Catch "Bob the Wheeler" If you Can

I read the interesting tale of “Bob the Wheeler,” and his gang. Most all in Bob’s gang arrived here from England and The West Indies; however, he did have one American, John Reed. Bob’s specialty, it seems, was his muscle—he was a pugilists in England, but here in the land of freedom, he ran a beer shop called “Darby and Joan," where all the nefarious criminals met. "Darby and Joan," according to various sources, refers to the unassuming old couple who does not lead an exiting life and who would never harbor criminals in their place--the power of suggestion perhaps? One gang member, the American John Reed, possessed acids “which were capable of extracting from paper any name or figure" in ink. Thus these men began stealing canceled checks and erasing the cancelation marks. This narrative tells me that there were two ways to cancel a check—to mark through them with ink or to cut them up. The marked checks were targeted by the gang so that they could erase the inked cancelation marks. They stole them from businesses.


The Con: James Holdgate, an English Pewterer, would dress up in fine gentlemen’s clothes, arrive at the bank and cash the fraudulent check (one was for $7,500), and then he would hurry back to his shop and change back into his dirty work clothes--an no one's the wiser. Then another man would take the thousand dollar bills from Holdgate to various banks and have them broken into smaller bills (or notes). The men knew that they must gain the “confidence” of bank tellers—they must sell themselves, and so always appeared nicely dressed and confident. In one case, a check was suspected as fraudulent, but since Holdgate appeared confident and innocent, the teller shrugged off his suspicions and cashed it. In another case, a teller from another bank came in and warned another teller to be aware of anyone changing a 5,000 dollar note because they just cashed a counterfeit check. One gang member overheard the conversation and boldly walked up to the teller to ask what it was about. They teller conveyed his suspicions that there was a forgery and then the gang member confidently presented the $5,000 bill to be changed into smaller notes—bold as brass.

It’s all about confidence—all about selling it. This story really reminded me of that movie Catch Me if you Can.  Act like you have a right to be there, and no one will doubt it.

The Meta-Narrative: I also noted how the National Police Gazette printed the story like a serial—with installments and chapter divisions. The writer even inserted meta-narratives explaining why he detailed history of characters, like his “rascal hero,” before the events. This writer knew his audience and titillated them with sensational verbs, adverbs, and adjectives. I jotted down a few for examples:

shutters carefully closed
doors locked, and every crevice and keyhole stopped
villainous quartette
cautious whisper
bold responsibility (in presenting the checks to tellers)
stealthily withdraw
industrious apprentices
honest labor (with irony)
daring swindler
damning and audacious crime
“he has an alibi in his fist that the devil himself can’t trip up”
gentlemanly garb
sprang from the vehicle

I thought of Bakhtin’s architectonics when the writer referred to the gang committing “the most artful, profound and skilful depredations that perhaps ever was committed . . . [with a] degree of cool and audacious intrepidity that excites [with] mingled amazement, horror, and admiration.” This quote shows the architectonic push and pull felt by the reader and even the writer. The citizens are drawn to the crime—they want to know all the gory details with a sensational flavor (hence the audacious word choices above). Yet at the same time, the readers knows crime is wrong, they don't want to be defrauded themselves or defraud others, but they seem to enjoy living vicariously through the narrative. The writer puts the readers “in the now,” allowing them to see it in the mind’s eye. The whole while I read it, I wondered how the writer knew what was said and when. What the writer told, he told with realism and sensationalism--playing with the readers' feelings of irresistible curiosity and moral repulsion.


Flash Language: I was delighted to hear the flash language referenced. I recall reading Susan Branson’s book about Dangerous Women and laughing at a particular scene. When the judge uses the word “bootle” in a question during court, Ann Carson quips from her seat, “I see your honor is up to the slang” (Branson 120) (she’s such as smart-ass; I just love her. I wonder if this is when Mary Clarke tries to gag her :). Slang is important for con men and women because it *disguises* the truth in a code language. The thieves could be in a coffee shop (like in this “Bob the Wheeler” tale), and in speaking in code, they can speak freely. Like the disguises (masks) that all them use to move freely amongst the respectable folk, the slang allows a certain amount of freedom in its guise. Henry Tufts has a long list of *flash language* in his book on page 316, but I could not locate the words in there that are printed in the National Police Gazette. The "Bob the Wheeler" writer makes a direct reference to “flash slang of thieves” and refers to a thief as a “crossman.” When one of the members changed his names, he is said to have changed his “chant” (In this case, the person went from being the bastard son of King George the III to the Lord Henry Erskine, Esq. the son of Lord Erskine; if you’re going to go, go big I guess). A first-class man is called a “family man,” and “passing the soft,” refers to cashing the forgery (I think) or breaking the bigger bills up. When a policeman came to arrest Holdgate, he told him he was “washed,” which I took to mean what we call today “washed-up”—his crime spree is at an end, in other words "the gig is up."

Sex, Murder and Humor: And like all sensational narratives, the purpose is to entertain. The counterfeiter Stevens is good with the “dark-eyed beauties” and manages to con a few out of a great deal of money. He later befriends two brothers who coincidentally commit suicide together after they arrive with him in New York. And when Stevens arrives in Philadelphia, he writes the owner of the warehouse he robs of $3,000 worth of merchandise “to spare themselves any trouble and expense in searching after their goods, as they had already been disposed of, and the money for them obtained.”

Works Cited:
“The Lives of the Felons.” No. 1, Robert Sutton, alias “Bob the Wheeler.” The National Police Gazette (1845-1906); Oct 16, 1845; 1, 1-2-3-4; American Periodicals Series Online.

