I just completed a trip to Massachusetts, including the city of Boston and the Greater Boston area.
While stuck in traffic several times (too many), both in Boston proper and on the surrounding highways, I started to muse, first, about why the traffic is so bad, and, secondly, about my old stomping grounds — namely, Massachusetts, where I grew up — vis-à-vis New York City.
My trip got me thinking about Boston and Greater Boston traffic. Believe it or not, it’s WORSE than New York City.
And, about the reasons this is so.
I think a major reason is that Boston is mostly a car city and the surrounding towns are totally based on automobile transportation. It’s a car culture; people don’t walk. Unlike New York City. But Boston has a good public transportation system, one might say. The T branches out to and reaches the exurbs. It’s well run and commodious.
True, it would seem, but the New York City public transit system handles much more people every day, a much larger segment of the population. A significant percentage of persons in the Tri State area (New York City, New Jersey, Connecticut) rely on public transportation instead of cars.
And, in Boston, one sees a lot less cabs and far fewer buses than in New York City.
Bottom line, public transportation is much less of a factor, plays an almost insignificant role, comparatively speaking, in the overall Boston and Greater Boston areas. New York lives, breathes, and dies by its public transit system. There is no alternative for many city dwellers.
Boston shuts down at the end of the business day. There is no one on the sidewalks at night, except for a few popular night spots, and hardly anyone after they close. New York never shuts down.
Boston proper and the surrounding towns have a lot less small stores. You will see a sub shop and perhaps one deli (except they don’t seem to call them delis) in the center of town. But, there are zillions of delis in New York city — they’re everywhere. In Boston proper, it’s hard to find one.
In Boston, it’s very noticeable, and highly significant, how little pedestrian traffic there is compared to New York. Perhaps that’s why there are less small stores to accommodate a passerby who might want to buy a Coke or bottled water. True, the central city sections such as Copley Square are crowded with pedestrians during the business day. But it’s much different later.
After normal business hours, beginning with the early evening, there is very little pedestrian traffic in Boston. Many downtown blocks seem virtually deserted. The city shuts down after the business day ends.
So different from New York. Stroll through Manhattan or the outer boroughs at almost any hour of the day, including the wee small hours, and you will find that very few streets are deserted. There is, naturally, less pedestrian traffic at 2 a.m. But, it is an appealing and actually comforting fact that there is almost always someone on the street. In the case of Manhattan, most neighborhoods never shut down.
One thing I have always liked about New York City, particularly Manhattan, is: walk through any part of the city, including central commercial and business areas, and you will see residential buildings. Some neighborhoods are primarily commercial, others are primarily residential. But, residential buildings are everywhere. All sections and zones are inhabited, which means there are always PEOPLE around regardless of time of day.
Boston’s “culture” can’t hold a candle to New York’s. There is a plethora of cultural activities in New York year round, as everyone knows. I have never been a theatergoer, but, while Boston and Cambridge might have a theater or two, New York has scores of them showing plays and musicals all the time.
The amount of music one can find being performed in New York City on practically every day of the week year round is astonishing. Besides Lincoln Center and Carnegie Hall, there is a mind boggling assortment of musical performances and venues to choose from. Plus, there are innumerable amateur musical performances (including a wealth of music performed in churches) and recitals by student ensembles and so forth. The same is true of other cultural events, and also lectures.
If one goes to a museum or the public library, one can pick up a brochure listing events for a given period. One finds that museums offer many concerts and so do the libraries, believe it or not. Plus, lectures on everything from art to classical music, and, in the case of the library, literary and other cultural topics. (See example below.)
And, of course, New York is the film capital of — if not the world — indisputably the USA.
Massachusetts has Cape Cod. I don’t think the Hamptons on Long Island can come close.
But, while visiting, I got lost on back roads on the Cape and drove around for a half an hour or so trying to find my way back to a major route. During this time, I had the opportunity to observe the Cape as a year round resident might experience it. It’s still a nice place with good restaurants, a great, breezy climate, beautiful beaches and spots, and so forth. But, it has in many places become indistinguishable from your standard suburbs. Nothing special. Streets which are often cul-de-sacs. Nice but typical houses. Boring in a way that only the suburbs can be. The typical suburban pattern of streets that lead nowhere.
