Weekly Post: 11/23/09

Because I am doing my final project on Tufts, I decided to find a bigamous man for this posting. One of the articles I found was published in 1867 and titled “A Husband of Varied Tastes. A Lover False and Truant. A Railroad Engineer with Three Wives.” Right away, I was struck by the comparison between this bigamist and Tufts. Both, because of their supposed “professions,” are able to traverse the country freely, thus enabling them to visit many cities and have many wives. Tufts was able to travel all throughout the country, and though he mainly stayed in a little area, he nevertheless was able to be unknown in other parts of the country, even if it was only a few miles away from his home and first wife. These two characters, Tufts and the engineer, also possess the necessary charm for becoming a bigamist: “He possessed that free and open manner which, united with youth, good looks and a surplus of spending money, never fails to win the hearts of a certain class of young ladies.” Note how the author of this article claims that “a certain class” of young women are susceptible to the amiable young engineer. This makes me wonder what types of judgments were passed on Tufts’ wives. Did they belong to any “class” that made them vulnerable to deception? Or, rather, were all women who were duped by these con-men instantly become part of this sisterhood of swindled gals? I thinking the latter is the case. The article also describes one of the young ladies as becoming stricken with admiration to her “god of her idolatry.” References to gods resonate throughout Tufts’ work as well, and though he falls short of describing himself as a god, he uses rhetoric that suggests he received heretical admiration from his various women. The engineer, after marrying his first wife in Kirkwood, marries a second one who lives within one mile of Kirkwood soon after. The proximity of the two women does not surprise me—it seems that for the men, mobility was easy, but for the women, moving around the country, or even a mile away to hear of a wedding, was not as accessible (though, of course, Ann Carson moves around quite a bit).
Above all, this article reiterates what we have discovered so far this semester—that identity for the early American republics was not a fixed concept, but rather a costume to be donned whenever needed. The bigamist in the article participates in this creation of identity, and for him laws and rules do not apply. Instead, he makes his own standards. The engineer, Tufts, Burroughs, Carson, or any of the other counterfeiters we have read thus far all take their identities into their own hands and mold them accordingly.
Along with this concept of identity (which for some reason I come back to in almost every blog posting I make!), is the idea of humor present in all of the accounts we have read. The story of the engineer is described in highly farcical language—as is the other counterfeit narratives. The humor is sometimes difficult to detect, but underlying all of these accounts is the sense that these tricksters and their adventures are amusing for the American public. They are enjoyable to read about because they use wit and funny situations to get the better of people. In this sense, perhaps more so than we realize, humor adds to these narratives and enhances the concept of identity because it challenges our own assumptions about these characters’ personalities and actions.
The bigamist gets away. His mobility, his talent for creating a new, personable identity, and his charming wit and humor allow him to flee the city.

Weekly Journal: 11/16/09

Though I expected the narrative to feature an anticlimactic summary of Ann Carson’s later years, I was pleasantly surprised by the amount of adventure and excitement present in the last third of the story. However, the shift in narrators made it a little more difficult to get through—Mary Clarke’s portion of the text is much less interesting to read. It also reads slower, for me at least, because Clarke seems to rush through a multitude of events and characters, whereas Ann spends time in describing each event carefully. For example, while the entire first volume centers around the momentous death of Captain Carson and the failed kidnapping of the Governor of Pennsylvania, this second volume, and particularly Clarke’s portion, presents a type of “catalogue of ships,” wherein most characters lose singularity because Clarke has so much to fit into this last section of the narrative. Nevertheless, there are certain things I love about Clarke’s own narration, particularly the insight she gives us on early American printing processes. I found it fascinating that we learn what business deals and negotiations occurred when attempting to create a printed text. For example, the publisher, Mr. D., reads little or nothing of the narrative before he agrees to print it. Yet, he somehow knows that the tale will be highly successful. I was most surprised at how many people were involved in the printing process—moneymen, lawyers, printers, etc. As Dr. Williams noted last week, the fact that this narrative discusses at length its own publication process makes this tale unusual and yet informative. This last section of the text is also highly interesting in terms of interpreting authorial voice in the first two sections. For example, though Mrs. Clarke freely admits that she wrote the entire “autobiography” of Ann, the tone is nevertheless different. It seems that Ann’s direction highly influenced the text. My guess: the element of revenge alters the tone of Ann’s first-person narration and Mrs. Clarke’s third-person relation of the same character. Yet, I suspect that Clarke might also be out for some sort of vengeance, perhaps against Ann herself. Though Mrs. Clarke avers that she continued to care for Ann, I can’t help detecting a trace of bitterness when she recounts how Ann abused her trust and a sense of self-satisfied “I-told-you-so” once Ann gets caught passing counterfeit bills. (By the way, did anyone else notice the term cogniac, which apparently means counterfeiter? I thought that was an interesting word).