Ann Carson Sat on a Wall; Ann Carson Had a Great Fall

In the final week of reading Ann Carson’s memoirs, I wanted to focus on class identity and resistance. AC seems to me to be a paradox. The whole while she seeks anarchy, she craves and yearns for societal acceptance. She understands that she is judge by the company she keeps. She angrily criticizes Messrs. Freytage (he of the “nocturnal visit) and Renshaw (who asked her to spy) for implicating her with “their bad company” (Vol. II 62). Clarke too, understands guilt by association and continually tried to separate herself from Carson’s friends. When she discovered that AC lived in a place with gamblers and men of the black cloth, she refused to come to the house anymore. She also blames Carson’s fall on the poor character of Captain Carson:

My firm impression of Mrs. Carson’ natural character was, that she would have been a virtuous good, tame, gentle, affectionate domestic woman, had she been permitted to choose a husband for herself, as even her forced marriage with Richard Smyth tamed her former wild spirit. (Vol II 90)

Captain Carson thought it was his job to form Ann Carson’s character as a woman before she turned 18, but he also damage her reputation by naming her as a whore. However, I think we can question why Clarke feels this need to defend Carson, a woman who robbed her at each chance she got; perhaps we can do that in class. Nevertheless, we can look at how Clarke calls attention to the role of the husband in forming the identity of the woman. Moreover, Ann Carson chose to adapt and connect her identity to the republican patriarchal whenever it suited her needs. The jailor, upon learning that she was the widow of TWO war heroes and the daughter of Captain Baker, found that he could not permit her to stay in jail until her trial, and therefore found her a nice room in the courthouse to reside (Vol II 141). Even Mr. D. feels a debt of gratitude and agrees to print her book because of her identity as the daughter of Captain Baker. In prison, she uses her father’s and her husband’s war record to argue against being forced to attend an integrated church service—where all identity is lumped in a kettle (much like the Judge Hatter lumped them together for one trial—she detested the lumping). In the spirit of Republic anarchy, she uses imperialists rhetoric to condemn the prison authority, “like a West India planter to his slave” he made her attend church services (69).

Another way in which Ann Carson created her identity was through her clothes, which the last third of the reading discussed quite a bit. In prison, she and Mrs. Stoops put up quite a battle (she uses lots of war rhetoric in her argument) to keep their stockings, petticoats, caps, and ruffles. She, as resistant to authority as ever, refuses to embrace conformity and take the prisoner garb as her own. But because she makes a good argument that posits her as an upper-stratum prisoner, the guards frequently succumb and acquiesce to her demands. In the end, she is allow to alter her clothes, blending her own with the prisoner uniforms until she looks like a “bouncing country lass” (65). She is also, because of her class position, allowed to keep her long hair (Vol II 168). Ironically, she becomes the superintendent of the ladies’ wardrobe. Doesn’t this sound hypocritical? But she enjoys this (as much as she can being a prisoner) because she is in charge—an identity she enjoys. She is “over” workers of “the lowest grades of society—just above Hottentots.” She takes class identity via wearing apparel by implementing a new system where prisoner names are “permanently” marked, and thus “identified,” on each garment. I should add that she maintains she is blackmailed into the position by a promise for Charles’ liberty by Mr. Mierken. But again, it is better to rule such “low people” as to work with them—be identified as one of them: “all colours and ages, spinning, clothed in the convict apparel, so shocked me that my fortitude evaporated and mortified pride usurped its place; the idea that I too would make one of this delectable group so oppressed my heart” (64).

The reason she works so hard to keep up her appearance as a gentile person is that she is constantly afforded privileges. Her position in the prison affords her a “semblance of liberty” and “free will.” Likewise, her clothing out of jail affords her to be able to meet Isaac Riles, the “famous printer,” and sells the memoirs and Mrs. Clarke’s pamphlets, songs, etc. Her quality of manner and dress—or rather her “mask” of gentility, distracts the shopkeeper attention. He makes assumptions of Ann Carson based on her dress and fails to check the notes to see if they are authentic.

These two volumes reveal to the reader that class identity is defined by what money can procure. Ann exchanges her money for counterfeit money equaling about $1,100 dollars, She tells Mrs. Clarks, “We have now my dear friend, money to set up perfectly at ease, and enable us to enjoy the elegancies and comforts of life, to which we had both been accustomed” (107). Mrs. Clarke maintains that class status is defined by one’s proven character, “the voice of the public is now in your favour; you were rapidly gaining friends among the respectable class of society.” Clarke, states, that in order to maintain her own status, she must due her “duty to society to give information against you, as you well know I am security to the civil authority for your good conduct, and must do my duty for the sake of my children, and my own character” (Vol II 110). Ultimately, Clarke must not only physically separate herself from Carson, she must make the publically in order to maintain her class standing—she is forced to bring suit again Carson.

I find it interesting that Ann Carson uses identities (Baker, Carson, Smyth, and Mitchell) to gain access to buildings and services that she requires. She wants leniency, she calls for Captain Baker, to hide from her popularity, she masks herself as Mrs. Mitchell, to make money on her book, she embraces “Carson,” and “Smyth” allows her some anonymity by its common name, but I am struck that she hardly uses it. She challenged the Sherriff that his warrant was invalid because she is Mrs. Mitchell, but the Sheriff was wise to her by now and had the warrant made out in all her names (I died laughing here :).

I want to write about her anarchy, but I see my posts is getting quite long. So I’ll sum up by noting that like all good carnivalesque moments, Ann has a quite nice fall off the wall. She, injured and quite contrite, begs forgiveness. Thus she falls and is reborn a better person. Clarke makes sure we know that she died penitent. Personally, I find it hard to believe that Clarke was so forgiving, but I can see that she would need to portray herself that way in order to justify her first work, which she reissued with Volume II. If Ann Carson wasn’t the victim, and if Ann didn’t continue to be a victim, Clarke’s reputation (such as it was) would suffer and perhaps she would not sell as many books. We have to remember she was working on a children’s history book. I still have 2 ½ pages of single-spaced notes, but I’d best quit here and go grade papers.