New England does have nature; it is preserved remarkably well. Beautiful old trees seemingly everywhere, arching alongside and over thoroughfares. They and their abundance are splendorous. Stately old trees notable for their grandeur, the proper names of which I do not know (elms?) but wish I did. There’s nothing like it in New York City or surrounding areas. New York City trees tend to look like they’re sick a good part of the time. In the fall, the leaves shrivel up and fall off; there is no glorious foliage.
I have a sneaking suspicion, but cannot prove it and do not know it to be fact, that Boston might be more segregated than New York City. Patterns of de facto segregation in terms of housing still persist in New York City’s outer boroughs and can still be seen, to a lesser extent, in Manhattan as well. But, I believe that New York has always been more liberal with regard to race than Boston.
I was at the Morgan Library last weekend on Saturday, June 10 to view two excellent exhibits on Thoreau and Henry James.
I picked up a free booklet: “The Morgan / Calendar of Events / Spring & Summer 2017.”
As an example of the cultural richness found in NYC, here’s a sampling of what’s offered (besides the museum’s exhibitions).
three concerts of lieder and chamber music of Schubert, designed to elucidate certain
aspects of the works as well as entertain; pre-concert lecture/discussions
poetry reading by Eileen Myles with reception
novelist Jay McInerney and Italian artist Francesco Clemente discussing films that have influenced their works
symposium of art historians discussing Old Master drawings and prints
lecture on Henry James’s taste in painting
lecture on the so called “Indian drawings” of Rembrandt
lecture by two noted biographers of Henry James and his sister on James’s relationship to the visual arts
lecture on Thoreau by Laura Dassow Walls, author of a forthcoming biography of Thoreau
screening of three acclaimed films based on Henry James novels
screening of a new (2017) documentary film about Emily Dickinson
screening of a new (2017) documentary film about Thoreau, with a post-screening discussion with the director/producer
During the month just ended, I took a trip to Massachusetts to attend the American Literature Association’s annual conference in Boston, and also to take photos of personal interest from the point of view of my personal history and also from a genealogical angle.
I grew up in Massachusetts, in the Greater Boston area.
Practically all of my relatives came from Massachusetts. My father’s ancestors, on his father’s side, emigrated from Scotland to Boston in 1872. His relatives on his mother’s side emigrated during the colonial period and lived mostly in Essex County, north of Boston, and subsequently in the Greater Boston area.
My mother’s relatives were originally mostly from Cape Cod; some of my relatives continue to live there.
The following is a trip itinerary with photographs.
I went to Danvers, Mass., which is where my mother grew up and photographed the house and block where she lived. Danvers was originally an outlying area of Salem; it was known as Salem Village. The Salem witchcraft trials arose from incidents that took place in what is now Danvers.
My mother lived at 19 Braman Street from around 1920 through 1940. The house looks shabby now.
From Danvers, I headed south, in the direction of Boston. Although my focus was mostly family history, it occurred to me, why not make a stop in Winchester, Mass., where the world famous Russian émigré sociologist and social philosopher Pitirim A. Sorokin, one of my heroes, lived?
Sorokin, his wife, and their two sons resided at 8 Cliff Street in Winchester. (Sorokin died in 1968. One of his sons still occupies the same residence.) I was interested not only to see the residence of a world renowned scholar and writer, but also to see the house because it was famous for its grounds: a garden developed and maintained by Sorokin himself, for which he had won awards from horticultural societies and of which he was proud.
I drove up the block, which was on a steep ascent, using GPS to guide me. The GPS system advised me that I had arrived at my destination, 8 Cliff Street, on my left. I saw 6 Cliff Street, but where was number 8? Number 8 was shrouded and hidden by a profusion of flowering bushes. It reminded me of the Forest of Thorns in “Sleeping Beauty.”
Pitirim A. Sorokin residence, 8 Cliff St., Winchester, MA. Photographs by Roger W. Smith.
Next, I drove to Woodlawn Cemetery in Everett, Mass., which was close by — a beautiful cemetery where my Scotch ancestors are buried — and photographed gravestones. This required a return visit a couple of days later because a cemetery worker suggested I have one of the gravestones, for my great-great grandfather and great-great grandmother, cleaned, at the cost of seventy-five dollars.
Gravestone of my father’s paternal grandmother Jennie H. (Wright) (Smith) Simpson and her 2nd husband, Capt. George F. Simpson. Marjorie (Smith) Farrar (my father’s aunt) was her daughter. Elva Farrar, who died in infancy, was Jennie’s granddaughter.
