Category Archives: general interest

new vocabulary III

 

 

new vocabulary – November 2019

 

 

 

My high school English teacher, Robert W. Tighe: “Look up a word three times and it’s yours.”

 

 

It’s been a year and a half since I last posted a compilation of vocabulary words I have looked up.

The above WORD DOCUMENT is a compilation of all the words I have looked up since then. They are my notes. But, obviously, the definitions were often cut and pasted by me from the internet.

I have never ceased to look up words and rarely fail to. I think these lists illustrate that a good vocabulary is built from one’s reading.

As I was looking over the list today, I was struck by how many words I have looked up over this period (it is my practice to keep a record of the words and their definitions) and how many words I had either never encountered before, or may have seen but could not define.

Every single word was encountered by me in READING.
— Roger W. Smith

   November 2019

insensate ideologues

 

 

 

 

 

Jean hugs Guyger

 

 

 

judge hugs Guyger.jpg

 

 

 

‘Amber Guyger was hugged by her victim’s brother – Washington Post 10-3-2019

 

 

‘Amber Guyger’s Judge Gave Her a Bible and a Hug; Did That Cross the Line’ – NY Times 10-4-2019

 

 

 

*****************************************************

 

 

without understanding, untrustworthy, unloving, unmerciful;

Romans 1:31

 

 

 

This post concerns the following recent news stories about the conclusion of the trial of Amber Guyger:

 

“Amber Guyger was hugged by her victim’s brother and a judge, igniting a debate about forgiveness and race”

By Hannah Knowles

The Washington Post

October 3, 2019

 

 

“Amber Guyger’s Judge Gave Her a Bible and a Hug. Did That Cross a Line?”

After a high-profile murder trial, Judge Tammy Kemp ignited a debate about the limits of compassion.

By Sarah Mervosh and Nicholas Bogel-Burroughs

The New York Times

October 4, 2019

 

 

On September 6, 2018, off-duty Dallas Police Department patrol officer Amber Guyger entered the Dallas, Texas, apartment of Botham Jean and fatally shot him. Mr. Jean, a 26-year-old black man, was an accountant for PricewaterhouseCoopers. Guyger, who is white, was initially only charged with manslaughter. She was later charged with murder.

On October 1, 2019, Guyger was found guilty of murder. On October 2, she was sentenced to 10 years in prison.

 

 

*****************************************************

 

 

Absurd — the premise of the news stories; the “issues” they raise. Notwithstanding what the woman did. (I would call it a crime of negligence or stupidity, not premeditated murder. I would not take the position that she should not have been punished. I do not on the face of it feel that her sentence was unfair.)

She regrets it, expressed genuine remorse.

A hug was given (in the courtroom) by the BROTHER of the victim.

What we have here – in the case of critics of the victim’s brother’s and the judge’s demonstrations of compassion (note that the judge did sentence her to 10 years!) — are coldhearted ideologues.

Robespierre would have approved.

This is not a matter of policy or ideology.  It’s a matter of common HUMANITY.

People are not abstractions. They are not things. It’s not a case of, say, some evaluator grading or weighing something inanimate or deciding in which box or category that thing or abstraction belongs. Life is not a game or contest in which an arbitrator or referee decides who deserves to win or lose.

Compassion is never amiss.

Some stonyhearted persons cannot see or practice this. They have, in their makeup, zero sensitivity.

There are plenty of them. Plenty such people in the here and now.

 

 

*****************************************************

 

 

Someone with a head on their shoulders and a heart:

“Some judges seem to be able to turn off their emotions and not see the humanity, but I was never able to do that,” said Jan Breland, a retired judge who heard misdemeanor criminal cases in Austin for 26 years. “These people that come through our courts are human beings, regardless of the things they’ve done. They all have mamas, and they were all little boys and little girls at one time.”

— The New York Times

 

 

A stonehearted nitpicker with only a faint trace of “humannity” (on life support insofar as concerns blood flow to critical “emotive faculty” organs):

Amanda Frost, a professor at American University’s Washington College of Law, said the judge’s decision to hug Ms. Guyger was not too far removed from judges who tell defendants that they regret being forced by the law to hand down a certain sentence or who encourage them to reconsider their paths.

“Impartiality is what matters,” Professor Frost said. “If the judge shows it throughout the trial and then shows some compassion to the defendant afterward, I don’t have a problem with that.”

The Bible, on the other hand, was “questionable,” Professor Frost said. [It wasn’t, by any measure.]

— The New York Times

 

 

— posted by Roger W. Smith

   October 2019

thoughts about the ocean

 

 

When asked what she would miss about the voyage, Greta [Thunberg] said–much as some harried adults feel about a long trip–the best part was “to just sit, literally sit, staring at the ocean for hours not doing anything.”

“To be in this wilderness, the ocean, and to see the beauty of it,” she added. “That I’m going to miss. Peace and quiet.” She paused for a moment.