Sex, drugs and Rock and Roll

(Picture at left is of Dolly Madison.  Ann Carson claims that she is reputed to look just like Dolly Madison.)
Wow, the 2nd third of the two volume set of Ann Carson's narrative is fascinating. So much to delve in to (as I twitter my fingers) what shall I tackle. Hmmm. Today, I’d like to discuss class issues, spectacles and voyeurisms. While reading Carson’s bio, I kept wondering why she went out of her way to distinguish her place in class society and to attack those of lower classes. According to Ann C., the lower classes “tender mercies are barbarities” (179), and it is of this class that the dregs of society—or vagabonds—reside. She debates with the jailor about residing in Room #7 where the “lowest vagrants in prison” stay. This distinction is ironic, since we see that she is a drug addict, child abductor, assessor to jail breaks, and possibly prostitution. So the only difference between her and those in #7 is her place in society and possibly better clothes. But she embraces her position with bravado: “Well sir,” she retorts to the jailor who is amazed at her demands, “you hear it now. This room is occupied by criminals of the lowest class of society, to which no act of mine has ever yet degraded me” (223). She also announces that the Richard’s jury consists of “men from the lowest grades of society” (180), and that the governor was “of mean spirit, and low origin” (201) and his wife was “common.” She, on the other hand, is a citizen of Philadelphia, and a housekeeper, and legally entitled to the jailor’s indulgence” (223). In the margin of my book, I questioned why the stress on class position. One of my arguments about Henry Tuft’s book being so sensational is that I assumed his target audience was of the lower stratum of society, a stratum that typically favored sensational narratives. But Clarke and Carson clearly aimed their biography at the middle-class. This class would appreciate a woman who served as head of her household and head of her business. They would be more sympathetic of a woman who was abandoned by her husband and left to raise and support her children on her own (draw similarities to Burroughs and Tufts, both of whom abandoned wives—Tufts more so). And, wanting to feel superior to *something,* they would embrace a superior position over another class—and thus embrace her as one of their own. I find it real interesting that, when she does comp to mingling with lower classes (the criminal element), she argues that she wears a mask because of her public persona—“but the reason was obvious. I had been the victim of misfortune, from whom virtuous persons fly as from contagion” (47 Vol. II).

Several times she (they?—Ann and Mrs. Clarke) draws our notice to the fact that she was an object of the gaze—a spectacle, which she, ironically, is again made a spectacle through the narrative process. At other times, Ann was a voyeur of her own public persona. On the night of the murder, she remarks that “vulgar characters” and people of all classes, entered her house to “gaze, stare and comment on the horrid transaction, thus insulting the mourning orphans, who were weeping for a father” (173). People were constantly “eager to catch a glimpse of the heroine who had intimidated a commander-in-chief” (28 Vol. II); gentlemen would crowd at her door “to see the heroine that had thus intimidated their puissant governor (203), and even the governor’s wife couldn’t resist a peep (215). Men constantly wanted to be introduced to her (22 Vol. II); she was a celebrity in her own rite. She argues that “I was hunted, like a hare pursued by the hounds, from respectable society” (10 Vol. II). But Ann thrived on the fame and often used voyeuristic moments to test her popularity and to see what information about her had been discovered (199). In a mail couch, she would enjoy listening to the other riders discuss her, “I of course became the subject of conversation, they not being aware that concealed beneath the large plaid cloak and black veil, was the famous heroine of the conspiracy” (26). She dined with a gentleman who declared that she must be a “very bad woman, and guilty of all she is accused of.” Ann then saucily advised him that he should buy the trial transcript, but his opinion was “simple and unimportant” (185). Ann was pursued like rock stars today are pursued by the paparazzi. And like those rock stars, Ann appears to turn to opium to cope, and again, like rock stars today, a doctor seems to be the blame for the addiction.

Works Cited:
The Memoirs of the Celebrated and Beautiful Mrs. Ann Carson, Daughter of an Officer of the U.S. Navy, and Wife of Another, Whose Life Terminated in the Philadelphia Prison. 2nd Edition. Mrs. Mary Clarke, ed. New York. 1938.

Reading Fiction vs. Non-Fiction as Literature

As Dr. Williams points out in his comment on my blog (see An Independent Woman Desiring Liberty), we cannot assume Ann's narrative as absolute truth.  It occurs to me that reading non-fiction is remarkedly different from reading fiction in that we must ALWAYS assume an unreliable narrator.  In literature, unless we are given a reason to assume unreliable narration (i.e., Jekyl and Hyde), we usually analyze narration as face value.  If a heroine says she was coerced into marriage, then we look at the coersion--but in non-fiction, we question whether she was coerced at all.  I realize this is not absolute, so please take my comments as general.

Another thought: It is ironic that literature, in which we sometimes we assume a reliable narrator, is fiction, whereas criminal narratives, if fiction, is based on some truth and we assume an unreliable narrator.

An Independent Woman Desiring Liberty

(Picture to left is Philadelphia's 2nd and Dock streets, where Ann lived.)
I can already say that—by far—Ann Carson’s Memoir is my favorite read this semester I noted many themes for investigation: class, gender, marriage/domesticity, and, most significantly, independence & liberty. In particularly I noted that Ann Carson seems to dwell on these last two and her definitions seem to vary by context. I see Ann as woman striving for independence but at what cost? Ann claims in one of her letters to Mary that she has an independent spirit, and later, she calls it “haughty independence,” (a result of education). In a male, this trait was to be admired, but in Ann, it is taken as pride (vii, 19) (note, page numbers refer to the original text). She seems to credit her haughty spirit of independence from attending school with both males and females, a situation she warns as a “gross impropriety,” which lead to her having a strong, self-willed mind “with ideas most masculine” (20). It is probably that she inherited her independent spirit from her father, who had a “prevailing mania for liberty, equality, independence, and the rights of man” (my emphasis) (16). He fought for both his independence and that of his “adopted country.” As a result, Ann claims that she was a “spoiled child, and never could from my infancy endure the slightest contradiction. If Captain Carson ever presumed to command me, I recoiled with abhorrence from this assumption of power” (59). She argues that she, “was an American; a land of liberty had given me birth; my father had been his commanding officer; I felt myself his (meaning Captain Carson) equal, and pride interdicted my submitting to his caprices.” (59).