Ann’s fall from grace occurs because she turns good money into counterfeit bills. Her subsequent arrest and trial does seem very carnivalesque, just like her entire “biography.” As Isabelle Lehuu notes in her book Carnival of Print: Popular Print Media in Antebellum America, antebellum America experienced an onslaught of new printed materials in the marketplace, and these printed works threatened the “orthodox uses of print culture.” These new forms of literature invaded the market and “[t]he festive carnival that burst onto the printed page during the antebellum period was not opposed to but rather belonged to the marketplace.” Indeed, Ann and Mrs. Clarke know quite well what to expect from the marketplace. I find their knowledge of financial and legal matters fascinating. Two independent women, in the early American republic, knew tons about business, real estate, how to sell a book, and law. While I do not trust Ann or Mrs. Clarke, I cannot help admire the amount of historical information the narrator provides. Further, Ann’s story is certainly carnivalesque, especially this final crime and trial scene. It seems that for Ann, the carnival occurs whenever she has liberty. Only in prison is she truly able to reign in her impulses for adventure, misrule, and the complete flouting of masculine and governmental authority.

I’ll briefly mention something I found quite confusing; perhaps someone can explain this to me. Why in the world does the narrator go through this long passage filled with quotes (from pages 126-128 in my copy)? The narrator uses Shakespearean characters and play titles, verses from poems, and other quotes rapidly, sometimes the quotes do not even make sense in the passage. Is this just a moment of the narrator proving that they are well-read? I can’t seem to find any explanation for this massive amount of distracting quotes.

Weekly Journal Entry: 11/9/09

“Let not the lords of the creation accuse our sex of tattling, when they are so deficient in discretion” (Vol. II pg. 21). This sermon-like indictment against men for being so free of speech and gossip comes in the midst of Ann’s tale when she is staying at some sort of criminal headquarters under an assumed name. Of course she is going to complain that men are hypocrites when it comes to restraining their aptitude to talk and accuse others! Yet, Ann is certainly guilty of the crime of being “deficient in discretion.” Her narrative, more so than any other counterfeiter we have read this semester, is vindictive towards the supposed villains of the story. Her language frequently lacks this discretion and she gives full reign to her rhetorical ability to defame her enemies. Thus, she describes a landlady as “fat, vulgar, wapping” (Vol. I pg. 312) and Simon Snyder as “of a middle stature, hard features, thickly pox-marked, with a dark, austere, unbending brow, and a countenance that seemed as if it had never relaxed into a smile” (Vol. I pg. 361). Rather than claim that she offers forgiveness to her persecutors, like Burroughs and Tufts occasionally do, Ann paints the villains of her story with vivid colors of physical and moral baseness—she does not flower her tale with protestations that she acts out of any Christian desire to forgive those who have harmed her and secure her spiritual wholeness for the future. Instead, Ann is disparaging to most sects of Christianity as well. She insults Roman Catholics, and many of the Irish (though her husband is Irish) in one blow: “I should have fancied her conscience was like the greater part of the ignorant Irish of that persuasion, priest-ridden […]” (Vol. I pg. 327). When a woman visits her in prison, with the intention of converting Ann, Ann boldly proclaims that she will never forgive Snyder and that “‘I shall never be a Christian’ […] (In fact, I was too well acquainted with the hypocrisy of many professed Christians not to question their sincerity)” (Vol. I pg. 367). However, Ann does not entirely refuse to acknowledge a Christian God, rather she shies away from any form of religion. She even recruits God to her side when she asserts “it is only the forms of society I have by that act offended, and not the laws of God” (Vol. I pg. 284). For Ann, religion as a form of societal regulation and indication of open hypocrisy is always suspect (though she does accede that the Methodists are okay). However, though she retains some sense of reverence for God, her narrative seems to avoid trying to spiritually atone for her past actions. Unlike Burroughs or Tufts, Ann is not as concerned with justifying her decisions to a religious community (at least compared to the other counterfeiters we have read, I do believe that Ann at least participates in using religious rhetoric for her own purposes, typically dishonest ones at that). Nonetheless, at this point in our reading of Ann, she seems wary of associating with any form of established religion and instead stands out as independent of that form of community. Her preferred community, instead, is a household of thieves.

Dr. Williams’ handout, containing quotes from Cathy Davidson’s Revolution and the Word, seems particularly helpful in understanding why Ann includes so many proposals and romantic adventures—her narrative is an emulation of early American sentimental novels. As Davidson points out, these novels depicted female independence outside of matrimony and perhaps this is why Ann’s narrative features so many rejections of the marital fetters, which she associates with a loss of liberty and pain: “True, matrimonial fetters are said to be of roses, but if so, the flowers have long since fallen off, and only the thorns remain for me and mine” (Vol. II pg. 13). Sentimental fiction, Davidson notes, intimated ideas of freedom for women and the right of these women to reject or accept men: “The unstated premise of sentimental fiction is that women must take greater control of their lives and must make shrewd decisions of the men who come into their lives” (Handout pg. 3). Of course, Ann does not always make what we would term “shrewd” decisions, but the fact that she does exercise some control over which men she receives indicates that her position, even though obtained through falsehoods and daring criminal activities, is one in which she can utilize her liberty and gain some control over her own life. Her narrative, then, participates in this line of sentimental novels in that she also advocates a freedom for women to choose which men have influence in their lives.

Weekly Journal Post: 11/2/09

Now we have a pair of rouges! Ann and Captain Carson both exhibit those characteristic traits of individuals who encounter misfortune and become embittered and immoral due to their suffering. Yet, I only mention this in passing—this relationship seems quite interesting in terms of early American history and identity.