I then drove all the way, heading south, to New Bedford, Mass., which was a flourishing city in the nineteenth century but now has a depressing look and feel to it. My maternal grandmother grew up there. I took photographs of the house where she was born in 1894. The house is on South Sixth Street. Shortly thereafter, the family moved to Wing Street in New Bedford. I intended to photograph the house, but it is no longer standing.
120 South Sixth St., New Bedford, MA. My maternal grandmother, Annie Congdon (Hart) Handy, was born there in 1894.
I drove to New Bedford again early Thursday morning to visit Rural Cemetery, an old cemetery where many burials occurred in the nineteenth century. There, I located the grave of my mother’s great-grandfather, John Congdon Hart. He died in 1883. He had two wives and thirteen children. His gravestone reads “J. C. Hart / 5th Mass. Batt’y.” No dates are carved on the stone. John C. Hart was a Civil War veteran. The inscription on his gravestone clearly indicates that he was proud of his Civil War service.
Section of Rural Cemetery, New Bedford, MA where John Congdon Hart (1829-1883), my maternal grandmother’s paternal grandfather, and his family are buried.
From New Bedford, I drove to Cape Cod, a drive of about 45 minutes. I went to Cataumet Cemetery in the town of Bourne (Cataumet being a section of that town). It is a small cemetery across the street from a Methodist church where many ancestors on my mother’s side worshiped. Many of my mother’s ancestors, surnamed Handy, are buried there.
United Methodist Church, Cataumet, MA
Gravestone of Henry Thomas Handy, his wife Lydia Perkins (Ellis) Handy, and three of their children, two of whom died in infancy, Cataumet Cemetery, Cataumet, MA. Etta H. Handy was my mother’s aunt and a close relative. Henry T. Handy pursued a career as a whaler in his early adulthood and later became a farmer on Cape Cod.
Gravestone of my maternal grandparents, namely Ralph Ellis Handy (1894-1946) and Annie C. (Hart) Handy (1894-1972), Cataumet Cemetery, Cataumet, MA. Also named is Clifton Edward Handy, my mother’s younger brother, who died in infancy.
Another view of my maternal grandparents’ gravestone, Cataumet Cemetery, Cape Cod.
I then drove to Pocasset, also on Cape Cod, which is right next door. I photographed the beautiful house and grounds where my mother’s uncle Robert S. Handy lived. My mother and her cousins spent many enjoyable times during summer vacations there. One can’t miss the house from the street, although it is set back and is fronted by an extensive greensward. It is a neighborhood landmark.
The late Robert S. Handy’s residence, County Road, Pocasset. Robert Handy (1881-1972) was my mother’s uncle.
From Cape Cod, I drove to Dorchester, Mass., to the section known as Mattapan. Dorchester is part of Boston. It took me a long time navigating local traffic to find 67 Woolson Street in Mattapan, a modest house where my father, Alan Wright Smith, was born in 1917. I had never seen the house before.
67 Woolson St., Mattapan (Boston), MA. My father was born there in 1917.
Friday was a total change of pace: the American Literature Association (ALA) annual conference at the Westin Copley Place hotel in Boston. I attended a few lectures and the annual meeting of the International Theodore Dreiser Society.
Attendance at the Dreiser Society meeting was sparse, but I was very glad to be able to participate. I had the opportunity to meet noted Dreiser scholars such as Thomas P. Riggio, Renate von Bardeleben, Yoshinobu Hakutani, and Miriam Gogol, all of whom I already knew (not necessarily well) from prior acquaintance. Professor Hakutani made some very interesting observations comparing a work of Richard Wright’s (he is an authority on Wright), Black Boy, to an autobiographical work of Dreiser’s. I made a mental note to purchase and read Black Boy.
Other scholars present include Ashley Squires, a professor from Moscow who gave a fascinating presentation on the reception of Theodore Dreiser in Russia, where he has been for a long time — and is still — very popular. Being seated right next to her, fortuitously, I struck up a conversation. “For a Russian, you speak awfully good English,” I said. It turned out that she’s one hundred percent American and grew up in the heartland. It just so happens that she is teaching in Moscow.