It is no wonder that she balked at being married to man not her choice. She clearly states that she married at filial obedience, that she was not ready, and that she resented it: her mother’s error was the daughter’s sacrifice (40). Later she argues that she experienced womanish fears—the idea of a husband “terrified and disgusted me” (127). The resentment she felt at her parent’s high-handedness may have influenced her feelings for Smythe, who fought in the War in South America, a country that struggled for the rights of nature and “ emancipation from the tyranny of the parent country, and an exertion of their own will.” “His whole soul was devoted to the cause of liberty and equality” (139). However, it seems that Ann doesn’t want to marry anyone. She didn’t want the Captain, she chose to not run away with Nat, she put off Captain H. indefinitely, and Smythe had to trick her into marriage. I cannot help but feel that she associated marriage with a loss of independence and liberty, and it seemed that in her marriage to Carson, she always struggled to with authority, often seeking it for herself.
During her marriage to Captain Carson, she discovers that he has cheated. This revelation somehow threw power into her court and, as she says, she became the tyrant, “I became the tyrant in my turn, and he bowed in submission to my sovereign will and pleasure” (my emphasis) (60). After she defies his authority by moving home to her mother, she reads Mary Wollstonecraft’s Norway letters, and subsequently becomes “a heroine and bravely bid defiance to Captain Carson’s authority” (45). Other ways she exerted her authority in the home was by withholding sex, “I now beheld my union with Captain C. with horror, not as an act of free will, sanctioned by Heaven, but out of parental authority, contrary to laws of God . . . . I therefore refused him all the privileges of a husband as regarded myself . . .  my person and chamber, which were sacred” (93). Thereafter she fancied herself free “from all my matrimonial fetters, and for the first time a love of liberty arose in my heart”– “emancipated me” . . . “free as the bird” and she lived as a widow (93). So, liberty and independence, for Ann meant submitting to no authority, having her own will over her body, and having a sexual relationship with whom she pleased.

It also mean have financial independence. On page 24, she clearly associates independence with the financial, yet a privilege that men enjoy.  She is frustrated that her father will not allow her mother to establish a shoe, grocery, or grog shop, “at this time our family might have been opulent, and some of its members probably lawyers, doctors, and even clergymen” (25). Later, while Captain Carson is away, Ann cleverly sets up a China and Glass shop and takes in odd jobs in sewing (i.e., uniforms for the military). She supervises young women, evidently helping out some who are in “trouble” (i.e., Miss Elliot). At this point, I was reminded of Johnson’s book in which he explained how women frequently took in sewing to help out with family finances, yet they typically made disproportionately less then men. Ann seems to have made quite a bit, but then she was the boss, a role in which she seemed to thrive. She states that “Independence was my idol” (76) and associates prosperity with peace (77). Her work made her healthy and happy (76), except for when Captain Carson came home and appeared to accept her role as bread winner. Once he went away (I think he was bi-polar) and was gone for 3 or more years, and after the rumor that he was dead, she proceeded to transfer her business’s authority (in name) from her mother to herself (108) because as a widow (as she now saw herself), it was acceptable for her to own the business. As a widow, she gains in confidence and inquires about getting a divorce. She tells the reader that she “fancied myself at liberty to marry again” (116).

If, as Elizabeth Barnes argues in States of Sympathy, that early American women “embody what most endangers republican structures” (Barnes 8), then we can view Ann Carson as am embodiment of dangers of anti-authoritarianism and self-centered independence (que Tocqueville’s definition of independence). Moreover, since the woman’s body became fetishized as a symbol of American virtue and innocence, then, as Barnes argues, “the successful assault on the woman’s chastity would therefore be read by postrevolutionary audiences as a metaphor for the debasement of American character and the corruption of national integrity” (Barnes 8). In this light, Mary Clarke’s warning in the introductory letter to Ann, becomes more poignant, “Wo be to that female who presumes to think for herself, or seek for happiness through other optics than the glass of good Madam Prudence” (vi). In short, Ann desires the same liberty men enjoy, however, society at that time did not know what to make of a woman like this. Men have the liberty to roam the world seeking riches and enjoying the company of sexual relationships.  Carson is never condemed for this--he is only condemend for his job performance and his neglecting of his family. (I can't wait to see how people take his being gone 4 years.) I feel that had she lived later, Ann's life may have turned out differently. But living during a period when feminine virtue went hand-in-hand with republicanism, women seemed to have no choice but to surrender their liberty and lived in the restrictive dictates of a oppressive patriarchal society. As Mary Clarke laments in her opening letter to Ann:

“Women are at best poor dependent creatures; before marriage our parents govern us with despotic sway; and the customs of society, more arbitrary than the laws of Medes and Persians, demand from us even the sacrifice of the heart’s best and purest emotions, which must all be immolated at the shrine of false delicacy, and the opinion of our friends; who forsooth, because they have outlived the age of feeling and sentiment, imagine they possess the power of restraining the soft impulses of all-power Nature in our hearts” (vi).

 In short, early American independent women lived in glass houses—or perhaps glass prisons.
Works Cited:

• Barnes, Elizabeth. States of Sympathy: Seduction and Democracy in the American Novel.
• The Memoirs of the Celebrated and Beautiful Mrs. Ann Carson, Daughter of an Officer of the U.S. Navy, and Wife of Another, Whose Life Terminated in the Philadelphia Prison. 2nd Edition. Mrs. Mary Clarke, ed. New York. 1938.

Lynda Contemplates on Ben Franklin's Privy

This photo of me was taken at the escavation site of Ben Franklin's privy at his home in Philadelphia.  I wanted to sit and think in the same spot as one of America's great thinkers.

1st National Bank of the United States

The 2nd National Bank

The Individualist, the hypocrite, and the Sublime

I really enjoyed reading Johnson’s The Early American Republic, and I wish I could find its British equivalent. Larisa and I both felt the argument about the 2nd American Bank poignant because we had just visited the bank in Philadelphia. In fact, reading the book while in Philadelphia was especially meaningful, since so much happening during the early Republic happened in that city. I’ve already noted several texts I want to explore in his “Suggested Readings,” and his summary of Tocqueville was very helpful for those who have not yet had a chance to read his work. Tocqueville’s explanation of Individualism really caused me to think about the term in context with Henry Tufts. Individualism, according to Tocqueville’s French meaning of the word (and, Johnson notes Tocqueville helped introduced the term into the American language), “meant pure selfishness: an individualist was a sociopath who took what he wanted and cared nothing for other people” (162).


I feel that Tocqueville’s “Individualism” perfectly describes Henry Tufts’ personality: A thief, a jail breaker, a bigamist, a rogue, a quack doctor, a wizard, a liar, a confidence man, a child predator, in short: an individualist. He never appeared to care for anyone unless he/she could, in some way, benefit him. For the life of me, I cannot see what is so appealing about this man that women will jump right into bed with him (assuming what he says is true, and I am assuming it is NOT). He feels this connection with Abigail because she was there when “I was deserted by every other person” (328). That’s rich. Then later, when he leaves Lydia for a young girl, he gets mad because she is like him, loose with her affections. He goes so far as to preach to her in the end, “I began a grating lecture on the score of her perfidy, more especially to a man, who had relinquished house and home for her sake” (352). Let's add hypocrite to that list.