Indeed, Ann Carson’s narrative seems much more historically conscious of the events occurring in America during Ann’s lifetime. She (whoever this “she” is) makes note of the Revolutionary war, the yellow fever epidemic, and the condition of women during the early American period. Just as we wondered what Burroughs’ and Tufts’ wives thought and felt, here we actually get a firsthand account of a woman’s struggles (and her vices). Yet, regardless of her disreputable position, Ann’s story is fascinating—filled with extra-marital relationships, exotic adventures, and a vivid manifestation of national pride, Ann’s narrative is quite compelling for literature, history, sociology, and psychology fans.

In one of the prefacing letters to Mary W., Ann quotes a line from Hamlet: “Man delights me not, nor woman either” (xiv). In the play, this dismissive statement, said somewhat jokingly, ends Hamlet’s monologue on why he has “lost all my mirth” and he rejects man as “the quintessence of dust.” Thus, Ann’s misanthropic sentiments clearly parallel Hamlet’s own loss of regard for fellow humans. She calls herself a “blank in creation” (xiv and xv). Perhaps this has to do with her sufferings as a woman in early America. Marrying a man that she only regards as handsome and exciting, but does not love, Ann’s situation is typical of what many young women were forced to do—join in matrimony with a stranger or a man that they have no true feelings for (though, admittedly, Ann’s version of why she marries Captain Carson becomes more and more an act she had absolutely no control over as the narrative continues). This reminds me of a play I was in during high school, The Insanity of Mary Girard, which depicts a poor, young woman in colonial Philadelphia, who marries the affluent and powerful Stephen Girard (He is briefly mentioned in Ann’s narrative on page 118). Although this play is fictional, it is based off of a true story. Historically, we know that Mary Girard did become insane, but the play only guesses when it attributes her insanity to the cruel treatment she receives from her husband. Nevertheless, Ann’s narrative gives us another opportunity to witness how men could, and did, mistreat their wives. Certainly, this narrative opens up many questions on the status of women during the early American era. As America was forming its identity, and as men like Burroughs and Tufts took advantage of these self-fashioning prospects, what happened to the women? Were they also able to create a character for themselves? Ann seems to overthrow her femininity in order to obtain some form of agency: “I was no longer the mild, tender, gentle girl I had hitherto been, yet something I must be, nature did not create me for a non entity, so I became a heroine” (67). This line struck me as admirable, but also a little odd, considering that in her letter to Mary she describes herself as a “blank in creation.” What further struggles does she undergo to transform from a heroine to a nonexistent being? Of course, we have to simply keep reading, but this contradiction seems to merit consideration as something to keep in mind while reading the rest of the narrative—what does it take to erase the identity of our heroine? Is it something historical or merely particular to Ann’s situation? I am interested in discovering this answer, because it might have some consequences for our discussions on identity.

As a woman, certainly Ann’s options were much more limited, and she knows how to capitalize on the discourse of slavery to illustrate her unfortunate situation in marriage. Certainly, Captain Carson’s treatment of her creates a power structure that mirrors the slave/master relationship: “I learned to scorn and despise him, only regarding him as a slave does an austere master whom he is compelled to obey” (65). She even claims that her situation is worse than a slave’s, for a slave is allowed to rest after the work for the day is completed, but she, as a wife who must cohabitate the same house with her master/husband, is constantly susceptible to Captain Carson’s anger and jealously. Yet, Ann also defies her husband and attempts to overcome some of her troubles by behaving towards Captain Carson just like he treats her: “I was an American; a land of liberty had given me birth; my father had been his commanding officer; I felt myself his equal, and pride interdicted my submitting to his caprices” (82). Perhaps Ann’s resolve, and her relative strength considering her situation, is due to her pride, which she continually mentions. Pride in her country, in her social class, and in her position both help and hinder Ann in various situations: “Pride may justly be called a remarkable sin, it was so to me” (126). Indeed, Ann’s pride is one trait that marks her as quite exceptionable. She is able to tyrannize her husband, refuse Nat, and open a business because of her pride. Yet, due to pride, she also suffers.

Weekly Journal Entry: 10/26/09

The narrator in Henry Tufts’ tale is certainly adept in the arts of irony and sarcasm. Thus, this week I tried to look for moments of contraction in order to discover some of the mockeries and inconsistencies in the narrative. One such paradoxical moment is when Tufts expresses horror at what will happen to his body after he dies. A physician with a jovial countenance approaches Tufts and requests the rights to Tufts’ body for scientific purposes when he dies. Tufts reacts with dismay at the prospect of his body being used in a manner that he cannot control, even if he is dead: “Notwithstanding his easy introduction, the proposal struck me with horror ineffable, so that I repelled his suit with an asperity that prevented further solicitation on that behalf” (295). The paradox that I see in this occurrence is the fact that Tufts readily alters or invades the bodies of women. While he abhors anything done to his own body, he is quick to impregnate other women. In this third part of the narrative, with quick succession he spends the night with three different women at various inns, even jilting one in the process. His treatment of Abigail is quite customary—he ruins her body for any future marriage (because she is no longer a virgin and now has an illegitimate child). True, Abigail does marry someone else later in the narrative, but only after going through many hardships and ultimately being abandoned like Tufts’ other women. No wonder if Abigail follows him as a mistress, she has no other option because this criminal has altered her body. Whether or not this contradiction of the value of bodies is deliberate or not, it does illustrate the pervading double standard of early American society.