 

— “Greta Thunberg, Climate Activist, Arrives in N.Y. With a Message for Trump; The Swedish 16-year-old sailed across the Atlantic on an emissions-free yacht to speak at the U.N. Climate Action Summit next month,” by Anne Barnard, The New York Times, August 28, 2019

 

 

*****************************************************

It was a clear steel-blue day. The firmaments of air and sea were hardly separable in that all-pervading azure; only, the pensive air was transparently pure and soft, with a woman’s look, and the robust and man-like sea heaved with long, strong, lingering swells, as Samson’s chest in his sleep.

Hither, and thither, on high, glided the snow-white wings of small, unspeckled birds; these were the gentle thoughts of the feminine air; but to and fro in the deeps, far down in the bottomless blue, rushed mighty leviathans, sword-fish, and sharks; and these were the strong, troubled, murderous thinkings of the masculine sea. …

Aloft, like a royal czar and king, the sun seemed giving this gentle air to this bold and rolling sea; even as bride to groom. And at the girdling line of the horizon, a soft and tremulous motion–most seen here at the equator–denoted the fond, throbbing trust, the loving alarms, with which the poor bride gave her bosom away.

… Like noiseless nautilus shells, their light prows sped through the sea; but only slowly they neared the foe. As they neared him, the ocean grew still more smooth; seemed drawing a carpet over its waves; seemed a noon-meadow, so serenely it spread. …

 

— Herman Melville, Moby-Dick; or, The Whale, Chapter 132. “The Symphony”

 

 

*****************************************************
Brad,

 

BEATS AIR TRAVEL

I love her words and thoughts about the sea.

Her yacht docked in Manhattan right below Wall Street. I go there often to walk and enjoy the proximity to the water.

 

Roger
— email to my friend Brad Coady, August 28, 2019

 

 

*****************************************************

 

 

— posted by Roger W. Smith

   October 2019

Sharpiegate and Orwell

 

 

 

Democracies used to collapse suddenly, with tanks rolling noisily toward the presidential palace. In the 21st century, however, the process is usually subtler.

Authoritarianism is on the march across much of the world, but its advance tends to be relatively quiet and gradual, so that it’s hard to point to a single moment and say, this is the day democracy ended. You just wake up one morning and realize that it’s gone. …

And the events of the past week have demonstrated how this can happen right here in America.

At first Sharpiegate, Donald Trump’s inability to admit that he misstated a weather projection by claiming that Alabama was at risk from Hurricane Dorian, was kind of funny, even though it was also scary — it’s not reassuring when the president of the United States can’t face reality. But it stopped being any kind of joke on Friday, when the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration issued a statement falsely backing up Trump’s claim that it had warned about an Alabama threat.

Why is this frightening? Because it shows that even the leadership of NOAA, which should be the most technical and apolitical of agencies, is now so subservient to Trump that it’s willing not just to overrule its own experts but to lie, simply to avoid a bit of presidential embarrassment.

Think about it: If even weather forecasters are expected to be apologists for Dear Leader, the corruption of our institutions is truly complete.

 

— “How Democracy Dies, American-Style: Sharpies, auto emissions and the weaponization of policy”

op-ed

By Paul Krugman

The New York Times

September 9, 2019
*****************************************************

 

 

Winston dialled ‘back numbers’ on the telescreen and called for the appropriate issues of ‘The Times’, which slid out of the pneumatic tube after only a few minutes’ delay. The messages he had received referred to articles or news items which for one reason or another it was thought necessary to alter, or, as the official phrase had it, to rectify. For example, it appeared from ‘The Times’ of the seventeenth of March that Big Brother, in his speech of the previous day, had predicted that the South Indian front would remain quiet but that a Eurasian offensive would shortly be launched in North Africa. As it happened, the Eurasian Higher Command had launched its offensive in South India and left North Africa alone. It was therefore necessary to rewrite a paragraph of Big Brother’s speech, in such a way as to make him predict the thing that had actually happened. Or again, ‘The Times’ of the nineteenth of December had published the official forecasts of the output of various classes of consumption goods in the fourth quarter of 1983, which was also the sixth quarter of the Ninth Three-Year Plan. Today’s issue contained a statement of the actual output, from which it appeared that the forecasts were in every instance grossly wrong. Winston’s job was to rectify the original figures by making them agree with the later ones. As for the third message, it referred to a very simple error which could be set right in a couple of minutes. As short a time ago as February, the Ministry of Plenty had issued a promise (a ‘categorical pledge’ were the official words) that there would be no reduction of the chocolate ration during 1984. Actually, as Winston was aware, the chocolate ration was to be reduced from thirty grammes to twenty at the end of the present week. All that was needed was to substitute for the original promise a warning that it would probably be necessary to reduce the ration at some time in April.

