I think I could spend countless hours combing through the American Periodical Series. The resources we have at our fingertips is truly amazing.
I'm going to make this last blog short and sweet because the end-of-semester work is quickly piling up.
To me, the prostitution cases were the most interesting because this is such a social issue. Before I came to the National Police Gazette, in a women's journal I found an article relating the story of one most unfortunate girl who had been forced into prostitution by her mother. In another article from the police reports, I found two little pieces on young girls, "rescued from infamy." One, "a sweet young girl, of French descent" and "another" were taken from separate brothels and returned to their mothers. The report ends with a warning: "Girls do you realize that the average of a life of prostitution is five short years!" It seems to me two things are happening here. One--Mothers are forcing their daughters into prostitution, then feigning relief at their recovery. Two--daughters are running away to lives of prostitution to escape their mothers, or abusive families. Of course, there are alterior reasons for prostitution: money, independence, power, entertainment, etc.
I was surprised to find quite a few other pieces about prostitution, outside of the police reports. In one article from the Philadelphia Minerva (1796), a prostitute confronts one of her customers, saying "Can you reasonably imagine that I covet your false smiles, and empty applause? No, Sir, be assured that I hate you, and all your sex, for the sake of him who first deceived and ruined me." This seemed to be another resonant theme: Girls who are once seduced are forever fallen.
Another article also speaks out for prostitutes: "There are those who maintain, that female prostitutes are necessary to good order, and they argue from the necessity, that a few should be sacrificed for the good of the community at large...Prostitutes have been styled women of pleasure; they are women of pain, of sorrow, of grief, of bitter and continual repentence, without hope of obtaining pardon" (from Weekly Visitor, or Ladies' Miscellany, 1804). To me, this is interesting proof of the ongoing social dialogue concerning prostitution that is not so clear from reading fictional texts, or even the non-fictional (at least, in part) accounts we have read for this class.
Monday, November 23, 2009
Monday, November 16, 2009
"My firm impression of Mrs. Carson's natural character was, that she would have been a virtuous, good, tame, gentle, affectionate domestic woman, (consequently not a heroine) had she been permitted to choose a husband for herself" (144). (I love this passage, but because I have already discussed women's roles and rights in other blogs, I will move on. I just wanted to share!)
After reading the portion of text written by Mary Clarke, I am perhaps more convinced of my conception of the character Ann Carson formed in my mind by reading her narrative. I am quite aware of Carson's self-fashioning methods and how her ultimate manifestation of her creation occurs in the text. However, I expected the voice of Mary Clarke and Ann Carson to be much more similar or sympathizing. Also surprising, Clarke contradicts herself several times in her portion of the narrative. She first agrees to write the book for Carson only if her authorship is kept a secret. On page 148, Clarke says "one of my stipulations with Mrs. Carson was, that I should not be known in the business--naturally expecting to receive my money for the writing, and that the business would terminate there" (148). Yet several pages later (p. 160), Clarke claims "I wrote the work and am not ashamed of the matter." I speculate several factors contributed to this change of heart. First, Carson first tries to get the book published by Mr. D with the understanding the book would eventually be published with Carson as the assumed author, as Clarke "did not wish to be known in it" (150). Furthermore, several members of the banditti attempt to pay off Carson with quite a sum of money and a offer of relocation to "either New York, Boston, Baltimore or any of the other southern cities, and establish us in a genteel boarding house" (152). Not until this scene does Clarke truly assert her involvement with "the book." She tells the rogues to lay off: "Not quite so fast...I am now her partner in the work, and it shall not be suppressed" (153). Clarke begins to realize the publication of Carson's narrative could make her famous. Famous and Rich. At least, that's what I'm reading here. And I think that is why she puts up with so much of Carson's deviant behavior. Clarke herself is not a rebel, but she is a writer and knows that in Ann Carson she has some really good material.