Certainly, Tufts engages in this double standard with increasing rapidity in this last part of his narrative; the various women he encounters soon become simply part of a long list of unidentified companions for a night. In a strange way, I see a connection between Tufts’ trysts with women and his brief description of “flash language.” Both are part of the lifestyle of a criminal, both are somewhat foreign to the American ideal of morality, and both are nakedly exposed in Tufts’ narrative. In describing flash language, Tufts notes that it is “partly English, and partly an arbitrary gibberish, which, when spoken, presents to such hearers, as are not initiated into its mysteries, a mere unintelligible jargon, but in the flash fraternity is, peculiarly, significant” (315). He follows this by providing the reader with a handy translation of flash words and phrases. In doing so, he threatens this “flash fraternity” by laying bare its mechanisms. By giving the reader a peek into this criminal dialogue, Tufts is weakening the criminals’ ability to communicate privately among themselves. In the same way, Tufts capitalizes on the women in his narrative, he exposes their sexual willingness (and gullibility) to the readers and thus further undermines the few traces of privacy these women hold. True, many are unnamed, but by putting their attitudes and responses in writing, Tufts is again using their bodies for his own satisfaction.

Of course, Tufts is not alone in using other people’s bodies; as Johnson describes in Chapter Five of The Early American Republic, enslaved populations were growing rapidly at the turn of the 18^th century. Tufts frequently interacts with slaves—while imprisoned on Castle Island, Tufts notes that the demographics of the prisoners consisted of “different kind of people, as well black as white and of divers nations and languages” (306). Yet, he still retains a master/overseer mentality, and his treatment of others is in line with the rulers of the nation. Johnson notes that “Thomas Jefferson, who had been shocked to see French women working in the fields, abandoned his concern for female delicacy when his own slaves were involved” (87). In this sense, Tufts is a true American, he actively participates in exploiting other people for his own purposes, whether in his day-to-day transactions or in his narrative. And, undoubtedly, he relishes this ability to take advantage of others. In fact, Tufts’ mastery over others, and his ingenious talent at getting people to trust him, especially women, is part of the overall narrative joke—just as Tufts’ neighbors and lovers continually believe that he is honest, we too as readers accept his tales with credibility. The narrator continues to laugh in our face.

Weekly Journal Entry: 10/19/09

            While I am continually amazed at Tufts’ ability to escape detection or punishment, I soon realized that he uses many recurring devices to flee confinement or potential harm. One of these “tools” that Tufts regularly employs is alcohol. Just as earlier he had used rum to obtain Molly Occut’s medical secrets, Tufts also frequently provides his captors with alcohol in order to trick them out of their aim to catch him. For example, when apprehended by Captain Joseph Thomas and Robert Bryant, Tufts supplies them with a great quantity of liquor to numb their punitive intentions: “Riding a few miles we called in at Ray’s tavern in Gilmanton, where I treated my keepers so profusely with spirits, that both became excessively mellow” (139). Because liquor seems so available to Tufts, even during situations when we would not expect him to have access to alcohol, I became curious on the nature of alcoholic availability during the Revolutionary era. Among the different things I found, one of the more interesting facts in terms of our Johnson reading is that George Washington, Benjamin Franklin, and Thomas Jefferson all brewed or distilled their own alcoholic beverages. The leaders of the country valued alcohol, and Tufts recognizes the various benefits to be had from creating a communal atmosphere of drinking fellows. Drinking alcohol, in this sense, is patriotic. Because political leaders, soldiers, and even many religious men frequently drank alcohol, Tufts’ ability to use this tool shows us how adaptive to various circumstances Tufts really is. Tufts can quickly use almost anything for his own purposes, regardless of the seeming futility or hilarity of his project. Thus, when needing a shirt, and coming across some women’s garments, Tufts undertakes to create his own shirts out of the material. Though he is caught, Tufts original intention is singular because he is able to use whatever he finds and manipulate it to his own gain. Thus, alcohol becomes another mechanism for Tufts’ advances—it was readily available and carried certain patriotic associations. In fact, there were many taverns during the American colonial and revolutionary periods. Almost every town had at least one. Thus, when Tufts claims that he frequently stopped by various taverns all across early America, we can actually trust that he is telling the truth for once! In light of the Whiskey Rebellion and the Native American’s growing dependence on alcohol, Tufts’ narrative gives us a close account of the status of drinking alcohol during the 18^th century. Moreover, his use of alcohol as a tool indicates that for a conman, everything is a potential resource for furthering criminal intents.

            Besides stealing for basic physical need, Tufts harbors another motive for theft, which he subtlety mentions in passing: “[…] we devoured as much of the honey as we could well gorge down, sweeter on account of the stealth” (153). The honey, superfluous as it is, represents for Tufts something of an addiction—he steals merely for the daring adrenaline of getting away with something illicit. For Tufts, while he does rob others in order to survive, the primary motive is love of the game; he steals because everything is sweeter if taken without much labor. In fact, Tufts strongly expresses disdain at physical toil, much as Burroughs was fain to become a common laborer. Thus, Tufts’ crimes become an outright profession. Instead of stealing occasionally, Tufts even creates chains of accomplices and stows away tools for enacting his crimes at a later date: “A number of the articles […] I confided to the keeping of confidential friends, of whom I had now a connected string, reaching from Newyork [sic], to the District of Maine; and from thence through Vermont to Canada line” (196). His forethought and planning in this manner illustrates that for him, stealing has become something more than a side interest—as a conman his entire life is now consumed with carrying out successful thefts. As such, Tufts creates an intricate chain of associates and tools, just like any successful business professional would do.