As soon as Winston had dealt with each of the messages, he clipped his speakwritten corrections to the appropriate copy of ‘The Times’ and pushed them into the pneumatic tube. Then, with a movement which was as nearly as possible unconscious, he crumpled up the original message and any notes that he himself had made, and dropped them into the memory hole to be devoured by the flames.

 

— George Orwell, Nineteen Eighty-Four

 

 

–posted by Roger W. Smith

  September 2019

Grover Cleveland was right.

 

 

The story of Donald Trump’s grandfather’ – Washington Post 7-12-2018

 

 

‘Under Trump’s new immigration rule, his own grandfather likely wouldn’t have gotten in’

 

 

“Although immigration was relatively free and open during the 18th and early 19th centuries, the federal government began placing restrictions as the number of immigrants rose. The Chinese Exclusion Act of 1882, for example, was enacted both because of economic fears and racist attitudes against Chinese workers. Other laws were also enacted to keep certain laborers from coming to the country.

“In 1897, President Grover Cleveland vetoed legislation that would have restricted immigration by requiring a literacy test that would require immigrants to read five lines from the Constitution. In his veto message, he said:

“Heretofore we have welcomed all who came to us from other lands except those whose moral or physical conditions or history threatened danger to our national welfare and safety…. We have encouraged those coming from foreign countries to cast their lot with us and join in the development of our vast domains, securing in return a share in the blessings of American citizenship.”

 

— “The story of Donald Trump’s grandfather, who came to the U.S. as an unaccompanied minor,” by Kristine Phillips, The Washington Post, June 27, 2018

 

https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/retropolis/wp/2018/06/27/the-story-of-donald-trumps-grandfather-who-came-to-the-u-s-as-an-unaccompanied-minor/?utm_term=.2052800b0108

 

— posted by Roger W. Smith

   August 2019

 
*****************************************************

 

 

 

SEE ALSO my post

 

“immigration policy, Walt Whitman, and Donald Trump’s wall; or, the Berlin Wall redux”

 

https://rogersgleanings.com/2018/06/30/immigration-policy-walt-whitman-and-donald-trumps-wall-or-the-berlin-wall-redux-2/

“I don’t have to be afraid”

 

 

 

… if sleeplessness

or passiveness keeps you from the usual
go-round of night and day : take this message
and imagine it was sent to you alone

with these words: I don’t have to be afraid
of you now, since you no longer listen.
I’m tired of thinking about going on

with it all. I will never understand
why you ever needed me for anything.
These are the last words I will ever send you.

 

— Charles Pierre, “The Dark Muse” (excerpt), Green Vistas: Poems 1969-1979 (New York: Northpoint Press, 1981)

a scholarly rip-off; the real identity of Theodore Dreiser’s chaplain

 

 

 

Chapter XLV of Theodore Dreiser’s first novel, Sister Carrie, is entitled “Curious Shifts of the Poor.” In this famous chapter, which has echoes of Stephen Crane, George Hurstwood — out of work, physically ill and desperate — is reduced to living in Broadway flophouses and to begging.

 

One afternoon, he goes to a theater where Carrie is appearing as a lead actress and hovers about the entrance, hoping to see her. He thinks he sees her alight from a carriage and enter the theater, but he is not sure it was her. He ambles downtown from 39th Street, where the theater is located, to the corner of 26th Street and Broadway.

 

He notices an “a peculiar individual [who invariably took his stand” at this particular spot: a chaplain, preacher, and charity worker (known as “the Captain”) collecting donations for homeless men on a freezing cold evening.

 

(See text below.)

 

 

 

*****************************************************

 

 

 

On November 5, 2016, I received an email from Dreiser scholar Thomas P. Riggio:

 

I just came across that section in Sister Carrie where the “Captain” gathers the homeless men and begs for small change to get them beds for the night. I’ve always felt that the description was so detailed and that the tone suggests that anyone familiar with New York life would recognize the character — sort of like Fleischmann’s bread line. I wonder if you ever came across anything in your research of the period or its newspapers that identified the original for the Captain? I’m almost willing to bet that he was a local well-known figure in the city.

 

Professor Riggio was convinced that the figure of the “the captain” in Dreiser’s novel must have been based on a real person. He actually had a name (which turned about the right one, something he did not know at the time), but he did not tell me so. Later, after publishing an article based upon my research (without having told me he planned to do so), Professor Riggio told me that he had had a name.

 

I went to the New York Public Library that day, on a weekend, to see if I could find anything about the real-life model for “the captain.”

 

To try and find the identity of a figure (perhaps hypothetical for all I knew) in New York City who might have matched Dreiser’s description of his activities. Over a period of a decade or more (sometime presumably in the 1890’s), using generic search terms such as “homeless,” “charity,” “beggar,” etc.?

 

I was practically in tears due to frustration and was about to give up, exhausted after searching for five or six hours, when I stumbled upon a newspaper article about some sort of chaplain who would solicit donations every evening near Madison Square Park to pay for beds for destitute men:

 

“Lodging for the Homeless; Evangelist Rotzler Collects Money for 126 Men and Marches the Shivering Crowd Away,” The New York Times, December 20, 1897

 

This has got to be the right person, I thought.