Clarke's narrative gives a great deal of insight on the ins and outs of 19th century publication. In this case, the publication woes can explain away many of the inconsistent or just plain wacky use of literary devices. For example, Clarke sometimes provides introduction to passages (200) in which she directly addresses the reader. Also, (and of course, now I can't find a page number) after Clarke spends a significant portion of the text describing one event, she will return to "where we left Ann" alone and despairing in some cell or at the brink of doom in some other scrape. But these elements of Clarke's style are not really consistent. So, this reminds me that spelling, grammar, and a great number of other conventions were not yet set in stone in the early 19th century. Also, we did not have graduates of Ivy League English departments running the publishing companies. Rather, these people somehow just fell into the profession, one way or another. Still, none of these considerations can quite explain the wackiness occuring on page 204 and continuing until for several pages. Okay, I get most of the Shakespeare, cliches, characters and the general idea of most of the references, but Why, Clarke, Why? This passage was so inexplicably annoying to me, I had to skip through most of it.
After reading the portion of text written by Mary Clarke, I am perhaps more convinced of my conception of the character Ann Carson formed in my mind by reading her narrative. I am quite aware of Carson's self-fashioning methods and how her ultimate manifestation of her creation occurs in the text. However, I expected the voice of Mary Clarke and Ann Carson to be much more similar or sympathizing. Also surprising, Clarke contradicts herself several times in her portion of the narrative. She first agrees to write the book for Carson only if her authorship is kept a secret. On page 148, Clarke says "one of my stipulations with Mrs. Carson was, that I should not be known in the business--naturally expecting to receive my money for the writing, and that the business would terminate there" (148). Yet several pages later (p. 160), Clarke claims "I wrote the work and am not ashamed of the matter." I speculate several factors contributed to this change of heart. First, Carson first tries to get the book published by Mr. D with the understanding the book would eventually be published with Carson as the assumed author, as Clarke "did not wish to be known in it" (150). Furthermore, several members of the banditti attempt to pay off Carson with quite a sum of money and a offer of relocation to "either New York, Boston, Baltimore or any of the other southern cities, and establish us in a genteel boarding house" (152). Not until this scene does Clarke truly assert her involvement with "the book." She tells the rogues to lay off: "Not quite so fast...I am now her partner in the work, and it shall not be suppressed" (153). Clarke begins to realize the publication of Carson's narrative could make her famous. Famous and Rich. At least, that's what I'm reading here. And I think that is why she puts up with so much of Carson's deviant behavior. Clarke herself is not a rebel, but she is a writer and knows that in Ann Carson she has some really good material.
Clarke's narrative gives a great deal of insight on the ins and outs of 19th century publication. In this case, the publication woes can explain away many of the inconsistent or just plain wacky use of literary devices. For example, Clarke sometimes provides introduction to passages (200) in which she directly addresses the reader. Also, (and of course, now I can't find a page number) after Clarke spends a significant portion of the text describing one event, she will return to "where we left Ann" alone and despairing in some cell or at the brink of doom in some other scrape. But these elements of Clarke's style are not really consistent. So, this reminds me that spelling, grammar, and a great number of other conventions were not yet set in stone in the early 19th century. Also, we did not have graduates of Ivy League English departments running the publishing companies. Rather, these people somehow just fell into the profession, one way or another. Still, none of these considerations can quite explain the wackiness occuring on page 204 and continuing until for several pages. Okay, I get most of the Shakespeare, cliches, characters and the general idea of most of the references, but Why, Clarke, Why? This passage was so inexplicably annoying to me, I had to skip through most of it.
Monday, November 9, 2009
What then had I to fear?
In the second third of the Carson reading, I perceived a developing tension between Ann (or Ann's character) and her reading public. In the text, Carson develops a rather misanthropic approach when describing people, places, ideas and other characters, yet she perseveres in her womanist approach. I picked this up from the Davidson handout: "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." Sure sure. However, as the Carson text proves, what sentimental fiction really conveys is that women should take control of their lives as far as this control pleases men and greater society. Although Carson asserts her womanhood from the beginning of the text, she truly begins to develop a tone of resentment to any threat to this autonomy following her incarceration and that of Richard. When John Hart first arrives to tell Ann of her removal to prison, "he weakly replied to her animadversions on his conduct in the accusation, that it was the best thing I could encounter, as it would ultimately justify me to the world, and clear me from suspicion. Here was sophistry as shallow of the mind that conceived it; a charge of murder brought to clear me of suspicion" (v. 1 p. 290). The following passages are pivotal in the narrative for several reasons: This passage marks the beginnings of Carson's life in and out of prisons and court rooms. Also, the narrator refers to "Ann" in the third person. My first thought while reading was that we were about to have a sudden change in narrator, but the first person voice immediately picked up again. Furthermore, this passage marks a psychological death for Carson. She fully realizes the implications of her imprisonment: "All sensation forsook me--my heart ceased to beat, and I literally endured the pangs of death" (v.1 p.292). These elements contribute to my thoughts that the Ann Carson we have thus known is no more. From what I remember, Williams said that the second volume was written/fictionalized by Mary Clarke alone, so this makes sense. To contribute to this new self, Carson begins to more blatantly vilify those opposed to her. I wanted to say she vilified men, especially in the character of Simon Snyder, but she also portrays women rather negatively, especially Richard's cousin Mrs. Campbell.