            Of course, there is so much to talk about with Tufts. I just want to raise one question, though I know that there is no readily available answer to it: Who is to blame for Tufts’ crimes? Obviously, Tufts is himself complicit, but what about the people who let themselves be deceived? Who are his other accomplices he mentions? Do they have a role in Tufts’ culpability? Can we blame any of the American leaders for allowing their country to create a character like Tufts? In a criminal narrative, blame becomes difficult to assign—especially when the criminal is the “hero” of his own story. Perhaps we are partially to blame as well; we allow Tufts to occupy the role of hero in our imaginations and many times (at least in my case) fall victim to believing his assertions and applauding his ingenuity. 

Weekly Journal Entry: 10/5/09

So much to talk about…

            This week’s reading is fast-paced, exciting, and yet, for one whose knowledge of American history is deplorably lacking, informative. I’ll start with Johnson because I feel as if a foundation in early American history will help frame how we read and understand Tufts. Even though I am sad to admit this, I never realized that the French Revolution occurred so soon after the American Revolution. Of course, I have heard of both, but these events were always isolated from each other; I learned about the American Revolution in high school and the French Revolution in a cursory, bullet-point world history class my freshman year of college. My point is that Johnson is great about highlighting the connections between events, events that to an unobservant eye previously appeared unrelated or at least only tenuously associated. Thus, when we talk about Tufts tomorrow, we will have to consider not just the American Revolution, but the French one as well. To broaden the scope even more, I wonder: Do we get the sense that events like the French Revolution, the Whiskey Rebellion, the battles with Native Americans, or even the debates about the Constitution ever affect Tufts? Of course, chronologically, some of these occurrences have not yet appeared in Tufts’ timeline in his tale, yet one has to wonder if political or ideological discourse adopted during these dramatic events of American history ever enter into Tufts’ story. For example, when describing his escape from a man named Peter Folsom and others who wish him harm, Tufts employs military language with gusto: “[…] my confederates issuing forth, the rencountre (a hostile meeting between two foes) became general, and was continued with undaunted heroism on both sides” (26). This type of language—or as Bakhtin would term it, a military form of heteroglossia—resonates with the many struggles that the new American nation experienced. Of course, there are many other things I want to get to in Johnson, but I think for now I’ll just note that Tufts is part of the greater debates occurring in Washington D.C. between the Federalists under Hamilton and the Democratic-Republicans led by Jefferson. For example, Tufts publishes his narrative in 1807, the year in which Jefferson’s Embargo Act fails miserably, especially in the Northeast, i.e. Tufts’ territory. Thus, even after many years between his deeds and his narration of the past, Tufts’ project of relating the truth (which to him is highly relative) is somewhat hindered by the current political and economic situations of America under a Democratic-Republican president. Further, Tufts returns from his stay with the Abenakis Native Americans in 1775; he has been almost isolated from current political news. When he returns, the war is beginning. His separation and subsequent reentrance into American events must have affected him on some level.

            However, from Tufts we receive little commentary on American news and more on his personal adventures. Yet, even these individual exploits are at times tantalizingly left bare of any reflection or contrition. We see that while Tufts is continually apologizing for his verbose descriptions, he nevertheless leaves many things out—unlike Burroughs, Tufts is not nearly as prone to philosophical reflections or self-analytic ruminations. He claims that his various adventures are so numerous and tedious that “a mere catalogue […] must swell a volume” (34). Yet, we certainly do not get a “mere catalogue,” but some brief but undeniably proud descriptions of several humorous incidents. In fact, Tufts is downright funny. For example, in a light, amusing tone, he describes a scene where he convinces his friend Smith that he is some type of wizard, and consequently steals Smith’s clothes and abandons him. The reader forgets that Tufts is a criminal, to us he seems like a lovable and mischievous Vice character onstage. 

            Roughly eighty years after Tufts published his narrative, people were still reading and still admiring Tufts exploits. In Harper’s New Monthly Magazine 76 (1888), Thomas Wentworth Higginson wrote an article about Tufts’ narrative. Higginson begins his essay, titled “A New England Vagabond,” by noting, “There may usually be found in the best regulated minds some concealed liking for a vagabond, the relic of days when we thought it would be a very pleasant thing to run away with the circus or to sleep under a hay-stack” (605). Certainly, Tufts’ exploits seem like a circus with amazing acts of disappearance, a thirty-dollar picture device, and his acrobatic ability to always land in the arms of a woman. In this sense, Tufts revels in the atmosphere of the carnival, and his love for trickery and licentious behavior seem to indicate that he is indeed a grotesque character.

            Even in this first third of Tufts’ narrative, we see that he embodies many different characters. Like Burroughs, Tufts is a clever actor, and he constructs various identities for the people he interacts with and for his readers. Without a doubt, Tufts evades distinct classification—is he some type of Robin Hood-like figure, or is he merely in line with his “worthy predecessors, the knaves” (Preface iv)? It seems like Tufts is laughing at us. When he is “falsely” accused of stealing oxen, Tufts puts an admonishment to the accuser in the mouth of a gentleman: “To be careful in future how he brought an accusation against any person till well assured of his identity” (63). Because we cannot be sure of Tufts’ identity any more than the poor man who is missing his oxen can, the narrator orders us to withhold any accusation. Yet, if we can never be sure who Tufts is, then we can never charge him with any crime. We cannot even accuse him of misrepresenting his past, for truth and identity are subjective for Tufts. In this way, Tufts plays another joke, this time on us; we too are victims of his relish for jest.