I had a very enjoyable conversation with a graduate student from Oklahoma who delivered a paper on Dreiser. It was a pleasure to experience for a few minutes her sincere commitment to her studies and enthusiasm for them. A male companion was with her. They are both rabid baseball fans and were very excited about the prospect of attending their first game ever at Fenway Park that evening.
In the afternoon, I had an enjoyable get acquainted chat with a noted American literature scholar, Jerome Loving, a biographer of Whitman, Twain, and Dreiser. He was interested in talking with me about the Chester Gillette murder case, upon which Theodore Dreiser’s novel An American Tragedy was based. I have done extensive research on the case.
On Saturday, I went back to Woodlawn Cemetery in Everett and photographed the gravestone of my Smith Scotch ancestors, which had been cleaned.
Gravestone of my Smith ancestors, Woodlawn Cemetery, Everett, MA. They included Thomas Smith, my father’s great-grandfather (who was born in Scotland); Thomas’s wife Jane (Gilchrist) Smith (also a native of Scotland); their son Thomas, Jr., my grandfather’s father (also born in Scotland); and Wlliam G. Smith, an uncle of my grandfather. (He was born in Boston just after his parents emigrated in 1872.)
I then drove to Cambridge, Mass., where I lived until age twelve. I photographed the house on Mellen Street, a ten or fifteen minute walk from Harvard Square, where we lived. The house is in excellent condition and looks the same, except that the back yard where we used to play has been paved over. Lesley College (now Lesley University) bought the house from my father in the 1960’s, and the section of Mellen Street on which the house stands has been made into a private way and renamed.
27 Mellen Street, Cambridge, MA. I lived there from birth until 1958.
27 Mellen St., Cambridge, rear view; the fire escape is still there.
I went over to the next block, Everett Street, where my best friend, Francis Donlan, lived. I photographed the apartment complex at 11 Everett Street where he lived. It looked the same, which is to say it sort of “reemerged” into my visual memory/consciousness — I had forgotten. Francis’s father was the janitor there. Parking in Cambridge must be notoriously difficult. Everett Street was one way, and restricted/no parking signs were everywhere.
Apartment house on Everett St. where my best friend Francis Donlan lived.
My last stop in Cambridge was Oxford Street, where I photographed my old elementary school. I walked right past it. Remembering the order of the streets, I was sure I had missed it, but how? I was looking for the familiar old building and schoolyard. I asked a middle aged man in a playground with two children, “Is there an elementary school near here?”
“Yes,” he replied, “the Baldwin School,” pointing in the direction which I had come from. The school, which I had inadvertently passed, was a block away.
The school when I attended it was named the Agassiz School. I always liked the sound of the name; it sounded distinctive. It was also hard for an elementary schooler to spell.
The school was named in honor of Jean Louis Rodolphe Agassiz (1807-1873), a world renowned Swiss-American biologist and geologist who was a professor of zoology and geology at Harvard University. The school’s name was changed to the Maria L. Baldwin School in 2002, due to objections to the theories of Agassiz, which have been characterized as racist. Maria Louise Baldwin (1856 -1922), an African American educator and civic leader, was principal of the school from 1889 until 1922.
I didn’t recognize the school building, and the playground where I used to play kickball was gone.
Maria L. Baldwin School (formerly Agassiz School), Oxford St., Cambridge, MA. Photographs by Roger W. Smith.
Oxford St., Cambridge, MA
The theories of Agassiz that have led to his being discredited are based on polygenism, the idea that races were created separately, that they could be classified on the basis of specific climatic zones, and that they were endowed with unequal attributes. It appears that the attribution of racism to Agassiz is not such an open and shut case. He did not support slavery, for example. In general, the renaming of buildings and monuments to conform to changing views makes me uncomfortable. A couple of former classmates whom I have mentioned this to feel, on the contrary, that the change of the school’s name was entirely appropriate.
Leaving Cambridge on Saturday morning, I drove as fast as I could to Oak Grove cemetery in Falmouth, Mass., on Cape Cod, wishing to arrive there before the cemetery supervisor, who works a half day on Saturdays, left. I got stuck in a traffic jam of holiday travelers crossing the Bourne Bridge, which spans the Cape Cod Canal.
At the cemetery, I found quite a few ancestral graves in the same section. I never would have found them without the cemetery supervisor’s help. My mother was born in Falmouth. Her maternal grandparents are buried there, as are several of their ancestors.