Something else I've noticed throughout this text: Carson has a rather odd relationship with her mother. In our first reading, I thought it was very interesting when Carson's mother left her when she was ill in order to attend to her father. Also, her mother seems to unexpectedly switch sides when Captain Carson came back, and seems to be quite responsible for the way in which Ann and Richard were dealt with by the law. She is also always pushing Carson to marry this man or that. The first scene in which her mother joins in her in the prison cell is especially eerie.
And so to ammend a previous thought, I would say in sentimental fiction women are encouraged to take control of their lives, as long as it suits their mothers and fathers. Additionally, I am appreciative that Clarke chose to present the life of Carson in narrative form. She could have penned it in the style of sentimental or sensational fiction, and perhaps have been more famous or wealthy. Although this text seems influenced by both, the narrative seems more subversive and better champions real womens' rights, or at least the absurdity of the lack of them.
Something else I've noticed throughout this text: Carson has a rather odd relationship with her mother. In our first reading, I thought it was very interesting when Carson's mother left her when she was ill in order to attend to her father. Also, her mother seems to unexpectedly switch sides when Captain Carson came back, and seems to be quite responsible for the way in which Ann and Richard were dealt with by the law. She is also always pushing Carson to marry this man or that. The first scene in which her mother joins in her in the prison cell is especially eerie.
And so to ammend a previous thought, I would say in sentimental fiction women are encouraged to take control of their lives, as long as it suits their mothers and fathers. Additionally, I am appreciative that Clarke chose to present the life of Carson in narrative form. She could have penned it in the style of sentimental or sensational fiction, and perhaps have been more famous or wealthy. Although this text seems influenced by both, the narrative seems more subversive and better champions real womens' rights, or at least the absurdity of the lack of them.
Monday, November 2, 2009
American Woman, American Girl
Where to begin?!
Is Ann Carson the woman in The Guess Who song or the girl in Tom Petty's?
Of course, I love this narrative because we now have a female perspective to include in our semester-long dialogue concerning counterfeiters in early America, and I happen to be female.
Ann Carson, or her ghostwriter, is "well read." In her early years, Ann spends much of her time with Nathaniel Hutton who "became the director of my studies, which were the most improper a girl my age could pursue, being chiefly confined to novels, plays, and poetry, all calculated to inflame the imagination, counteract the operations of reason, and fill the mind with ideas too refined and fastidious for real life. Heroes floated before my mind's eye, dressed in all the glowing colours the poet's fancy could portray; and love seemed the only deity worthy a place in my heart" (49). Oh, Ann. This relationship seems to be Ann's first in which she must "sell" validation. I mean that Ann knows her "friendship" with Hutton is not clearly legitimate to her society. Following this relationship, Ann becomes more practiced, or simply more calloused, in blurring the lines of social convention. Interestingly, she seeks the knowledge that Hutton brings to her through literature, and not his "lovemaking." Later, when the reader is introduced to the many other gentleman with whom Ann interacts, they are judged based on the value of their "conversation." Although Ann attributes her many intrigues to the failings of love and satisfaction in marriage, one might argue that much of her intrigue stems from her desire and need for intellectual stimulation. Enter stage right: The impact of early American print culture on the American Woman. As a student of literature, I am, of course, opposed to the notion that reading can pollute the mind. However, Ann's aforementioned statement does hold some truth. Literacy rates are increasing. People can more easily access books and other print media. Women's roles are changing. Furthermore, Ann has a keen sense of what, to her, is "American." She tries to explain her rebellion against Captain Carson: "To this kind of conduct, I never could or would, bend. 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). Considering all of this information, how could Ann, in good conscience continue to live in suppressed silence? How could Ann accept her "fortune" and still be a good "American"? Ann's nationalistic sensibilities are not limited to her romantic escapades. Ann makes several remarks concerning the "law." Clearly, Ann understands the difference between "law" and "justice." Both Tufts and Burroughs make these distinctions also.