 

Now I had a name. Searching on Frederick Rotzler (the chaplain’s name), I found a lot of documentary material — newspaper and magazine articles — that described Frederick Rotzler’s activities as a chaplain before, during, and after the period when he was observed by Dreiser. Some of this material was unearthed by me on subsequent library visits. I promptly sent it all to Professor Riggio.

 

That same month, I got another email from Professor Riggio: “As to the blog on Rotzler, … I wonder if you could hold off on this for a while?”

 

I wasn’t quite sure what this vague communique meant. I had been thinking not so much of a blog — not precisely — I was thinking that since, as far as I knew, I had discovered the identity of “the captain” (pursuant to Professor Riggio’s request to research him), perhaps I should or could write an article in which I would explain the source of the figure in “Curious Shifts of the Poor.” It seemed — and was reasonable for me to assume, for all I knew — that I had made the discovery.

 

I received another email from Professor Riggio a couple of months later:

 

… if you could hold off for another five or six weeks, that would be helpful; this will give me time to complete my work on the subject which I began before we exchanged material on the subject. I know you have five or six items you have been trying to complete on your site, so there can be no rush on Rotzler for you.

 

Again, Professor Riggio was making assumptions about what I planned to do about the Rotzler materials. He was constructing a scenario that fit his plans and would give him “cover.” I did not know what he meant by “complete my work on the subject.” (He was being obscure on purpose.) What he was planning was to write an article, but he did not wish to tell me that, any more than he was willing to tell me at the outset that he already had a name for the person whom he suspected was “the captain.”

 

What he wanted to be able to do was sort of have his cake (for himself) and be able to eat it too (whenever he decided to) — in effect, to use the materials I had unearthed, whenever and however he saw fit, to write an article supposedly his, while ensuring that no one else would see or be able to use my findings, and that I would, not suspecting anything, honor his implicit request to not (for reasons he did not explain) publish an article myself.

 

His intention in asking me to do library research (pro bono) was to see what I could come up with — it would provide corroboration for his “theories” (surmises about “the captain’s” true identity) — but to make sure I did not think I was entitled to write an article about my findings. He certainly did not want me to write an article, nor to realize he was writing one, which would have perhaps induced me to think I was entitled to do it first.

 

The words “which I began before we exchanged material on the subject [“the captain”]” were meant to give him “cover,” to justify his writing an article using my materials, so that he could claim the article he was writing was based on his research, not mine.

 

Around a year later, to my surprise and consternation, the following article was published:

 

“Oh Captain, My Captain: Dreiser and the Chaplain of Madison Square”

By Thomas P. Riggio

Studies in American Naturalism, vol. 11, no. 2 (Winter 2016)

 

 

The article was based largely (though not entirely) on my original research. I was given a perfunctory acknowledgment in a footnote. When I complained to Professor Riggio, he defended appropriating my research on the grounds that he did the writing. Of course he had, using my material without informing me of what use he planned to make of it; without it, he would have had no article.

 

When I read the article, I saw to my dismay that it was chock full of documentary material, including verbatim transcripts, photographs and illustrations, plus findings of mine such as the location of the square where Dreiser’s chaplain appeared each night (which Dreiser remembered not quite correctly) and data on Rotlzer in the 1910 census. The latter is the kind of documentary material that makes or breaks a scholarly article. They give the reader assurance that the scholar/author has done his homework. But in this instance, the homework wasn’t done by the author; it was done by me, with no credit. Professor Riggio used this information (Dreiser’s mistake about the exact location; census data, which it would never have occurred to him to check) without any footnotes acknowledging that the information came from me. And, almost all of the illustrative and documentary material in the article, he simply cut and pasted using the text and photos I had emailed to him. This I could readily see by merely glancing at the published article.

 

 

— Roger W. Smith

   May 2018

 

 

 

*****************************************************

Addendum:

 

I have not gotten over this rip off and scam by Thomas Riggio, an emeritus professor who had no reason to take advantage of a more “junior,” less “credentialed” scholar. A similar instance of Doris Kearns Goodwin’s using someone else’s research comes to mind.

When I first saw Riggio’s article on line, I felt as if I had been punched in the stomach.

I telephoned him that same evening. I tried to be polite (or at least not rude) and non-confrontational.

His response befitted a Donald Trump. He didn’t seem concerned or interested in what I was saying. He kept trying to change the subject. He would not discuss or respond to specific instances of where in the article, it was plain to see, he had ripped off my research in primary sources.

Arrogance, on his part, was the operative word. And a feeling of entitlement.

His manner was totally condescending.

All else failing, he resorted to Trump-style counterattack. Saying that I am essentially a whiner (and loser) whose feelings were hurt because he didn’t get sufficient credit. If one reads his “acknowledgment,” it would appear that I copied a couple of library articles for him, that he knew what he was looking for. This was a deliberate distortion.