I did think this 3rd section was better than the middle. I could see plot development, story progression, and I could somewhat envision the characters in this section. The section where he was offered $70 for his story really intrigued me and spoke to the value a man could receive from a life of crime—especially if it is an exciting life of crime. – It is all about profit—not so much about moral lessons. And I was fascinated by the flashmen and the flash speak—very interesting (I did recognize clout for hanky).

In the end, I felt that S. Burroughs did a better job of eliciting sympathy from the reader, most notably in the prison basement scene. Tufts had this opportunity, perhaps even more so, considering the cold weather and his lack of shoes (losing his toenails--ugh!). And he did elicit some sympathy, but I felt Burroughs really used the language better. Tufts, on the other hand, excelled at sensationalism—to the max. And I even saw a short section of the Sublime:

Here, being a little out of ken, I stood and contemplated the surrounding scenery. The majesty and solemnity of the landscape inspired me with a kind of awe, whilst various distant objects assumed a disconsolate air, in perfect unison with the gravity of my feelings. I viewed the encircling waters, fatal bar, alas! to my happiness; surveyed the face of the country, beheld the harbor of Boston, and saw the lands lying at rest, as it seemed, beyond the ocean. The prospect before me excited ideas, by no means consolatory; yet would have been undoubtedly delightful, I imagine, to an uninterested spectator. (313)

 The sublime has the power to heighten our senses and fill us with a sense of awe. Tufts, who is in prison at this time, had ceased to resisting authority, ceased attempting to escape. He became docile to authority. But upon espying the sublimity of the harbor and the schools of eels, his spirit invigorated, and he attempts another escape. While this escape is unsuccessful, he does succeed in the next attempt. I thought this interesting.

New Hampshire Trail

Exeter Town Hall

Second Section--A "Tuft" Read

I found the second section of Tuft's narrative extremely tough to read. I think I'll have to agree with Courtney that I like Stephen Burroughs better. While the first section of Tufts was exciting and funny--and as stated in class, his message was overt, I found that a lot of his escapades were very similar: I stole a horse, I sold said horse for $30, I got caught, I burned the jail, then I ran home to Lee. I think perhaps the big issue for me is that I have a hard time seeing a plot development or even character development. We do not get anything about his wife or even his friends--just him--he is the focus. He never stays put anywhere long enough for us to get a picture of the other people in the narrative.  Burroughs' book did; I could see plot development there.  I became invested in the narrative.  Tufts' book reads like a series of incidents that, as a piece of sensational fiction, meant to titillate the senses (i.e., cloven hooves, wizardry, eating human remains, lewd women, escaping naked from prison--all this is guaranteed sensational pleasure.) In thinking about this, I wondered about the audience. From my readings about sensational fiction, the genre appeals to the lower classes. These people probably worked 12 plus hours a day and had little time to read. So, perhaps reading his text in short bits would provide the same satisfaction that our modern 30-minute television episode would provide. Reading it in long stretches was frustrating for me, however. Again, the lack of a strong plot thing.

I also feel that Tufts narrative had a lot in common with Stephen Burroughs. They both participated in counterfeiting, horse thieving, bee-hive stealing, clothes stealing, jail burning. At one point, I started making notes in places that I speculated about the SB influence.

Lastly, I could not help but note that Tufts kept returning home to Lee (And frequently I wondered why he just didn't stay put). And in thinking about the Revolutionary time period, I wondered what the novel had to say about freedom and home. If we think about it, freedom and democratic law cannot co-exits. It is a paradox of sorts. Americans can not do as they please with total freedom. Once Tuft steals, he loses his freedom and is confined in jail. And Americans are not free to steal food as they please, they must work. In fact, I think Tufts worked harder getting out of jail than he would have worked if he lived an honest life. Anyway, back to my argument. Tufts narrative did show me what life in 18th century America was like. It was under martial law and the government was, in fact, mob-ruled. Citizens had to take the law into their own hands. Going 150 miles to retrieve a horse, etc. (Yet that sounded like it was perhaps a whopper to me, but nonetheless . . .), the fact remains that if a man wants his horse back, he has to leave his farm and go find Tufts; because chances are, Tufts is the one who stole it.

And by the way, I think that the men searching for Tufts (like Johnson)  should have just set up a post in Lee; if they were patient, it was pretty much a give that as soon as Tufts broke jail, he was going home. Predictable enough to warrant some attention, yes?

2nd By the way: Rachel and Leah?  Really??

Is it Truth or is it Memorex?

If fable and romance have long amused the world and attracted its notice, why shall not plain truth and real fact, though clad in plebian habiliments, elicit subordinate attention? One property of truth is, whether it illustrate virtue or depict vice, to afford matter from which some inference may be drawn or moral extracted, conducted to the use and benefit of mankind. A virtuous action is for the imitation of others, a vicious one for this avoidance; the former should serve as an example, the latter as a warning [. . . . ] the vicious, affords, also, instruction, by showing the effects of vice and immortality (Tufts vii).

In the above quote, Tufts contributes his opinions to the never-ending debate, “What is literature?” Without a doubt Tufts understands the pre-requisite elements that make good fiction by first establishing himself as hero—an “infamous” hero nonetheless, within the first paragraph of the “Preface.” Then cinches the reader’s curiosity by revealing that there is an air of “mystery lurk[ing] under the procedure.” He argues that “if fable and romance have long amused the world and attracted its notice, why shall not plain truth and real fact.” Indeed, this argument could as easily appear in Terry Eagleton’s book on literary theory. In this simple argument, Tufts simultaneously argues that his narrative contains as much excitement as “fable and romance,” and, when one reads his narrative, one wonders how much is fable and romance. But he addresses that argument as well. Since he is old, he explains, and his memory tends to fail him, he found it necessary to, “permit [him] to say,” insert material facts in areas of “less moment.” In more “important concerns” of his life, he argues, his narrative exhibits more copious details. Despite Tufts claims to veracity in the more “important concerns,” one cannot resist comparing Tufts’ narrative with Stephen Burroughs’: He burns down the jailhouse, uses the phrase “Sweets of Liberty,” complains about leg irons, is accused on crimes he did not commit (stealing Oxen yoke), escapes to Canada, etc. Moreover, Tufts addresses with explicit frankness the moral application typically required in eighteenth and early nineteenth century reading material. He states that he “trust it may be useful, in some measure, as a caveat to others, to shun such pursuits” as have made his life “truly miserable.”

