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