             

Weekly Journal Entry: 9/28/09

            Even though I am only 22 years old, I find the new advances in electronic communication overwhelming. I lack the ability to rapidly adjust to different technologies and this has inhibited my communication with others. For example, one day my younger brother wanted me to send him an image from my phone to his email. Of course, I lacked the technical expertise to perform this task. When I told my brother that I simply could not figure out how to send the picture, he rolled his eyes and said, “Even an 8-year-old could send a picture to someone’s email.” This single instance typifies the dizzying advances of electronic communication, which is overshadowing print culture. One arena of print culture that has already acutely experienced society’s preference for electronic information is journalism. Many newspapers are losing their subscribers. News can now be accessed online or via television channels focused entirely on delivering the latest political or international scandals. It seems as if the modern day Burroughs would have to be more wary of an incriminating blog post than he would of Mr. Woolworth’s “libelous publication” (312).

            One thing that struck me from Sven Birkerts’ The Gutenberg Elegies is the idea that our own ideologies are forcing print culture to fade away: “The printed word is part of a vestigial order that we are moving away from—by choice and by societal compulsion.” By choice we move away from the printed to the electronic. In short, if books lose currency, it is our fault; we are complicit in allowing printed works to become an old fad. Thus, as future teachers or advocators of works written we have to recognize that we will have to alter our presentation of these works in order to reach future generations. We cannot simply frown at new electronic communication—we too have aided in its advancement. Our shared culpability means that to teach others we need to recognize that we have had a part in shaping technologic ideologies; we have to adapt or we risk losing our students/hearers in a sea of archaic information that fails to reach the ears of those who are more inclined to read something online than visit a library in order to check out a book. This is not to say that I want print culture to fade away: by no means do I look at these changing forms of communication and information with welcoming acceptance. However, because I too at times choose to get my news online, watch TV instead of reading, play video games instead of going outside, and post on facebook instead of writing a letter, this means that I have to recognize the collective aspect of the growing electronic phenomenon.

            Another claim from Birkerts that I found interesting is the idea that “spin doctors and media consultants are our new shamans.” This is certainly the case—think of how much Obama’s campaign relied on electronic communication. Every politician in the United States seems to have a myspace or facebook page. Political discourse, like our other types of speech, is becoming absorbed into the growing influence of technological rhetoric. Computer degrees are gaining more popularity, and the “tech people” at a company are typically one of the higher paid groups of employees. This growing popularity and reliance of technologically adept experts raises some questions. How does this fare for future teachers of literature? Are we going to have to rely more and more on these experts in order to reach our students? Will the growth of online classes and even entire colleges make our jobs more obsolete?

            Even in Burroughs’ narrative we find a community frightened by the availability of information, though this time in the form of a library. In Bridghampton the citizens both desire and fear having access to a wide range of information. Today, our students have even more knowledge available to them, and in a quicker, condensed format. In this case, perhaps we need to act like Burroughs and help our students access this information beneficially and learn to interpret that same knowledge. Just as Burroughs hoped for a library in order that the people could expand upon what he had already taught them, we too need to provide our students with a way of continuing their education through this new form of electronic communication. Perhaps if we recognize the influence of electronic media, but retain our love for books and language, we can positively affect others to share our love for printed culture and retain the value of books as an important aspect of our social ideologies. 

Weekly Journal Entry: 9/21/09

            While we learn much more about Stephen Burroughs’s criminal activities in this second part of the narrative, nevertheless I feel as if I still do not know who Burroughs really is—criminal, victim, liar, actor, or genuine American idealist. All of these separate identities swirl around Burroughs, making it difficult to pin down how I as a reader think of him. One thing that I noticed this week was the frequent, yet subtle, humor present in the story. Burroughs describes his adventures with pathos and religious overtones, but there are still moments when the humor shines through. For example, when describing the horrible treatment he receives from the sheriff, Burroughs notes, “The sheriff then came to take his farewell, and parted with some hearty curses for my incorrigible conduct. The curses he received back again with interest” (112). At this point, the humor interacts with the other gruesome parts of the tale. In an odd way, this joke in the middle of the narrative alleviates the discomfort that the reader feels concerning Burroughs’s bodily conditions as a prisoner. It also heightens the ambiguity of Burroughs’s identity. If he can truly add jests into his narrative at this apparently painful recollection, then was his treatment as barbaric as he describes? The editor seems to believe so: “Notwithstanding his aggravated crimes, and irritating conduct, there is no question but Burroughs received punishment far exceeding his deserts” (115). Yet, because Burroughs is so deceptive, I find it hard to trust his descriptions. If Burroughs can wittingly recall some of his lowest moments, perhaps the entire imprisonment narrative is highly stylized and exaggerated.