Then he counterattacked by trying to portray me as a chronic complainer and misfit who always does this to the Dreiser community and can’t get along with people in general. How he knew this is a mystery, since we hardly knew one another personally.

An example of this: He claimed I was feuding with the independent Dreiser scholar Michael Lydon. My friend Michael would be surprised to learn this.

The Trump/Riggio playbook? When caught red handed, deny, deny, deny. Concede nothing. Counterattack. With anything you can think of.

 

 

June 27, 2019

 

 

 

*****************************************************

 

 

 

 

 

 

COMMENTS

 

 

 

 

 

  1. elisabethm May 19, 2018

To me it seems outrageous that someone who calls himself a professor would simply ‘steal’ the results of your thorough research. You clearly thought that a fellow Dreiser scholar would acknowledge the results of your study, and instead he used them to his own advantage.

 

I hope that this bad experience doesn’t diminish your enthusiasm for Dreiser, and that you will keep up this blog and doing research for it.

 

All the best, Elisabeth

 

    1. Roger W. Smith May 19, 2018

Thank you so much for your thoughtful input, Elisabeth. At times like this, understanding of what I have experienced with this painful, and unasked and uncalled for, “event” (should I say scholarly interchange?) is greatly appreciated.

 

      1. elisabethm May 19, 2018 at 4:23 pm

A scholarly interchange would have meant acknowledging your research!

 

 

 

      1. Roger W. Smith May 20, 2018

Elisabeth — You might be interested in what Professor Riggio considered an “acknowledgment.”

 

Buried in a footnote to his article (which he claims was all his work) “Oh Captain, My Captain: Dreiser and the Chaplain of Madison Square” (Studies in American Naturalism, Winter 2016) was the following footnote: “I want to express my thanks to independent researcher Roger W. Smith, who responded to my request for copies of the Rotzler materials from his seat at the New York Public Library. I am hopeful that he will make good on his intention to provide the full texts of the material on his extremely useful website.”

 

There was nothing specific about what materials I discovered or supplied or how essential they were to his “research,” and no mention by the professor here or elsewhere about the independent discoveries I made at his behest, for example: (1) “finding” Rotzler (he later told me he had a name all along, but he — incredibly — did not tell me this, giving me the unbelievably difficult task of finding his identity for myself); (2) sharing with him a trove of primary source materials, which he merely cut and pasted, not deigning to acknowledge that they came from me (other than to say that I “responded to [his] request for copies,” making it seem that he knew about them already and told me what materials to look for; he did no such thing); (3) not acknowledging that it was I who informed him about the mistake in Dreiser’s memory as to where “the captain” (chaplain Rotzler) would appear each evening in his charitable work; (4) or giving me credit for alerting him to the Rotzler entry in the 1910 census from New York. Items 3 and 4 were important because: The address where Rotzler solicited donations for the homeless places him in front of the Worth Monument in Worth Square in Manhattan. Dreiser’s mis-remembering the address was characteristic of Dreiser, who could be a careless writer. The census data (which Professor Riggio would most likely have never seen) enabled Professor Riggio to state (in reference to the census data I shared with him) that the census data “identifies Frederick Rotzler as having been born in New York City in 1859. … Both his parents were German immigrants, a factor that may have entered into Dreiser’s attraction to him.” These are important inferences, made on the basis of primary source materials. The problem with Professor Riggio’s use of them is that he did not acknowledge where the data came from: me.

 

If one merely eyeballed Professor Riggio’s article, one would see how much material is used from me. Text and illustrations (the text about Rotzler, the illustrations of him) jump out from the pages of his article, all of it supplied to Professor Riggio by me.

 

 

 

elisabethm May 23, 2018

 

It seems there’s a huge misconception on the side of Professor Riggio. Unfortunately I don’t expect he will ever admit that.

 

 

 

      1. Roger W. Smith May 23, 2018

No he won’t, Elisabeth. From the outset, when I first saw his article, he was totally unapologetic. He ignores many of the specific examples I have given of mis-appropriation of primary source materials and other research findings I shared with him, which provide conclusive proof of it.

 

As another follower of this blog who has been following this wrote in an email to me:

 

“Regarding Professor Riggio. How ironic. He attacks you when it is he who should apologize for not giving you credit.

 

“He completely turns the situation around and obfuscates the matter by trying to make it seem that you did something wrong.

 

“How unfortunate.”

 

      1. elisabethm May 23, 2018

Exactly!

 

  1. Claire Bruyère May 20, 2018

Dear Roger, although not a Dreiser scholar, I have been following your work in recent years and have great respect for the tenacity and precision of your research. So I was surprised and shocked by the appropriation of many of your findings on who was the model for that character in “Sister Carrie” which was puzzling Prof. Riggio. All the more as I had a pleasant exchange with him several years ago when working on an article on contemporary adaptations of major American novels of the early 20th century. I wish he would give you more credit than a footnote.

