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With its intuitive yet rigorous approach to machine learning, this text provides students with the fundamental knowledge and practical tools needed to conduct research and build data-driven products. The authors prioritize geometric intuition and algorithmic thinking, and include detail on all the essential mathematical prerequisites, to offer a fresh and accessible way to learn. Practical applications are emphasized, with examples from disciplines including computer vision, natural language processing, economics, neuroscience, recommender systems, physics, and biology. Over 300 color illustrations are included and have been meticulously designed to enable an intuitive grasp of technical concepts, and over 100 in-depth coding exercises (in Python) provide a real understanding of crucial machine learning algorithms. A suite of online resources including sample code, data sets, interactive lecture slides, and a solutions manual are provided online, making this an ideal text both for graduate courses on machine learning and for individual reference and self-study.
We investigated attitudes toward 10 specific groups of individuals with disabilities among students in college settings. These groups comprised major depression, substance use disorder (SUD), anxiety disorder, autism spectrum disorder (ASD), cerebral palsy, hearing impairment, learning disability, visual impairment, spinal cord injury, and cancer survivor. The multidimensional scaling (MDS) analysis revealed a two-dimension space representing participants’ attitudes toward those disabilities. The MDS biplot further indicated higher levels of perceived dangerousness from the groups with SUD, major depression, anxiety disorder, and ASD. The hierarchical cluster analysis revealed that cluster A (SUD and major depression) was rated as having the highest level of social distance (i.e., negative attitudes). The implications for research and practice in rehabilitation counseling were discussed.
Although many scholars who study the role of racial animus in Americans’ political attitudes and policy preferences do so to help us understand national-level politics, (racialized) policy is largely shaped at the state level. States are laboratories of policy innovation whose experiments can exacerbate or ameliorate racial inequality. In this article, we develop state-level scores of racial resentment. By using linear multilevel regression and poststratification weighting techniques and by linking nationally representative survey data with US Census data, we create time-varying, dynamic state-level estimates of racial resentment from 1988 to 2016. These measures enable us to explore the extent to which subnational levels of racial attitudes fluctuate over time and to provide a comparative analysis of state-level racial resentment scores across space and time. We find that states’ levels of racial animus change slowly, with some exhibiting increases over time while others do just the opposite. Southern states’ reputation for having the highest levels of racial resentment has been challenged by states across various regions of the United States. Many states had their lowest levels of symbolic racism decades ago, contrary to the traditional American narrative of racial progress.
Music criticism in Britain underwent a major transformation in the late nineteenth century, the effects of which were felt far into the twentieth century. The rise of a new school of music criticism facilitated largely by John F. Runciman (1866–1916) helped professionalise the music critic and improve his – and her – literary status. While the reporting of music news and events remained a mainstay of criticism, music critics, through mentoring or self-education, asserted themselves as intellectuals. As a consequence, their writings were no longer simply about music, but often cast in relation to literary, philosophical and historical questions and issues. European, North American and British music criticism had long featured both reporters and intellectuals, but it was in the late nineteenth century that such portfolio careers coalesced and the division that once separated the journalist from the intellectual – or man of letters – was no longer clear-cut.
Like Rasselas and other works of the previous decades, the Irish novelist Charles Johnstone’s The History of Arsaces, Prince of Betlis (1774) uses a minimally substantiated ‘Eastern’ setting with an allegorical function. Its main narrative describes the predicament of the ‘Byrsans’, who had founded colonies which ‘drained their own country of its most useful inhabitants’, and which over time ‘felt their own strength’ and asserted their independence, ever after ‘carr[ying] themselves like states allied upon equal terms, rather than subjects’. As he wrote in the preface to his tale, Johnstone assumed that readers would not expect to find closer description of ‘the manners of the times and countries, in which the various scenes of the work are laid’, since he drew ‘the universal manners of Nature, which suit all climes and ages’, and it ‘would only have been pedantry’ to do otherwise. In his next work, The Pilgrim: Or, A Picture of Life (1775), by contrast, Johnstone followed Goldsmith’s example instead, introducing the figure of a Chinese philosopher writing to a fellow countryman about his experiences in Britain. The Pilgrim addresses the state of the nation (including Britain’s relationship with its American colonies) in a similar fashion to Arsaces, but its adaptation of the genre of informant narrative means that its attention to contemporary detail is very different. Albeit that it names India as ‘Mogulstan’, The Pilgrim refers to a more specific milieu than Johnstone’s previous work, as is demonstrated by the fact that its protagonist, on the sea voyage from China, encounters a number of Britons returning home from the subcontinent.