An amusing contrast: Much like Tufts and Burroughs, Ann has multiple unconventional affairs. Tufts often expresses his appreciation for women in terms of form, or body. Burroughs, in his own subverted way, does this also. Ann is not guiltless in this (remember Major Dunn from page 153, the man with brawn and no brain), but she clearly demonstrates her valuation of other characteristics in man: courage, bravery, honesty, pride and honor, qualities related to her opinion of a good American. However, none of her men quite emulate all, or even more than a few, of these qualities (Daddy issues anyone?).
Anyway, the next couple of weeks should be fun.
Is Ann Carson the woman in The Guess Who song or the girl in Tom Petty's?
Of course, I love this narrative because we now have a female perspective to include in our semester-long dialogue concerning counterfeiters in early America, and I happen to be female.
Ann Carson, or her ghostwriter, is "well read." In her early years, Ann spends much of her time with Nathaniel Hutton who "became the director of my studies, which were the most improper a girl my age could pursue, being chiefly confined to novels, plays, and poetry, all calculated to inflame the imagination, counteract the operations of reason, and fill the mind with ideas too refined and fastidious for real life. Heroes floated before my mind's eye, dressed in all the glowing colours the poet's fancy could portray; and love seemed the only deity worthy a place in my heart" (49). Oh, Ann. This relationship seems to be Ann's first in which she must "sell" validation. I mean that Ann knows her "friendship" with Hutton is not clearly legitimate to her society. Following this relationship, Ann becomes more practiced, or simply more calloused, in blurring the lines of social convention. Interestingly, she seeks the knowledge that Hutton brings to her through literature, and not his "lovemaking." Later, when the reader is introduced to the many other gentleman with whom Ann interacts, they are judged based on the value of their "conversation." Although Ann attributes her many intrigues to the failings of love and satisfaction in marriage, one might argue that much of her intrigue stems from her desire and need for intellectual stimulation. Enter stage right: The impact of early American print culture on the American Woman. As a student of literature, I am, of course, opposed to the notion that reading can pollute the mind. However, Ann's aforementioned statement does hold some truth. Literacy rates are increasing. People can more easily access books and other print media. Women's roles are changing. Furthermore, Ann has a keen sense of what, to her, is "American." She tries to explain her rebellion against Captain Carson: "To this kind of conduct, I never could or would, bend. 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). Considering all of this information, how could Ann, in good conscience continue to live in suppressed silence? How could Ann accept her "fortune" and still be a good "American"? Ann's nationalistic sensibilities are not limited to her romantic escapades. Ann makes several remarks concerning the "law." Clearly, Ann understands the difference between "law" and "justice." Both Tufts and Burroughs make these distinctions also.
An amusing contrast: Much like Tufts and Burroughs, Ann has multiple unconventional affairs. Tufts often expresses his appreciation for women in terms of form, or body. Burroughs, in his own subverted way, does this also. Ann is not guiltless in this (remember Major Dunn from page 153, the man with brawn and no brain), but she clearly demonstrates her valuation of other characteristics in man: courage, bravery, honesty, pride and honor, qualities related to her opinion of a good American. However, none of her men quite emulate all, or even more than a few, of these qualities (Daddy issues anyone?).