 

Claire Bruyère, Prof. emerita, American literature/book history, Univ. Paris7/Denis Diderot

 

 

  1. Roger W. Smith May 20, 2018

Thanks for your perspicacious comments, Professor Bruyère. Having support from other members of the scholarly community in this case of what I consider to have been mis-appropriation of my research findings without my being informed beforehand of the use that would be made of them and with insufficient (to put it mildly) credit given is much appreciated by me.

 

 

  1. tamszion May 20, 2018

Roger,

 

After having partnered with you last winter on another, yet unrevealed, Dreiser research project, I know firsthand the quality, depth, and caliber of your work. Your unfortunate mistake was sharing your original findings with someone whom you thought was professional and trustworthy. My immediate reaction to the situation is that you should have been reimbursed for your time, and then each individual discovery of fact, when cited in the article, should have been attributed to you in a footnote.

 

This is an academic ethical issue. Taking someone’s research without explaining how you intend to use it, then making a profit off its use without sufficient recognition to the individual who did the original research, only diminishes the person who commits such an act.

 

— Tamie Dehler

 

 

  1. Roger W. Smith May 24, 2018

Regarding the source materials I shared with Professor Riggio, and what he already knew at the time — what he told me then and told me later, after his article had been published — is significant when it comes to assessing the use (one should say misuse) he made of my materials in writing his published article: “Oh Captain, My Captain: Dreiser and the Chaplain of Madison Square” (Studies in American Naturalism, vol. 11, no. 2, Winter 2016).

 

On the evening of November 5, 2016, Professor Riggio wrote, in an email to me: “Roger, I figured there had to be an original for the Captain. Nice work! I had always wondered but never got around to checking it out.” From this I should have deduced that he really did have some information, let alone a name (which he later told me he did have)? And, if he did have a name for “the captain” (chaplain Rotzler) — as he told me months afterward — would it not have behooved him to give me the name when asking me to see if could find anything about Dreiser’s “captain,” so that I did not have to go on a wild goose chase in the library?

 

The next day (after I had gone to the library and struck gold), he emailed me: “Enjoyed learning about the Captain. Fascinating stuff. … if you have anything else on this matter, send it along. …” This does not seem fully forthcoming. He later claimed he had a name (the right one) but was looking for corroboration and additional source materials.

 

On September 10, 2017, Professor Riggio said in an email to me: “I had the essay outlined before you sent me anything. I only had two instances of the name Rotzler and wasn’t sure that was enough to claim him definitely—one the city death record of a ‘missionary’ and one a brief article about a chaplain by that name. The stuff you sent confirmed it without doubt.” What he does not explain is why he would not, at the outset, tell me what he DID know, such as the name of a chaplain he had found a couple of references to, before asking me to do research. It is also significant that, when it comes to Dreiser’s “captain,” he concedes that he had almost no information, which establishes the fact that almost of all the primary source materials in his article came from me.

 

On September 11 2017, Professor Riggio emailed me: “I thought I made clear when you began sending me the articles, that he was the fellow I had just a tiny bit of info on and that this stuff really filled out the portrait in ways I couldn’t have with the little I knew about him.” He did NOT do this, AT THE TIME. He said nothing at the time of my sending him stuff (or prior) about having had any information about “the fellow.” So, I thought (and there was no reason for me not to assume this) that it was I who had discovered the identity of Dreiser’s “captain.”

 

Professor Riggio deliberately kept me in the dark.

 

 

  1. Roger W. Smith May 24, 2018

Re this post of mine and the comments appended to it:

 

Professor Riggio continues to insist that my contributions to his article “Oh Captain, My Captain: Dreiser and the Chaplain of Madison Square” (Studies in American Naturalism, vol. 11, no. 2, Winter 2016), while appreciated and acknowledged (barely), were in the nature of helpful research but that they did not form the main body of the article, or that I shouldn’t claim to have done more research than him. And, that the main problem, as he sees it, is that I threw a “hissy fit” over not being given sufficient acknowledgment.

 

The facts prove otherwise.

 

The article in question (the above referenced article by Professor Riggio) concludes with a “WORKS CITED” section. Other than “my” source materials (i.e., those I discovered and sent by email to Professor Riggio), the works cited are mostly secondary sources.

 

There are citations of writings of Dreiser such as “A Touch of Human Brotherhood,” which appeared in Success magazine and which Professor Riggio had available in a published book of Theodore Dreiser’s uncollected magazine articles. And a chapter from Dreiser’s book “Twelve Men.” And so on.

 

An article by O. Henry, “A Madison Square Arabian Night,” is also cited by Professor Riggio.

 

What else is there? THIS IS SIGNIFICANT. Because what I am complaining about is mis-appropriation of source martials. Discovered and downloaded by me. Not known (as far as I knew) beforehand to Professor Riggio. Transmitted from me to him.