In the previous chapter I discussed how in his essay ‘On Fable and Romance’ James Beattie presented ‘oriental tales’ as bearing the indelible imprint of Eastern despotism. In correspondence with Elizabeth Montagu in 1772, Beattie claimed that the works collected in Sir William Jones’s Poems Consisting Chiefly of Translations from the Asiatick Languages were just as revelatory about ‘the minds and manners of the people among whom they [were] produced’. One explanation for the ‘glaring images, exaggerated metaphors, and gigantic descriptions’ of the poetry of ‘eastern nations’, he suggested, was that Eastern peoples were ‘unfriendly to liberty’ – their ‘ignorance and indolence’ disposing them ‘to regard their governors as of supernatural dignity, and to decorate them with … high-sounding titles’, so as to ‘infect their whole conversation with bombast’. In the letter to which Beattie responded, however, Montagu – who, unlike Beattie, had read the works in question – praised the mastery of ‘oriental languages’ and versification that they displayed: ‘there is a gaiety and splendour in the poems,’ she stated, ‘which is naturally derived from the happy soil and climate of the poets, and they breathe Asiatic luxury.’ While Montagu signalled her awareness that Jones’s poems were ‘imitations of Asiatic poetry’, she nonetheless confessed to her absorption in their literary novelty: ‘the descriptions are so fine, and all the objects so brilliant, that the sense akes at them, and I wished that Ossian’s poems had been laying by me, that I might sometimes have turned my eyes, from the dazzling splendour of the eastern noonday, to the moonlight picture of a bleak mountain.’ Montagu was much more enthusiastic than Beattie about the possibility of an ‘Oriental’ poetry, then, and she invoked ‘northern’ climes as a relief from sensory overload, rather than, as Beattie did in The Minstrel (1771–4), the locus of a vitalizing ‘freedom’ or a ‘boundless store/ Of charms’ requiring no external supplement.
How did Britons understand their relationship with the East in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries? James Watt's new study remaps the literary history of British Orientalisms between 1759, the 'year of victories' in the Seven Years' War, and 1835, when T. B. Macaulay published his polemical 'Minute on Indian Education'. It explores the impact of the war on Britons' cultural horizons, and the different and shifting ways in which Britons conceived of themselves and their nation as 'open' to the East across this period. Considering the emergence of new forms and styles of writing in the context of an age of empire and revolution, Watt examines how the familiar 'Eastern' fictions of the past were adapted, reworked, and reacted against. In doing so he illuminates the larger cultural conflict which animated a nation debating with itself about its place in the world and relation to its others.
At the beginning of his 1840 essay ‘Lord Clive’, Macaulay lamented that ‘the great actions of our countrymen in the East should, even among ourselves, excite little interest’. Macaulay’s various writings and speeches on India in many respects provide an appropriate end point now, not least because they recognize the significance of the era of the Seven Years’ War with which this book began. Echoing Richard Owen Cambridge’s reference to how ‘a handful of Europeans’ subdued ‘a multitude of Asiatics’, Macaulay in his 1833 speech on the renewal of the EIC charter described the remarkable conquest of India by ‘a handful of adventurers from an island in the Atlantic’ who ‘subjugated a vast country’. He reprised this story of Britain’s accession to power in Bengal in his essays on Clive and Warren Hastings, while at the same time accentuating the claim which he made in his earlier speech that the ‘character’ of ‘Hindoos’ qualified them only to be the subjects of an enlightened despotism. Adapting the typificatory discourse of Hockley’s Pandurang Hari, Macaulay declared in his essay on Clive that ‘the Bengalee … shrinks from bodily exertion; and though voluble in dispute, and singularly pertinacious in the war of chicane, he seldom engages in a personal conflict, and scarcely ever enlists as a soldier.’ The conclusion which Macaulay drew from this sketch of ‘Bengalee’ effeminacy was that ‘[t]here never, perhaps, existed a people so thoroughly fitted by nature and by habit for a foreign yoke.’
In the preface to Hellas (1822), Percy Shelley cited Thomas Hope’s ‘admirable novel’ Anastasius (1819), subtitled ‘Memoirs of a Greek’, as a ‘faithful picture’ of corrupted Greek manners before the recent return of ‘the flower of [Greek] youth, … from the universities of Italy, Germany, and France, … communicated to their fellow-citizens the latest results of that moral perfection of which their ancestors were the original source’. This chapter begins by examining Hope’s Anastasius and its protagonist’s complex relation to his Greek cultural heritage. The novel displays obvious debts to Byron and Byronism, and as the quotation just cited demonstrates it indirectly at least addresses the question which both Byron and Shelley were to raise about whether modern Greeks might already be too debased to throw off the Ottoman yoke. Rather than discuss Hope’s intervention in debates about Greek independence, however, I want instead here to consider some of the other implications of Shelley’s claim that the novel offered a ‘faithful picture’ of manners. Anastasius was regarded by some as an irredeemably Orientalized figure, and situated in a broader literary-historical context, Hope’s work can be seen as the prototype of a mode of fictionalized autobiography featuring native informants, written by men with experience of diplomacy and/or imperial administration such as James Morier, James Bailie Fraser, and William Browne Hockley.