Anyway, the next couple of weeks should be fun.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Poets can be rogues, but rogues cannot be poets
After finishing the third and final book of Tufts in a semi-conscious state of mind, I was entirely disappointed. However, my personal let-down aside, I was struck mostly by the now clear distinct differences in the three books. My assessment of these divisions comes mostly from my experience as a reader. The first book I found to be dishonest and melodramatic. The second book, in my mind, is the "best." By this I mean several things: honest, candid, shameless, humorous, developed (compared to the random fire plotting of the first book and the droll repetition of the third), and most decidedly Rogue-ish. The second book is Tufts in his prime. By the time we reach the third book, Tufts' escapades begin to seem foolishly repetitive. Therefore, his character begins to lack the creativity and daring we appreciated in the first parts of the narrative. Furthermore, his association with Abigail conflicts with our first ideas of Tufts as womanizer and rogue because he actually appears to care for her (nicknames, residence and other domestic normalcies). The idea of the faithful concubine could soon be reconciled and adapted into his rogue character, except he ultimately forsakes her, which really is the betrayal of the self he has been hell-bent to preserve all along. So in truth, Tufts is no rogue. Not ultimately, anyway. After a 5-year stint on Castle Island, he is at the mercy of his two sons who have prospered in spite of his horrible parenting, or lack thereof. To top it all off, he absconds with some 18-year old who makes a fool out of him. He then returns to Lemington and his family, crawling like a dog. Additionally, the inclusion of Tufts' poetry and other quoted verse only contributes to his weakness, in my very strong opinion. He turns to higher thinking, art and God only in his despair, which is only the result of his inability to trade his bad situation for a good one, and not from repentance or moral awakening. And so when he says in the final paragraphs "sincerely, I pray, that the bitter misfortunes here recited, may be a caveat to others, and a mean of deterring them from such ...pursuits and diabolical devices, as reason and conscience do not approve" (363), this reader can in no way reason out an ounce of "sincerity." This is simply the run of the mill validation included by the author for purposes of publication. The sexual exploits and violence depicted can somehow be reasonably included if the Narrator is "sorry" at the end. I would have liked it better if Tufts had retained the brazen rudeness of the second book.
Other Random Thoughts:
Tufts subscribes to the middle-class conceptions of "providence" as mentioned in Johnson and discussed in last class. He often uses phrasing referring to God as providence, but his actions, and sentiments expressed in the third book, demonstrate a weakness. He never fully subscribes or overthrows. Upon more detailed examination, his distance from modern religious convention could be interpreted as deist.
Also, Tufts' narrative is a masculine revolt of New England patriarchy, mirroring or foreshadowing the changing society in the late 18th century, as also discussed in Johnson.
Other Random Thoughts:
Tufts subscribes to the middle-class conceptions of "providence" as mentioned in Johnson and discussed in last class. He often uses phrasing referring to God as providence, but his actions, and sentiments expressed in the third book, demonstrate a weakness. He never fully subscribes or overthrows. Upon more detailed examination, his distance from modern religious convention could be interpreted as deist.
Also, Tufts' narrative is a masculine revolt of New England patriarchy, mirroring or foreshadowing the changing society in the late 18th century, as also discussed in Johnson.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Magic Lobster Claws and a Greasy Re-birth
After making my way through the first two books of Tufts, I have begun to disregard my leaning towards any kind of "Republican" morality I was expecting to find in these narratives. In doing so, I have laughed out loud several times while reading this text. Because the plot moves so quickly, the string of events can be quite overwhelming. Here are the highlights for me:
I was rolling on the floor when I read the piece concerning the lobster claw. I am laughing still. Tufts says: "I had picked up, by chance, the small claw of a lobster, which I informed the people, as I passed along, was an enchanted horn; by virtue of which I could predict future events; but that, unfortunately, I had lost another horn, its counterpart, to which had been attached the rare property of enabling its possessor to foretel past events" (156-57). For me, the greatest impact of this text comes from the construction of language. The nonchalance which the author refers to events seems to perfectly characterize Tufts for what he is--a valiant thief and a cheat. Just think of it, really. Tufts, a handsome (he must be) young person, with probably some quite distinctive and archetypal feature (probably alarming eyes) waving a claw around in front of a bunch of 18th century country people. Or even more hilarious, imagine Tufts as a complete ragbag wielding a lobster claw. Now, imagine a man standing on the corner of an intersection (the one you pass everyday on your way home) waving this same lobster claw with a sign that says: "Magic Lobster Claw. Fortunes $10" Now imagine a line of people, "normal" people, standing in line waiting for their fortune.
Okay, sorry. Back to Academic Things.