 

Here are the primary sources (other than writings of Dreiser and O. Henry) in the Works Cited section of Professor Riggio’s article:

 

Barton, Bruce. “Tending His Flock by Night.” The Continent 11 Dec. 1913

“Church Services Tomorrow.” New York Times 20 March 1910

“Father Lambert Welcomed.” New York Times 23 May 1894

“The Gospel through the Megaphone.” New York World 6 Sept. 1896

“Met at the Alter to Pray.” New York Times 15 March 1894: 11

“A Preacher Unordained.” New York Times 26 Nov. 1893

“Putting His Congregation to Sleep.” Literary Digest 17 Jan. 1914

“Shelters a Little Army.” New York Times 18 Nov. 1901

 

These articles were all discovered by me and shared by me with Professor Riggio. As far as I know, he had never seen any of them. Perhaps he will claim now that he already had them (!).

 

Professor Riggio’s article contains four illustrations. The following are the illustrations, with the captions and citations:

 

Fig. 1. A Preacher Unordained. (New York Times, 26 Nov. 1893: 6– 7)

Fig. 2. The Gospel through the Megaphone. (New York World, 6 Sept. 1896: 8– 9)

Fig. 3. The “Chaplain” of Madison Square. (“Putting His Congregation to Sleep,” Literary Digest, 17 Jan. 1914: 110)

Fig. 4. “The Chaplain” and a Section of His Transient Night Audience in Madison Square. (“Tending His Flock by Night,” The Continent, 11 Dec. 1913: 1740)

 

All of these illustrations were taken from the articles I sent Professor Riggio.

 

CONCLUSION: There is virtually no primary source material, and not that much research, in Professor Riggio’s article other than that which I supplied to him. In an email to Professor Riggio at the time the article was published, I wrote: “… the whole article focuses (with some consideration of related works of Dreiser’s) on the Captain directly or indirectly (he provides the hook), starts out with him; without my material, you would have not have been able to offer new material about this figure or explain who he was in real life. The title indicates the focus of your article, and there is a promise that the reader will find out something new about the background of the ‘Curious Shifts of the Poor’ chapter. The article is illustrated with scanned pages from newspaper and magazine articles that came from me.”

 

Professor Riggio obviously did the writing, and the concept of the article was his. But research is important in almost any work of scholarship, and readers are looking for new findings, new information, such as that there really was “a captain” who would have been known to Dreiser. To find this out and prove it, and then to flesh the article out and make it interesting with details about Rotzler and his charitable work, and illustrative material, “added” a great deal to the article — not just added, formed a major portion of the article. The reader looks for new discoveries by the author, and when they have been made, they should be properly credited.

 

 

*****************************************************

 

 

from Chapter XLV Sister Carrie

 

 

At that hour, when Broadway is wont to assume its most interesting aspect, a peculiar individual invariably took his stand at the corner of Twenty-sixth Street and Broadway—a spot which is also intersected by Fifth Avenue. This was the hour when the theatres were just beginning to receive their patrons. Fire signs announcing the night’s amusements blazed on every hand. Cabs and carriages, their lamps gleaming like yellow eyes, pattered by. Couples and parties of three and four freely mingled in the common crowd, which poured by in a thick stream, laughing and jesting. On Fifth Avenue were loungers—a few wealthy strollers, a gentleman in evening dress with his lady on his arm, some clubmen passing from one smoking-room to another. Across the way the great hotels showed a hundred gleaming windows, their cafés and billiard-rooms filled with a comfortable, well-dressed, and pleasure-loving throng. All about was the night, pulsating with the thoughts of pleasure and exhilaration—the curious enthusiasm of a great city bent upon finding joy in a thousand different ways.

 

This unique individual was no less than an ex-soldier turned religionist, who, having suffered the whips and privations of our peculiar social system, had concluded that his duty to the God which he conceived lay in aiding his fellow-man. The form of aid which he chose to administer was entirely original with himself. It consisted of securing a bed for all such homeless wayfarers as should apply to him at this particular spot, though he had scarcely the wherewithal to provide a comfortable habitation for himself.

 

Taking his place amid this lightsome atmosphere, he would stand, his stocky figure cloaked in a great cape overcoat, his head protected by a broad slouch hat, awaiting the applicants who had in various ways learned the nature of his charity. For a while he would stand alone, gazing like any idler upon an ever-fascinating scene. On the evening in question, a policeman passing saluted him as “captain,” in a friendly way. An urchin who had frequently seen him before, stopped to gaze. All others took him for nothing out of the ordinary, save in the matter of dress, and conceived of him as a stranger whistling and idling for his own amusement.