Gravestone of William Hewins (1801-1893) of Falmouth, MA and his wife Love (Handy) Hewins (1804-1884), as well as two of their sons. William and Love were great-grandparents of my maternal grandmother Annie C. (Hart) Handy on her mother’s side.
Gravestone of John Swift, 2nd (1806-1864) of Falmouth, MA. He was my maternal grandmother’s great-grandfather on her mother’s side.
Gravestone of Frances Lincoln (Weeks) Swift (1807-1868), wife of John Swift, 2nd, my maternal grandmother’s great-grandmother on her mother’s side.
Gravestone of Llewellyn Russell Hewins (1834-1908) of Falmouth, MA. He was the grandfather of my maternal grandmother, Annie (Hart) Handy, on her mother’s side. The birthdate on the stone is off by a year.
Gravestone of Arabella F. (Swift) Hewins (1834-1868), first wife of Llewellyn Russell Hewins of Falmouth. She was the grandmother of my maternal grandmother.
From Falmouth on the Cape, I turned around and drove right back, heading north and west, to Arlington, Mass., a town adjacent to Cambridge and only six miles northwest of Boston. It was practically a second home town for me in my youth. I photographed the big, stately house on a hilltop on Cliff Street in Arlington Heights where my paternal grandparents, T. Gordon and Esther (Whittredge) Smith, lived in the 1930’s and ’40s, which I remember visiting.
Views of 18 Cliff St., Arlington, MA,where my paternal grandparents lived during my early childhood, and of Cliff Street itself. Photos by Roger W. Smith.
And, the house on Wellington Street, near Arlington Center, where my grandparents lived in the 1950’s and ‘60s. I used to take the streetcar from Cambridge to visit them at the latter residence.
37 Wellington St., Arlington Heights, MA
It was adjacent to Spy Pond, which I photographed, and there was a baseball field across the street where I would sometimes watch games with my grandfather. I photographed that too.
Spy Pond, Arlington, MA
baseball field in park across street from my grandparents’ house
I then drove to East Boston, where my Smith Scotch ancestors lived and where my paternal grandfather, Thomas Gordon Smith, was born and raised. My great-great grandfather, Thomas Smith, settled there in the 1870’s after emigrating with his wife and children from Scotland. I found the house where my paternal grandfather was born and the house he moved to with his widowed mother and siblings when he was about ten years old. I found the residences where his grandfather, my great-great grandfather, lived at 606 and 635 Bennington Street. They are in good condition. The latter residence is owned and occupied now by the Salesians of St. John Bosco, a religious order.
606 Bennington St., East Boston, MA. The family of Thomas Smith, my great-great grandfather, lived their briefly in the 1880’s.
Photos of 635 Bennington St., East Boston. My great-great grandparents lived there for over 20 years. Photographs by Roger W. Smith.
I left East Boston at around 7 p.m. on Saturday evening and drove northward, hoping that I could perhaps reach Crane Beach on the North Shore before it got dark. The beach is located in the town of Ipswich. I remember going there with my parents in the 1950’s. My mother knew the beach well. It is said to be one of the most beautiful beaches in Massachusetts.
View of countryside, Essex County, MA, near Crane Beach. Photograph by Roger W. Smith.
Crane Beach, Ipswich, MA. Photograph by Roger W. Smith.
Crane Beach, Ipswich, MA. Photograph by Roger W. Smith.
A main objective of mine on this trip was to photograph ancestral sites and graves. Graves are very difficult to find; it is like looking for a needle in a haystack. But, I succeeded beyond my expectations. Not only in finding graves, which are invaluable as genealogical sources, but also in finding and photographing ancestral residences and streetscapes and, most importantly, the houses, hitherto unknown, where my father’s father and mother’s mother and also my father were born.
I decided to share this information with as many descendants as I could, emailing them photographs with commentary.
Their response, in most cases lack of response, was much worse than I could have anticipated — disappointing, and in, a couple of instances, not just disappointing, but inconsiderate and mean spirited. Hardly anyone bothered to acknowledge having received the photos.
Worst of all was the response of some of my relatives (I shared photos and pertinent information only with descendants of the ancestors whose graves and houses I had photographed) who actually COMPLAINED, saying that because I emailed the photos and information to them, they found it to be a nuisance. It had taken me about to week to go through the photos, select the best ones, tweak them, identify them correctly, and write commentary so that my relatives would know whose grave or house it was and how that individual was related to us.
