I shall argue that Goody's discussion of dowry is centrally flawed by a discrepancy between the generality of the variables he uses to explain the geographical distribution of the practice, and the specificity of his definition of it. It is the unwarranted detail involved in the latter that leads him to obscure certain crucial variations within dowry systems more broadly defined, and to confuse the issue of the relationship between dowry and bride wealth.

In the middle decades of the nineteenth century, as slavery was disappearing elsewhere in the New World, slave-based plantation production of sugar in Cuba reached remarkable heights of technological sophistication and output. In 1868 Cuba produced 720,250 metric tons of sugar, more than 40 percent of the cane sugar reaching the world market in that year. Yet just as production reached these levels, the abolition of slavery in Cuba was initiated, beginning a process of slave emancipation that was to last nearly twenty years. Yet just as production reached these levels, the abolition of slavery in Cuba was initiated, beginning a process of slave emancipation that was to last nearly twenty years. This concurrence of events raises the question, What was the relationship between slavery and the development of sugar production, and why did emancipation in Cuba take place when and as it did?

Sir Edmund Leach has ranged far in his anthropological interests. As a prime inheritor of the sociological tradition in British anthropology, he has done field work in Burma, Sri Lanka, and Borneo. During the last two decades he has expanded his interests to include a wide variety of cultures and has widened his theoretical vision under the influence of the structuralism of Claude Levi-Strauss. Having studied the Old Testament in a lively and controversial collection of essays published in 1969, he has returned to the text of the Bible in his latest book. The volume includes four essays by Sir Edmund as well as two short chapters by D. Alan Aycock. It is characteristically iconoclastic of Leach that the two have never met, and, while he offers high praise of his co-author, he nevertheless manages in the introduction to criticize one of Aycock's contributions to the book.