The next scene I found equally intriguing occurs in Dover Jail, where Tufts is placed in custody for some theft of some cloth (211). For once, Tufts is experiencing some diffuculty in breaking out of jail. He tries three different times to squeeze through an opening he has made. Ricker, the slimmer of the two, fits through without hindrance. Tufts becomes so frustrated and desperate he uses some soap and "a piece of pork" "to lubricate the passage." Of course, he is completely naked and rather greasy when he arrives "feet foremost, into the street; receiving, in my decent to the ground, a most violent concussion, by a fall of twelve or more feet" (213). Talk about metaphor and imagery. Forgive me for this, but I could not help but think of the scene in Ace Ventura: Pet Detective when Jim Carrey forces his sweaty, naked body out of the faux rhino.
Okay, one more. Throughout the narrative, Tufts attempts to validate some of his thievery to necessity. However, sometimes Tufts simply shows a high taste for bawdy humor. Tufts temporarily sets up shop in Newmarket in the home of one Mr. Doe. While there, he sets out to retaliate against a doctor who has previously inflicted some "mischief" on Tufts. He convinces Doe that the doctor will shortly arrive to remedy Doe's head, which "is sometimes out of tune" (197). According to Tufts, "emasculation will be the only effectual remedy; he intends therefore, to come with suitable auxiliaries to perform on you that salutary operation" (197). When the doctor approaches, Doe beats the living day-lights out of him, even as he attempts to mount his horse.
To me, these most humorous events shed new light on the role of the "rouge narrative." Bad people can be funny. Considering the sexual exploits of Tufts are even more explicitly recounted in the second book, this narrative is sort of the Saturday Night Live (or some more applicable pop-culture humor of which I am not aware) of the 18th century. It's funny, bold and sometimes gross. It also tells us what not to do by doing it.
One more thing before I run out of time. Did anyone notice that everytime Tufts steals a horse, the reader knows about it. Most of the time, the horse is a mare. We also become aware of his female acquisitions of the human persuasion. Consider also, every time Tufts gets in a scrape, he simply whips out his pistols and threatens to blow so-and-so's brains out. Yet we never know whereby Tufts acquires the pistols.
Sigh. Boys...
I was rolling on the floor when I read the piece concerning the lobster claw. I am laughing still. Tufts says: "I had picked up, by chance, the small claw of a lobster, which I informed the people, as I passed along, was an enchanted horn; by virtue of which I could predict future events; but that, unfortunately, I had lost another horn, its counterpart, to which had been attached the rare property of enabling its possessor to foretel past events" (156-57). For me, the greatest impact of this text comes from the construction of language. The nonchalance which the author refers to events seems to perfectly characterize Tufts for what he is--a valiant thief and a cheat. Just think of it, really. Tufts, a handsome (he must be) young person, with probably some quite distinctive and archetypal feature (probably alarming eyes) waving a claw around in front of a bunch of 18th century country people. Or even more hilarious, imagine Tufts as a complete ragbag wielding a lobster claw. Now, imagine a man standing on the corner of an intersection (the one you pass everyday on your way home) waving this same lobster claw with a sign that says: "Magic Lobster Claw. Fortunes $10" Now imagine a line of people, "normal" people, standing in line waiting for their fortune.
Okay, sorry. Back to Academic Things.
The next scene I found equally intriguing occurs in Dover Jail, where Tufts is placed in custody for some theft of some cloth (211). For once, Tufts is experiencing some diffuculty in breaking out of jail. He tries three different times to squeeze through an opening he has made. Ricker, the slimmer of the two, fits through without hindrance. Tufts becomes so frustrated and desperate he uses some soap and "a piece of pork" "to lubricate the passage." Of course, he is completely naked and rather greasy when he arrives "feet foremost, into the street; receiving, in my decent to the ground, a most violent concussion, by a fall of twelve or more feet" (213). Talk about metaphor and imagery. Forgive me for this, but I could not help but think of the scene in Ace Ventura: Pet Detective when Jim Carrey forces his sweaty, naked body out of the faux rhino.