For such reasons, I find Tufts' Preface interesting.  It is almost like he "protests too much"; whereas Stephen Burroughs' narrative is more subversive.  Burroughs' makes the same arguments, but they are blended within the narrative.

It don hav 2B so!

Response to excerpts from Sven Birkets’ The Gutenberg Elegies (1994)

I think it is funny that Birkets thinks we will need fifty years to transition into the new age of technology. It has been 19 years since he wrote his text, and we can already see the effects of modern communicative technology on our youth. As he stated, “the pace if rapid,” and technology has advanced at sky-rocket speed.
However, reading his article explained why I have adapted so well to the computer age (acknowledgment made that I was not raised in the pc generation). I feel that I think laterally (sometimes I think I am ADD). I am okay with following the “rabbit trails” (as I call them). I am okay with reading a forth of an article, following a hyperlink to its end, and then returning to that article, and then following another rabbit trail. I think this kind of information mapping can be helpful in making sense of language because I can learn what as aspects of a subject before I finish the article. In fact, I have added hyperlinks to my blog so that my readers can have an overview of S. Burroughs in order to understand my blog. AND I fully expect that they will leave my blog to investigate him, then I expect (or hope) they will return to my blog to finish reading my post. In a way, it is dialogism (polyphony and heterglossia) because there are competing individual voices all explaining the same issue. But, I also believe it is incumbent on me to make my argument interesting enough to hook them back after they have followed a hyperlink. I also love the tag-lines, the bullet points, the charts, the pictures, the hyperlinks, etc.

BUT I do believe Birkets has an argument about language erosion: “We can expect that curricula will be further streamlined, and difficult texts in the humanities will be pruned and glossed. . . Fewer and fewer people will be able to contend with the so-called masterworks of literature or ideas.” We live in a sitcom world where all our problems must be solved in one 30-minute episode. Not only have we shortened our attention span, but we’ve shortened our literature (into 2 hour movies for 600 page novels) and our language: Fab or fabulous, BFF (best friend forever), pc (politically correct). Yet this phenomenon is not new to English speakers. Take for instance, “don’t” (do not), ain’t (am not), and FYI (for your information). IM (instant message) speak seems to me to be the culmination of an every changing and reinventing societal language. Nevertheless, his argument about literature does make me sad, but I’m not sure it has to be that way. An older woman (about 60 years of age) once approached my daughter, who was reading Pride and Prejudice at that moment, and told her that she (the lady) should could not read that book because of archaic language. My daughter, at age 14, read the book with no trouble. By Birkets’ argument, these roles should have been reversed. It is through television that I was introduced to Jane Austen and fell in love with her works. I found the book and read it with a dictionary nearby--honest. And more to the point, my son, after watching The Lord of the Rings, read all Tolkien’s books, including the ever-difficult Silmarillion (which, I am given to understand, few teens can make it through). Therefore, I think Birkets’ dire predictions do not have to come to fruition. We can still embrace the technological revolution, yet bend it towards our own advantages and the advantages of our younger generation.

Fruits of Repentance and Sweets of Liberty; Polyphonic voices in the Memoirs of Steven Burroughs

I have taken to reading Bakhtin after reading Steven Burrough’s narrative, and therefore, when I ran across an interesting passage, I was stumped about whether it was technically a polyphonic voice. The text appears page 171, and immediately I noticed something unique about Burrough’s voice. In this passage he reports the story about the dollar and the rum for the men while at Castle Island (pictured at right). [I found his determination to divide the rum equally as well as some other things he said as pre-Marxists, but that is another post.] Mount “told [Cushing], that Burroughs had kept the money himself, and the other prisoners had received nothing.” These were paraphrased words by Burroughs, but Burroughs does not refer to himself as “me," but as “himself,” as Mount would have done. Also, the story contradicts SB’s, but I found it odd that SB resisted the urge to say “Mount lied and told him that . . .” But Burroughs simply states his story then Mont’s (even though it is paraphrased) without prejudice. Burroughs continues to state that Cushing tells an alternate story to Mr. May, he,

related, that he had given three dollars to Burroughs, for the prisoners, and that Burroughs, had appropriated them to his own use, refusing to participate with any others in the benefit of the money. Mr. May entered with warmth into the subject, and when he saw me, expostulated upon the impropriety of my conduct. . . . (171)

 In this section, Burroughs again retells the story, keeping polyphonic voices by referring to his self as “Burroughs,” as Cushing would have done, rather than “me.” Also, Mr. May’s voice comes through in the phrase “impropriety of my conduct.” Even though in this instance he does use the pronoun “me,” we can hear May’s voice in choice words such as “impropriety” and “conduct.”


According to Vice, the polyphonic novel is one that is “multi-accented and contradictory in its values” (Vice 123). Furthermore, she notes that “a possible image of polyphony would be a church, ‘a communion of unmerged souls, where sinners and righteous men come together" (Bakhtin, PDP 26; Vice 123).  This image really helped me to understand polyphony.  These polyphonic voices are contradictory in their values, and SB’s narrative seems to allow freedom of other’s contradictory voices into his narrative. Other instances also include the Turk and the Venetian slave story (163), the voices he relates of others through the quoted text, and the various inserted letters (I could argue the veracity of his wife’s).

At this point, I have to note Burroughs’ manipulation of text by his selection of inserting letters into his text out of chronological order, which I thought odd.

Pg 172: letter from Ebenezer Davis (brother-in-law) to SB (April 20th, 1788)

Pg 173: letter from Jonathan Davis to SB (May 12th, 1788)

Pg 173: letter from parents to SB (October 16th, 1787)

Pg 175: letter from SB to parents (November 27th, 1787)

By placing the uncles’ letters before the parents, Burroughs makes it appear that the uncles enduced the parents to write and that the uncles care more about his wellbeing than his own parents, thus eliciting sympathy. Also, the letter from his parents chastises him for his conduct as well as his attempt to gain freedom, while the uncle’s are more positive; Davis even reports about hearing of his good conduct. Davis uses the term “the sweets of liberty,” which appears in stark contrast to the parent’s “fruits of repentance” (173-174). I believe that by placing the parents last, SB causes us to remember their lack of faith in their son and therefore we pity him all the more.

