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.