            Along with Burroughs’s funny streak, he also has a penchant for ruling. His language, especially when he is at Castle Island, is impetuous and almost regal. He claims that “I had gained such an ascendancy over the prisoners, that they implicitly gave up to my opinion in all our little matters […]” (139). Soon after, he “orders” a fellow prisoner to make an iron crow. When they escape, another escapee challenges his throne of power, and this potential Wat Tyler scathingly remarks, “Well, Captain Burroughs, as you have had the command until you do not know what to do, it is best for some other person to take, who does know what to do” (144). Yet, this usurper is soon dealt with, and Burroughs continues to steer towards land and display his ability to quell any rebellion within his realm of power. Later, his grandiose plan to seize control of the island exhibits idealism and a false sense of security, which rash leaders sometimes possess. Burroughs’s enjoyment of ruling raises some questions: Does a counterfeiter naturally have tendencies to lead, to take charge, or to manipulate people for personal gain? Why do men like Burroughs, Syllavan, or even Rosencrantz become the apparent head honchos of their respective criminal operations? If we see many similarities between Benjamin Franklin and Stephen Burroughs, what qualities make one a leader in American politics and the other a leader of criminal rogues? The lines between Franklin and Burroughs appear to become increasingly indistinct. Interestingly, while Burroughs claims that his position as a leader was ostensibly thrust upon him, in a later reflection on the prisoners at Castle Island Burroughs notes “that person who could relate the most desperate and daring transgression of the laws of national justice, was considered the most honorable character among the prisoners” (177). Again, Burroughs’s narrative contradicts his earlier claims of innocence. If he is the leader of the prisoners, and yet the leader would necessarily, according to Burroughs, be the most villainous of the group, it seems as if Burroughs wishes to fulfill two roles at once—both saint and sinner. Just as the use of humor creates disparate images of the same man, Burroughs’s conduct and his subsequent philosophic or political ruminations seem to generate a character that escapes definition or understanding. Yet, is this not what a counterfeiter does? 

Weekly Journal Entry: 9/14/09

            Stephen Burroughs reminds me of Prince Hal from Shakespeare’s Henry IV, Part I. Burroughs revels in his ability to play the trickster, but he recognizes the foolishness of his youth and, at least in the first third of the narrative, seems to intimate a desire to shine once he is done walking through the muck of adolescent frivolity. However, unlike Prince Hal, Burroughs is not able to undergo a transformation. Instead, he merely retains his ability to play a role; indeed, his language is highly theatrical all throughout his story and he frequently regards his adventures as dramas to be exhibited to the public. For example, when he goes to Dartmouth, he notes that the new atmosphere calls for “another part to act” (23). Soon after, Burroughs makes his way to the coast in order to obtain employment at sea. He reflects on how his father “let me loose upon the broad theater of the world, to act my part according to my abilities” (30). Fortunately for Burroughs, his abilities at acting are adaptive and convincing. When he becomes a preacher at Pelham, Burroughs boasts that he was able to “adapt my conduct to their genius as far as I was capable” (53). Within a few days, Burroughs recognizes the character of the community and adopts a complimentary persona in order to achieve his desires through the mechanism of spectacle.

            The talent for performance is requisite for any con man, but Burroughs is unique in that he has the capability to both act and subsequently ruminate on his choices in a philosophic and moralistic manner. True, his ethics are entirely defunct, but to follow his reasoning and learn of his justifications presents the reader with the impression that Burroughs was a contradictory man—fully aware of the consequences, but attempting to use his intellect in order to vindicate his crimes. After deciding to retrieve supplies for counterfeiting in Springfield, Burroughs claims, “my motive for this undertaking is founded on the principles of uprightness. I think the sentiment of friendship is the uppermost object in this undertaking” (87). Of course, only a few pages before Burroughs describes with poignancy the acute disappointment he felt in being duped by Phillips. Burroughs continually undermines his declarations of altruism by including in his narrative intricate contemplations of his desire for wealth and a life of ease.

            In order to obtain this desired affluence, the counterfeiter must be prepared to maintain a life of contradictory words and actions. However, early in his “letter,” Burroughs exhorts his addressee to be wary of a child’s gaze, for a child can quickly learn of its parents “whether our words and our actions speak the same language” (6). As a counterfeiter, Burroughs can never achieve this harmony of speech and deed. Instead, language is a tool for Burroughs—his words cannot adequately express who he is or what he really does. In light of this contradiction, Burroughs chooses acts of deception involving oration; his stint as a preacher exemplifies his aptitude for supplementing appearances with eloquent rhetoric. When he first arrives in the small community of Ludlow, Burroughs is wearing clothes that do not look like a clergyman’s garb. Though he is not successful with the people of Ludlow, when he arrives in Pelham he soon is able to surmount this difficulty by using language as a means for obtaining the Pelhamites’ trust. Just as Dr. Hamilton used scientific language to fool people into believing that he was a true doctor, Burroughs employs words, both to the people of Pelham and in his narrative as a whole, to veil his actual criminal mindset.

            Armed with more understanding of heteroglossia, I found that I could actually somewhat grasp Bakhtin’s concept of dialogism. In criminal narratives, dialogism is bound to appear in almost every utterance. If words and actions never speak the same language, then dialogism accentuates this tension between the two. Burroughs continually speaks with “double-voicedness,” especially when he begins to describe his first arrest for counterfeiting. He recalls that “a part of the beforementioned clerks came into the office, hauling after them a man like the Trojans, when they had found the Greek Sinon vociferating, ‘Here is a man who knows him! Here is a man who knows him!’” (88-89). This phrase contains many associations with past utterances and literary forms—poetry, historical accounts, later dramatic reproductions, considerations of the Trojan war in philosophic and religious works, and even the young American republic itself. As Bakhtin himself says in Discourse in the Novel, “The word, directed toward its object, enters a dialogically agitated and tension-filled environment of alien words, value judgments and accents, weaves in and out of complex interrelationships […] and all this may crucially shape discourse” (276). In Burroughs’s phrase, the dialogical words and expressions serve several purposes at once; they connect Burroughs’s sense of injustice with past traitors like Sinon, they exemplify Burroughs’s supposed knowledge of ancient literature (and thus intimate that he is too civilized and intellectual to deserve mistreatment), and they remind the reader that problems of justice go back thousands of years.