Okay, one more. Throughout the narrative, Tufts attempts to validate some of his thievery to necessity. However, sometimes Tufts simply shows a high taste for bawdy humor. Tufts temporarily sets up shop in Newmarket in the home of one Mr. Doe. While there, he sets out to retaliate against a doctor who has previously inflicted some "mischief" on Tufts. He convinces Doe that the doctor will shortly arrive to remedy Doe's head, which "is sometimes out of tune" (197). According to Tufts, "emasculation will be the only effectual remedy; he intends therefore, to come with suitable auxiliaries to perform on you that salutary operation" (197). When the doctor approaches, Doe beats the living day-lights out of him, even as he attempts to mount his horse.
To me, these most humorous events shed new light on the role of the "rouge narrative." Bad people can be funny. Considering the sexual exploits of Tufts are even more explicitly recounted in the second book, this narrative is sort of the Saturday Night Live (or some more applicable pop-culture humor of which I am not aware) of the 18th century. It's funny, bold and sometimes gross. It also tells us what not to do by doing it.
One more thing before I run out of time. Did anyone notice that everytime Tufts steals a horse, the reader knows about it. Most of the time, the horse is a mare. We also become aware of his female acquisitions of the human persuasion. Consider also, every time Tufts gets in a scrape, he simply whips out his pistols and threatens to blow so-and-so's brains out. Yet we never know whereby Tufts acquires the pistols.
Sigh. Boys...
Monday, October 5, 2009
Two-timing (or four?) Tufts
Although not so adept at prison break as our friend Burroughs, Tufts definitely has a way with women. By the end of book two, he has engaged himself in at least four relationships and has accrued three marriages. The only legitimate one is to his first wife, Lydia Bickford. Poor, unfortunate soul. For some reason, Tufts returns to her several times following his misadventures.
Like many of the other narratives we have read thus far, our main character, Tufts, makes claims that marriage suspends a natural inclination to licentious behavior--at least, temporarily. However,Tufts more willing to accede that his vices are only lying "dormant, as though they had lost primeval energy" (28), also acknowledging "the seeds of vice inherent in my constitution" (28. Of course, the reader can be assured that Tufts is no physician or authority on deviant behavior (not yet, at least), and so his Calvinistic concession to innate depravity seems strangely out of place. However, the acknowledgement of guilt could be viewed as just another rogue-ish trick to manipulate readers into belief that he has reformed or that society is inevitably divided--someone has to be the crook, so why shouldn't it be him?
Tufts mentions the newspaper reports concerning his crime and character. Considering that Burroughts also mentioned public opinion in his narrative, it would be interesting to spend more time reflecting on how newspaper articles contributed to the forming of the "rogue," and the celebrity figure. Tufts says "the more I endeavored to obviate the falsity of the allegation, the louder was the clamour to my prejudice" (30). How did society view the information in newspapers? As absolute truth? If so, how much did these accounts impact the way in which people, especially known criminals, were filtered through the legal systems.
Speaking of...Tufts spends 90 days at Exeter in the dungeon, BEFORE THE TRIAL. I don't think even Burroughs was subjected to such treatment without a conviction. However, the Tufts narrative begins before the Revolution is full underway. I wonder how much the new government affected systems of imprisonment? Also, I just learned that the idea that a person is "innocent until proven guilty" is not in the U.S. Constitution or any other document. The concept comes from English Common Law (according to Wikianswers) Not until an 1894 Supreme Court case was this idea adopted in any official context.
Tufts sojourn into Native American camps was one of the most interesting parts of the narrative, for me anyway. These people take him in, provide him food, shelter and rest. In return, he seduces one of their daughters, threatens one of their hunters with death, and leaves them in a general drunken stupor. Additionally, he provides a jaded, though probably moderate by 18th century standards, portrait of Native American life. To begin with, Tufts explicitly details Native Americans' weakness for liquor and the resulting "bacchanalian revels" (95). He spends nearly two pages describing them. His account of their religious beliefs and perceptions continues for one vague paragraph in which Native Americans are described as ambivalent at best. As for the marriage rites, Tufts relates what he perceives to be the most significant exchange: "It was customary for the bridegroom to throw a deer's leg into the bride's tent, after which she was wont to throw an ear of corn in his" (96).