In comparison with Sir William Jones’s work, much late eighteenth-century scholarly Orientalism was modest in its aims, mediating literary novelty as Jones had recommended in his 1772 ‘Essay on the Poetry of the Eastern Nations’. In his Persian Miscellanies (1795), William Ouseley, for example, undertook what he presented as the ‘humble’ task of removing the ‘thorns and brambles’ opposing readers’ passage to ‘the smiling garden of Persian Literature’, while in his collection of Romances (1799) Isaac D’Israeli included a version of the renowned story of Mejnoun and Leila, based on Ouseley’s translation. D’Israeli’s prose tale displays its roots in contemporary scholarship, but it also appeals to an older understanding of the East as a domain of romance rather than a sphere of political contention. D’Israeli indeed claimed that the tragedy of the couple surpassed any European analogue, since it concerned ‘two fervid Orientalists, capable of more passion, more grief, and more terror’, and in doing so he echoed William Collins’s earlier description of ‘Orientals’’ greater capacity for passionate feelings.
The conclusion to Hartly House, Calcutta invites readers to recognize the plight of those who ‘shared with English women their common oppression by English men’. During the impeachment of Hastings, Burke-inspired works such as Hugh Mulligan’s poem ‘The Virgins’ similarly made use of the rape metaphor in order to symbolize the effects of EIC rule. Other fictions of the 1770s and 1780s depicted English and Indian women who were victims of Indian men, however, and in doing so drew on and further circulated an already well-established sense of sexual despotism as a specifically ‘Eastern’ phenomenon. Where India is concerned, much recent criticism has emphasized the intellectual and creative cross-fertilization that took place under the EIC’s aegis during the Hastings era. There is a parallel story to tell about British metropolitan imaginings of ‘the East’ in the late eighteenth century, though, and it concerns the ossification of unexamined claims about the benighted condition of seraglio-bound women across ‘Asia’ as a whole – the seeming inescapability of this notion an index of its ideological usefulness. In schematic terms, it might therefore be said that if a ‘Burkean’ or ‘Jonesian’ Orientalism sought to identify forms of affinity and resemblance between peoples and cultures, this account of a generalized state of Oriental despotism in which men tyrannized over women in turn eschewed any such imaginative openness to the East.
In a verse epistle ‘To the Right Honourable Lord Byron on His Departure for Italy and Greece’ (1816), Leigh Hunt expansively addressed the history of English poetry, stating that while ‘our English clime’ is supportive of ‘ripe genius’, Chaucer, Spenser, Shakespeare, and Milton all ‘turned to Italy for added light’, and found inspiration in Italian literary culture of a kind not to be had at home. After framing Italy’s relation to England as that of ‘woman’s sweetness to man’s force’, Hunt’s epistle then presents Italy as the site of sexual temptation, playfully cautioning Byron about the charms of ‘lovely girls, that step across the sight,/ Like Houris in a heaven of warmth and light,/ With rosy-cushioned mouths, in dimples set,/ And ripe dark tresses, and glib eyes of jet’. Hunt thus declared his intimacy with Byron while at the same time casually Orientalizing the Mediterranean. Whereas Hunt’s contemporary J. H. Reynolds invoked ‘ye Houries!’ and asked them to ‘smile’ on his ‘bold attempt/ With Eastern charms to decorate’ his Byron-derivative Safie: An Eastern Tale (1814), Hunt here drew upon seraglio discourse in a more self-consciously worldly fashion, adopting a romance idiom comparable to that of Moore’s Lalla Rookh and anticipating the terms of the ‘witching scene’ faced by Azim in ‘The Veiled Prophet of Khorasan’.
Kathleen Wilson has argued that if the loss of Minorca in 1756 constituted ‘the symbolic emasculation of the British nation’, then later military successes across the globe were widely regarded as manifesting a true Britishness that was independent, incorruptible, and able to impose itself on the world wherever and whenever it chose. As others have emphasized, however, the scale of British territorial acquisition additionally raised new problems of authority and governance, in relation to India as well as to North America, and colonial conquest was attended by anxiety that the growth of empire might trouble the integrity of the state and the meaning of home and belonging. From the Treaty of Paris to the American Revolution, Britons were, in Linda Colley’s words, ‘captivated by, but also adrift and at odds in a vast empire abroad and a new political world at home which few … properly understood’. The enthusiastic popular response to events such as the taking of Quebec in 1759, the ‘year of victories’, may therefore be interpreted as evidence of an ‘imperialist sensibility’, but for many it was impossible to dissociate such rejoicing from consideration of the longer-term implications of Britain’s new status as a global superpower. Thomas Gray wrote in August 1759 that ‘[t]he season for triumph is at last come,’ but in October of the same year he queried as to whether the nation ‘will … know how to behave itself, being just in the circumstances of a Chambermaid, that has got the 20,000£ Prize in the Lottery’.