            I look forward to further discussing dialogism in class because I think that solidifying my understanding of this concept will aid my comprehension of how texts, phrases, and individual words interact to create layers of meaning. I am also interested in discovering how everyone else interprets Burroughs; so far, to me, he appears complex and almost mysterious. Of course, how much of this narrative is actually Burroughs himself is up for questioning. Another question I would like to raise, connected with this idea, is: Given the nature of dialogism and the problem of authorship and veracity, can we ever read a narrative that allows words and actions to speak the same language? 

Weekly Journal Entry: 8/31/09

            This week’s reading primarily made me question whether there is some type of commonality among the various counterfeiters: Were these men all victims/participants in some sort of circumstance that led to a path of deceit? Yet, upon examination I discovered that all of the narratives evince variations on economic status, personal grievances, and location. Thus, while there are points of similarity, the differences strike me as even more significant. These disparities indicate that even though every counterfeiter wanted to obtain a better life, they were also individually presented with a unique opportunity to transgress early American laws. Particularly, their assignations of blame upon different sources interested me because not a single so-called “author” of the scaffold confessions admitted directly to his own culpability. Whether it is a personal demon, Satan himself, accomplices, or abounding sorrow, all of these counterfeiters are reluctant to acknowledge their own roles in bringing about their punishment. For example, though Isaac Frasier’s narrative speaks in sermon-like language and frequently exhorts the reader to avoid Frasier’s “heinous” example, he nevertheless also points to the evil influence of both Satan and a mistress: “My mistress, whose duty is was to have set me a good example, was in some measure the means of eradicating from my mind, the few principles of honesty which had been implanted by my mother’s wholesome instruction.” In a different vein, John Jubeart blames the death of his wife for being the primary cause to his self-imposed nomadic lifestyle. The others have equally distinctive reasons for committing crimes, even if the desired result is the same; all of these men wanted to live in ease, free from having to toil on farm land or fight in the army. Perhaps this is why Frasier often steals clothing—he believes that the outward appearance of wealth will momentarily “satisfy a thirst like mine [Frasier’s].”

            While all the counterfeiters in this week’s reading try to satisfy their “thirst” for riches, they also believe that they may obtain a pardon for their crimes. Thus, rarely do they relish in their recollections of executing frauds and escapes. Instead, a penitent tone overlaid with a sense of heroic sacrifice comes through. All of these men attempt to exonerate their victims, their families, or their accomplices. Thus, Joseph-Bill Packer refuses to force needy families to pay him, and Owen Syllavan urges a guilty woman to claim that she received the fake money from him so that she might avoid punishment. This begs the question:  Are these men truly the lovable bandits that they claim to be? Alternatively, what I suspect is that either the counterfeiters or the printers recognized that Americans would admire characters who broke rules but avoided harming those close to them. Obviously, this attempted heroism is not always achieved; Frasier’s treatment of Widow Grant indicates that Frasier cannot completely disregard the ruthless criminality of his past. However, for the most part, the counterfeiters attempt to assuage their blame through emphasizing the kind or sacrificial services they rendered to others.  

            In regards to this week’s reading of Bakhtin, I believe that the concept of heteroglossia can be illuminating in reading these scaffold confessions. For example, looking specifically at Herman Rosencrantz’s narrative, we see a blend of implied languages. Rosencrantz uses standard English to describe his various exploits, but he also includes Biblical verses, which have the power of recalling Hebrew, Greek, or Latin. The speaker puts this “differentiated speech” into his story in order to intimate a sense of piety and knowledge. However, these reminders of ancient languages contrast with Rosencrantz’s actual deeds. He uses Biblical verses to protest his innocence in certain areas: “The command in my heart was, THOU SHALT NOT STEAL; which I always kept.” Yet, this is a highly ironic statement, given the fact that counterfeiting is certainly a form of stealing. This tension between the narrative and the implied language creates an interaction filled with paradoxical discrepancies. As Susan Vice puts it, “Heteroglot difference can produce a variety of effects, related to time (the past), space (geography, nationality), class, and so on […]” (Vice 21). In Rosencrantz’s case, whether willingly or not, he has furnished the reader with a way to observe these differences, and perhaps this works contrary to what he wishes to impart, namely, that he is a good, Christian man who has merely lost control of his sense of ethics. Unfortunately for Rosencrantz, if we examine the implications of heteroglossia interactions within the text, an altogether different result arises. For all of the counterfeiters and thieves, their purported confessions suggest that they are depicting themselves as distinct criminals of a certain class; they are not murders or slanderers, they simply needed something and took it. However, their attempt to lessen the nature of their crimes actually heightens the sense of personal responsibility that they must ultimately pay for by hanging. In sum, I believe that these texts show us how, even right before death, these counterfeiters were true con men—able to lie, exaggerate, and most importantly, manipulate their tales to fit what they knew Americans would want to hear.