While SB manipulates these polyphonic voices to his own gain, his voice is likewise manipulated by editors post 1811. While one might think that Burroughs is the author of his own text, the appearance in 1811 of edited footnotes disrupts the notion of author. Thereafter, Burroughs’ voice appears, it seems, at the will of the editor. His voice is frequently questioned by the editor and author of the footnotes, and his voice is shortened by a later abridged version of the narrative. These subsequent editors appear to have usurped Burroughs’ voice and manipulated his identity in order to present his story the way they felt it should be presented. In short, the editor becomes the author and Burroughs becomes one of the many narrators (who is subjected to the narrator of the footnotes).

Other than my notes about voice and authorship, I enjoyed reading Burroughs’ story; I can understand why it would be entertaining--there is something Huck Finn'ish in this telling.  Moreover, he had a flair for leadership; look at how he rallied prisoners to revolt. He was quite clever in arguing and presenting his case, particularly his distinction of molestation in “open” spaces, which he argues were “private.” It is obvious from his narrative that he is an articulate man and one cannot help wondering how far he would have gone if he had stayed in school and not got into trouble. Perhaps that is the lesson children are to read into the text, but, to me, it is heavily veiled in “three-stooges” like comedy and Socratic rhetorical tragedy. Tragedy and Comedy, a carnivalesque notion indeed!

Works Cited
Burroughs, Stephen. Memoirs of Stephen Burroughs (1798). Boston: Northeastern UP, 1988.

Vice, Sue. Introducing Bakhtin. Manchester: Manchester UP, 1997.

“Sophisticated Wickedness” and Multi-Voiced Dialogism

In revisiting Bakhtin’s theories of Dialogism, I am at once struck with the variety of ways in which Stephen Burroughs memoirs are dialogic—and not only double-voiced, but multi-voiced. To begin, I noticed that I hear a variety of Burroughs’es in the text—there is the young lad scamping around and getting into “innocent” mischief; the slightly older teenage Burroughs, sounding cocky in his cleverness (the shoe sermon); the whiny Burroughs constantly blaming others for his crimes; the scared Burroughs pleading his case with high pathos (the starvation) (see dramatic monologue on page 107 “O! ruthless mortals! said I, . . . Am not I a member of the same family with yourselves!”); and the outraged democratic Burroughs expostulating on the inconsistencies of America’s belief in Liberty. Finally, all of Burroughs’s voices are told in hindsight through the narrator, the older, hopefully more wise, Burroughs. He is, indeed, creating “meaning out of past utterance[s]” and enabling the “constant need for utterances to position themselves in relation to one another” (Vice 45), by positing the past utterance of the young Burroughs within dialogue with the older Burroughs.

Furthermore, Burroughs’s narrative considers the voice of the reader as an interlocutor, making assumptions about his/her opinions, thoughts, curiosities, etc., in his narrative. In addition to the dramatic monologue mentioned above, see also page 67, Burroughs writes, “I know the world will blame me, but I wish to justify my conduct to myself let the world think what it may.” While this message appears to be monologic, he is in fact “mixing intentions of speaker and listener” (Vice 45) and incorporating in the narrative voice of the social and historical listener. He, in essence, considered what we the readers would likely think or say and anticipating our voice in his statement. In a similar vein, he searches out voices in rhetorical questions like those on page 86, “What could be done? What more could be said? . . . What would you have done, had you been in my situation?” I think Vice would say these questions fit Bakhtin’s monologism as they expect no answer (See Vice page 52) (I’m really confused by her example), but I don’t agree. Burroughs knows there will be an answer and tries to anticipate it by answering it before it is asked. Anticipating the answer inherently acknowledges another’s voice. In this instance, he tells us he has no choice but to do the evil errand for Lysander that ultimately gets Burroughs incarcerated and tortured.

Burroughs (or rather the author; I guess I should distinguish) continues to incorporate dialogism in his narrative by including excerpts or summaries from contemporary newspapers (see, for instance, page 91 about the printer from Springfield) so that he may refute them, inserts letters from various Reverends and family members so that he may interpret them and place them in context with his own narrative, and uses their dialogue in such a way as to sway his reader towards his cause—thereby giving their voice double-voicedness. These examples exemplify the ways in which Dialogized heteroglossia “refers to the combative relations different languages enter into when they come into contact, most clearly perceptible in a text” (my emphasis, Vice 49).


Moreover, there is the recipient “Sir” (the “Friend” the story is addressed to) not only implies the individual “Sir” and takes into account his voice, but it also is double-voiced because Burroughs knew others would come to read the letters as well (as argued above). Taking into account the opinion of a wider audience, I read a comic turn on page 110 when Burroughs abruptly ends his tale just when the story is getting interesting—he gives a pathos-educed build-up just to tell us that he is tired and will finish his story later—a technique we later came to call “the cliff hanger.”

Finally, I cannot forget the editor, who in turns both supported Burroughs claims (see footnote page 43) and contradicted him (see footnotes page 26 and 28, where the editor defends Professor Ripley). The pro / con stances evidenced by the editor epitomize the dialogic nature of the narrative and also make me wonder about the printer, the book store owner, the advertisement writers, and all other “voices” that, I feel, go into making up the “author,” including the sketch artist of Burroughs.

As I've been asking my students all week, "So What?"  So what if Burroughs' narrative is dialogic (multi-voiced)? What is the significance of that?  I believe the "So What?" lies in the fact that because Stephen Burroughs' wrote his narrative, he has gained immortality through the written word and has become public property.  As public property, he does not live (in print) in a vacuum.  We all re-write Burroughs' life when we read him and interpret him--we all participate in the dialogic process in defining Burroughs, and therefore, Burroughs can never be finalized (I am on shaky ground with Bakhtin's unfinalizablity theories).

Thus far I have very much enjoyed reading Burroughs—and I most distinctly see both serious (political) and comic double-voicedness in the text. I also have noted many instances of “the spectacle” and “the carnivalesque,” but I’ll save those ideas for another chapter of Vice.


Works Cited

Burroughs, Stephen. Memoirs of Stephen Burroughs (1798). Boston: Northeastern UP, 1988. (*"Sophisticated Wickedness" refers to the description Robert Frost used in the forward to describe Burroughs.)