I wrote back to the disgruntled respondents, my relatives, merely saying: “This has involved a great deal of time, effort, and expense on my part.” I mentioned, in replying to them, the time, effort, and expense merely for purposes of comparison: what went into the project versus what would be required for someone to open emails, read them, and download what was perhaps a total of 25 photos. (I do not recall the exact number.) Considerable effort over several days (not counting the spade work, planning, organizing, and dissemination of the materials) versus a few minutes of one’s time for each email.
Regarding the supposedly great inconvenience of being bombarded with emails, what the pros and cons are, it’s not worth discussing here, but I would have thought that someone could have overlooked this (despite whatever their preferences are) in consideration of receiving hitherto unavailable photos and information that were obtained at great effort and considerable expense, and which were available nowhere else, that they would never have known about or had access to otherwise. I am talking about things such as gravestones and homesteads of people such as my nineteenth century ancestors, my ancestors from Scotland, the houses were my father and two of my grandparents were born, and so on. (When, say I “my,” I mean also “their,” that is, our relatives.)
I felt it incumbent upon me to share these materials with as many relatives as I could think of contacting and had the email addresses of, hoping that they would disseminate them among their children and grandchildren. I thought they would be appreciative of this and was taken completely by surprise.
It seems to me that it’s a matter of weighing in the balance what one would rather have: the “inconvenience” (as they conceive it to be) of having a few additional emails (of course, they will say, “what do you mean, a few?,” as if they were greatly imposed upon, put out, inconvenienced; choose your participle) within the space of a couple of days in their inboxes, and having to download a photo or two with a simple click, versus the thought, which does not seem to occurred to them, of what goes into ascertaining the facts thorough prior research (such as, where was such and such ancestor buried? where were my father and grandparents born? where in Boston, at exactly what address, did my great-great grandfather and his children live?). Using those facts to locate materials, planning such a trip, driving to various locales not necessarily close to one another, locating the actual graves and houses, and so on. It would seem that the favor and services done for them far outweigh the “inconvenience,” as they perceive it. But, people seem to take things for granted. The last thing they would ever do is look up such stuff themselves. When it is handed to them on a silver platter, they don’t appreciate it but instead complain, vent, and find cause for fault.
I enjoy such projects and find them rewarding, despite the effort involved. And, it is my credo that such materials should be disseminated as widely as possible among parties to whom they would not, presumably, be of no interest or relevance. But, I have experienced such lack of appreciation and inconsiderateness in the past. From persons who have made inquiries of me and requests for information and materials related to scholarly or genealogical research. I always go all out to respond and share what I have. It is incredible how often people don’t even bother to acknowledge receipt or say thanks.
From age 20 on, Henry David Thoreau (1817-1862) copiously kept a journal in which he recorded his observations about nature and his thoughts. The journal provided the grist for some of his finest writings.
The following is from “This Ever New Self: Thoreau and His Journal,” an exhibition currently at The Morgan Library & Museum in Manhattan.
*************************
“What’s in Thoreau’s Last Journal?”
“Here are a few of the things Thoreau did in November 1860 and wrote about in his final notebook:”
Built a new fence in his family’s yard
Weighed the merits of imported and native fruits
Measured acorns, tree stumps, and a raccoon skeleton
Counted the rings in a spruce plank
Studied the history of local berries
Looked up the Abenaki word for “bluets”
Argued that slavery exists wherever a man “surrenders his inalienable rights of conscience and reason”
Imagined a town committed to preserving nature
Analyzed the contents of a crow’s stomach
Cited Pliny, Gosse, and Herodotus
Paid tribute to the slowness of Nature
Examined an owl and a salamander a friend brought over
Mused on the extreme flexibility of a cat’s body
Copied extracts from Carolina Sports by Land and Water
Heard the twitter of spring’s first bluebird
Logged childhood memories of his 80-year-old Aunt Sophia
Talked to friends about slavery, turtle eggs, and the price of wood
Noticed the river’s level after the snow had melted
Listened to sparrow in March (“the finest singers I have heard yet”)
Observed water bugs, frogs, butterflies, and mouse droppings
Took a train trip to Minnesota
Watched a kitten scratch its ear for the first time
“In a Walt Whitman Novel, Lost for 165 Years, Clues to ‘Leaves of Grass“
By Jennifer Schuessler
The New York Times, February 20, 2017
Zachary Turpin, a graduate student at the University of Houston, has recently discovered — which is to say found and published — the manuscript of a “lost” Walt Whitman novel.