The Johnson Text
Re-reading U.S. history as a first-year graduate student, compared to reading as a 17-year-old high school U.S. history student is remarkable. Oh, that's what the Whiskey Rebellion was all about. Oh, Hamilton. Well, he wasn't the most austere fellow, was he? And poor old John Adams. I did realize several things, the most important one being this--not so much has changed in the last two centuries. Those things which remain the same are also what decidedly make this country American. How much are we still " a nation of farmers who bought their goods from other countries, who lived their social and emotional lives within their own neighborhoods, and who--to confound those who wish to govern them--were self-conscious republicans who had won their independence through force of arms" (6). At least, if not literally, figuratively. Additionally, Washington presided over meetings in which the new version of the aristocracy dominated. "When Jefferson became secretary of state and attended official social functions, he often found himself the only democrat at the dinner table. Aristocratic sentiments prevailed, said Jefferson, 'unless there chanced to be some [democrat] from the legislative houses'" (8). Sound familiar?
Like many of the other narratives we have read thus far, our main character, Tufts, makes claims that marriage suspends a natural inclination to licentious behavior--at least, temporarily. However,Tufts more willing to accede that his vices are only lying "dormant, as though they had lost primeval energy" (28), also acknowledging "the seeds of vice inherent in my constitution" (28. Of course, the reader can be assured that Tufts is no physician or authority on deviant behavior (not yet, at least), and so his Calvinistic concession to innate depravity seems strangely out of place. However, the acknowledgement of guilt could be viewed as just another rogue-ish trick to manipulate readers into belief that he has reformed or that society is inevitably divided--someone has to be the crook, so why shouldn't it be him?
Tufts mentions the newspaper reports concerning his crime and character. Considering that Burroughts also mentioned public opinion in his narrative, it would be interesting to spend more time reflecting on how newspaper articles contributed to the forming of the "rogue," and the celebrity figure. Tufts says "the more I endeavored to obviate the falsity of the allegation, the louder was the clamour to my prejudice" (30). How did society view the information in newspapers? As absolute truth? If so, how much did these accounts impact the way in which people, especially known criminals, were filtered through the legal systems.
Speaking of...Tufts spends 90 days at Exeter in the dungeon, BEFORE THE TRIAL. I don't think even Burroughs was subjected to such treatment without a conviction. However, the Tufts narrative begins before the Revolution is full underway. I wonder how much the new government affected systems of imprisonment? Also, I just learned that the idea that a person is "innocent until proven guilty" is not in the U.S. Constitution or any other document. The concept comes from English Common Law (according to Wikianswers) Not until an 1894 Supreme Court case was this idea adopted in any official context.
Tufts sojourn into Native American camps was one of the most interesting parts of the narrative, for me anyway. These people take him in, provide him food, shelter and rest. In return, he seduces one of their daughters, threatens one of their hunters with death, and leaves them in a general drunken stupor. Additionally, he provides a jaded, though probably moderate by 18th century standards, portrait of Native American life. To begin with, Tufts explicitly details Native Americans' weakness for liquor and the resulting "bacchanalian revels" (95). He spends nearly two pages describing them. His account of their religious beliefs and perceptions continues for one vague paragraph in which Native Americans are described as ambivalent at best. As for the marriage rites, Tufts relates what he perceives to be the most significant exchange: "It was customary for the bridegroom to throw a deer's leg into the bride's tent, after which she was wont to throw an ear of corn in his" (96).
The Johnson Text
Re-reading U.S. history as a first-year graduate student, compared to reading as a 17-year-old high school U.S. history student is remarkable. Oh, that's what the Whiskey Rebellion was all about. Oh, Hamilton. Well, he wasn't the most austere fellow, was he? And poor old John Adams. I did realize several things, the most important one being this--not so much has changed in the last two centuries. Those things which remain the same are also what decidedly make this country American. How much are we still " a nation of farmers who bought their goods from other countries, who lived their social and emotional lives within their own neighborhoods, and who--to confound those who wish to govern them--were self-conscious republicans who had won their independence through force of arms" (6). At least, if not literally, figuratively. Additionally, Washington presided over meetings in which the new version of the aristocracy dominated. "When Jefferson became secretary of state and attended official social functions, he often found himself the only democrat at the dinner table. Aristocratic sentiments prevailed, said Jefferson, 'unless there chanced to be some [democrat] from the legislative houses'" (8). Sound familiar?
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