Vice, Sue. Introducing Bakhtin. Manchester: Manchester UP, 1997.

Multi-languages to Multi-currencies; or, how 18th Century New England Counterfeiters evaded the Heteroglot Blob.

[to be polished after class]
I decided to begin my readings with Bakhtin so that I could be on the look-out for heteroglossia in the narratives. My time was well spent in revisiting Bakhtin and establishing a firmer foundation in the dialogic structure of language. In fact, I was surprised to see my old notes in the margins because, had they not been there, I would have sworn I’d never read the 2nd half of Chapter 1 of Sue Vice's Introducing Bakhtin (notes are evidence of my dialogic conversation with the text, as Bakhtin would say). My own “voice” added to Vice’s testified against my logic. In had indeed read this, yet I remembered nothing about it. That’s sad. Never-the-less, in my re-reading, I enjoyed seeing how heteroglossia, in context with Call it Sleep, could help me with understanding how social/class issues are depicted within literature.

As I understand it, Heteroglossia (different languages) is language as it appears in literature; it includes sociolect language (language determined by different social groups based on age, gender, money, region, etc.) and register (preacher, doctor, lawyer, etc). Comparing diverse languages always sets one in comparison to another (usually those of the “acceptable” class of society). Heteroglossia is double-voiced discourse that serves two speakers at the same time—speaker and author (must note Bakhtin’s definition of author, which is the same as narrator until the narrator asserts his own voice distinguished from that of the author). When thinking of heteroglossia, I think of Charles Chesnutt’s short story “Goophered Grapevine,” in which he has a narrator (former slave living free on a ruined plantation) within a narrator (northerner visiting the South to buy the plantation cheap). The two languages oppose one another—the northerner’s voice is the established hierarchy—the former slave’s voice is comical, submissive, and contrite, yet it is without irony (double-voice) as he is playing a role for the northerner. Furthermore, I would add that this example is polyphonic in that the northerner, who is telling the whole story to the reader, allows the African American storyteller reign in his story even at the northerner’s expense (the northerner knows he is being played, but not in the same way we, the readers, know it). Another fine example of heteroglossia can be found in Huckleberry Finn.

From Williamson’s book Pillars of Salt, we also read the narratives of Owen Syllavan (1756), Issac Frasier (1768), John Jubeart (1769), Herman Rosencrantz (1770) (sans Guildenstern), and Levi Ames (1773). I enjoyed reading these, but I must confess that my favorite was Herman Rosencrantz’s. His double-voiced intention spoke loudly and the purpose of his confession was all too obvious. He continually used Biblical passages in order to gain respect and to create doubt with the readers that he should be hanged. Like many other criminal confessions, he blames poor conditions and personal loss as the motive for his crime (assuming that there is an acceptable reason to steal, it would be to provide for the family). But it is the structure of his language that “cracks me up.” On page 168, he describes how he nobly resisted throwing in with the gang of counterfeiters, “by discovering these pests of civil government” and "But the love of money, the root of all evil, blinded my eyes, so that I received at their hands two counterfeit bills.” His word choice, “pests,” is double-voiced; the word choice signals to noble readers that he is with us—he agrees they are bad men, insects, pests. His word choice subversively puts him in the law-biding citizen’s court. Further double-voice occurs when he explains that he entreated him to steal that he “might live a gentleman’s life—yet I did not then accept of their offer.” Would a “gentleman” steal? The counterfeiter’s idea of “gentlemanly living” is living with ease. As Allon White notes (on page 19 of Vice’s Introducing Bakhtin), heteroglottic languages socially oppose one another---from the lower stratum of society, a “gentleman’s” life is one of ease by which only money can provide. In opposition, other parts of society (the religious, the noble, the polite), a gentleman lives by a code of honor.

My favorite double-voice quote appears on page 171, “During eight days that I staid with them, I saw them make, and assisted in making, a number of Three Pound bills, Pennsylvania currency. After this was completed, we all quit our cabin; first destroying the press we made use of in counterfeiting.” He saw them do this and that, yet “we” destroyed the cabin that “we” used to counterfeit money. Finally, and I’ll cease with Rosencrantz (sans Guildenstern are dead), he sympathetically explains that "The command in my heart was, THOU SHALT NOT STEAL; which I always kept”; I assume everyone sees that double-voicedness of that ironic statement, but you have to give him credit; he tried.

Of the other narratives we read, several issues stand out. First, counterfeiting in Early America appears to be a simple feat to accomplish. I think that what makes it so simple is the ease with which these guys could make plates and pass them off to unsuspecting citizens (Syllavan states, “I thought it was an easy Way of getting money” (146). We have to remember the education level of the average citizen. Most would not ascertain the complexity of paper weight, signatures, clarity of print, ink color, etc. It also appears that these men built the printing press they used to accomplish the deeds; I imagine they were of crude construction. Furthermore, it appears that the goals were incapable to sustaining prisoners for any period of time before said prisoners could find a way to escape (yes, even by fire). Moreover, I wonder at each convicts ability to remember in detail and in order every little thing (peice of linen, silver spoon, hat, etc.) they stole, from who, and what town. These guys are on a massive stealing spree—how do they remember every minute detail? And what did they do with the loot? How did they fence it—what did they buy? Did they eat, drink, and be merry? In this area I was left unsatisfied.

Conversely, I am highly satisfied by James Frasier’s account, which I saved for last. Frazier I liked; probably because he was born poor and couldn’t write (signed statement with his “mark”). His father died when he was five, yet his mother was “poor yet always had the character of an honest person among her Neighbours, and she took pains to inculcate a principle of honesty into me, in my tender years” (note: I do question if “inculcate” was his word; in fact, Syllavan’s lack of recorded Irish accent and Frasier’s eloquent language (he was uneducated) leads one to doubt that these are the “exact” words of these convicts). Frasier’s confession along with Ames's reveals a social class resistance to indenture. Both men appear to blame the social construction of indenture as the impetus of their forays into crime. Frasier’s voice also takes on a tone of authority—higher than that of the reader, which makes this confession unique—when he begins to exert warnings to the youth. He argues that education (early education reform rhetoric [smiley face]), which was denied him based on his economic and low-class status, would have prevented him turning to a life of crime. This narrative is subversively rhetorical, rebellious, and resistant. Love it!