The novel, Life and Adventures of Jack Engle, was published anonymously by Whitman as a serial in a newspaper, The New York Atlas, in 1858. The novel has been published online by The Walt Whitman Quarterly Review and in book form by the University of Iowa Press. I have read it already. It’s a good read.
While I was reading the novel and subsequently, I had the following exchange of emails with Mr. Turpin, whom I have had the good fortune to since meet.
I am currently reading “Life and Adventures of Jack Engle.” What a find!
A real reading pleasure for a Whitman lover such as myself.
On the third line of page 53, I noted the words, in quoted dialogue: ‘the world to some’
Shouldn’t it be the world to come?
Zachary Turpin to Roger Smith
March 13, 2017
Roger — Many thanks for your email! It should indeed be “the world to come”—good eye.
Call it a coincidence, but a friend and fellow Whitmanian just emailed me to say the same thing, shortly after you. Great minds. Anyway, I’ll forward this along to the University of Iowa Press, since I know they’ll want to hear about it.
Thank you for your kind message.
Roger Smith to Zachary Turpin
May 30, 2017
Dear Zack,
Hello. I consider it my good fortune to have met you briefly at the American Literature Association conference on Thursday.
I am still wondering about a couple of words on page 95 of “Jack Engle”: “… the reader must supply it from his or her imagination.”
It’s bothering me — perhaps it shouldn’t. But, I keep wondering, is that what Whitman really wrote? Seems very uncommon for a nineteenth century writer, even one such as Whitman who could be considered to have been ahead of his time on many (but not all) issues, to have used “him or her.” But, then it’s entirely possible that he did. Or, did a zealous copyeditor change “his” to “his or her”?
Zachary Turpin to Roger Smith
May 30, 2017
Roger,
Yep, I hear you, it seems uncommon—but then Whitman was anything but common for his era. His egalitarianism extended to men and women right from the very first edition of Leaves of Grass (1855):
To pass among them . . to touch any one . . .. to rest my arm ever so lightly round his or her neck for a moment … what is this then?
And again:
Each has his or her place in the procession.
Three more instances appear in the 1856 edition:
Each of us limitless—each of us with his or her right upon the earth,…..
They bring none to his or her terminus, or to be content and full,….
Of authors and editors I do not know how many there are in The States, but there are thousands, each one building his or her step to the stairs by which giants shall mount.
And so on. There are many others. 1881:
Who holds duly his or her triune proportion of realism, spiritualism, and of the aesthetic or intellectual,….
Or in 1892, in “A Backward Glance O’er Travel’d Roads”:
The reader will always have his or her part to do, just as much as I have had mine.
And that’s just in his poetry! His journalism, reminiscences, interviews, and fiction contain more.
So, I think one of two things may be at issue here. Either (1) this construction came about earlier than it may seem to have, or (2) when it comes to even the smallest gender-equality issues, like pronouns, Whitman was still more conscientious and forward-thinking than his contemporaries. Or both, of course!
In any case, I bet you could write a very interesting piece on the “his or her” construction in 19th-century American writings, especially in its relation to democratic poetics.
Roger Smith to Zachary Turpin
May 30, 2017
Zack,
Thanks!
You’ve convinced me.
Totally.
Roger Smith to Zachary Turpin
June 3, 2017
Zack,
I told you I would get back to you again.
I am finally getting around to it.
I want to thank you again for you reply, which was very informative and so thorough. Much appreciated.
I now see that Whitman was way ahead of his time when it came to “gender inclusive” grammatical constructions. A very cumbersome way to put it. Sorry.
I guess I should have known better when it comes to the poet who wrote:
Think of womanhood, and you to be a woman;
The creation is womanhood;
Have I not said that womanhood involves all?
Have I not told how the universe has nothing better
than the best womanhood?
I guess what one might say that, for someone completely original and also possessing intuitive genius, as was true of Whitman, grammatical norms don’t necessarily account for that much. He was capable of inventing his own “grammar” when it suited him.