 

As the first half-hour waned, certain characters appeared. Here and there in the passing crowds one might see, now and then, a loiterer edging interestedly near. A slouchy figure crossed the opposite corner and glanced furtively in his direction. Another came down Fifth Avenue to the corner of Twenty-sixth Street, took a general survey, and hobbled off again. Two or three noticeable Bowery types edged along the Fifth Avenue side of Madison Square, but did not venture over. The soldier, in his cape overcoat, walked a short line of ten feet at his corner, to and fro, indifferently whistling.

 

As nine o’clock approached, some of the hubbub of the earlier hour passed. The atmosphere of the hotels was not so youthful. The air, too, was colder. On every hand curious figures were moving—watchers and peepers, without an imaginary circle, which they seemed afraid to enter—a dozen in all. Presently, with the arrival of a keener sense of cold, one figure came forward. It crossed Broadway from out the shadow of Twenty-sixth Street, and, in a halting, circuitous way, arrived close to the waiting figure. There was something shamefaced or diffident about the movement, as if the intention were to conceal any idea of stopping until the very last moment. Then suddenly, close to the soldier, came the halt.

 

The captain looked in recognition, but there was no especial greeting. The newcomer nodded slightly and murmured something like one who waits for gifts. The other simply motioned toward the edge of the walk.

 

“Stand over there,” he said.

 

By this the spell was broken. Even while the soldier resumed his short, solemn walk, other figures shuffled forward. They did not so much as greet the leader, but joined the one, sniffling and hitching and scraping their feet.

 

“Cold, ain’t it?”

 

“I’m glad winter’s over.”

 

“Looks as though it might rain.”

 

The motley company had increased to ten. One or two knew each other and conversed. Others stood off a few feet, not wishing to be in the crowd and yet not counted out. They were peevish, crusty, silent, eying nothing in particular and moving their feet.

 

There would have been talking soon, but the soldier gave them no chance. Counting sufficient to begin, he came forward.

 

“Beds, eh, all of you?”

 

There was a general shuffle and murmur of approval.

 

“Well, line up here. I’ll see what I can do. I haven’t a cent myself.”

 

They fell into a sort of broken, ragged line. One might see, now, some of the chief characteristics by contrast. There was a wooden leg in the line. Hats were all drooping, a group that would ill become a second-hand Hester Street basement collection. Trousers were all warped and frayed at the bottom and coats worn and faded. In the glare of the store lights, some of the faces looked dry and chalky; others were red with blotches and puffed in the cheeks and under the eyes; one or two were rawboned and reminded one of railroad hands. A few spectators came near, drawn by the seemingly conferring group, then more and more, and quickly there was a pushing, gaping crowd. Some one in the line began to talk.

 

“Silence!” exclaimed the captain. “Now, then, gentlemen, these men are without beds. They have to have some place to sleep to-night. They can’t lie out in the streets. I need twelve cents to put one of them to bed. Who will give it to me?”

 

No reply.

 

“Well, we’ll have to wait here, boys, until some one does. Twelve cents isn’t so very much for one man.”

 

“Here’s fifteen,” exclaimed a young man, peering forward with strained eyes. “It’s all I can afford.”

 

“All right. Now I have fifteen. Step out of the line,” and seizing one by the shoulder, the captain marched him off a little way and stood him up alone.

 

Coming back, he resumed his place and began again.

 

“I have three cents left. These men must be put to bed somehow. There are”—counting—”one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve men. Nine cents more will put the next man to bed; give him a good, comfortable bed for the night. I go right along and look after that myself. Who will give me nine cents?”

 

One of the watchers, this time a middle-aged man, handed him a five-cent piece.

 

“Now, I have eight cents. Four more will give this man a bed. Come, gentlemen. We are going very slow this evening. You all have good beds. How about these?”

 

“Here you are,” remarked a bystander, putting a coin into his hand.

 

“That,” said the captain, looking at the coin, “pays for two beds for two men and gives me five on the next one. Who will give me seven cents more?”

 

“I will,” said a voice.

 

Coming down Sixth Avenue this evening, Hurstwood chanced to cross east through Twenty-sixth Street toward Third Avenue. He was wholly disconsolate in spirit, hungry to what he deemed an almost mortal extent, weary, and defeated. How should he get at Carrie now? It would be eleven before the show was over. If she came in a coach, she would go away in one. He would need to interrupt under most trying circumstances. Worst of all, he was hungry and weary, and at best a whole day must intervene, for he had not heart to try again to-night. He had no food and no bed.

 

When he neared Broadway, he noticed the captain’s gathering of wanderers, but thinking it to be the result of a street preacher or some patent medicine fakir, was about to pass on. However, in crossing the street toward Madison Square Park, he noticed the line of men whose beds were already secured, stretching out from the main body of the crowd. In the glare of the neighbouring electric light he recognised a type of his own kind—the figures whom he saw about the streets and in the lodging-houses, drifting in mind and body like himself. He wondered what it could be and turned back.

 

There was the captain curtly pleading as before. He heard with astonishment and a sense of relief the oft-repeated words: “These men must have a bed.” Before him was the line of unfortunates whose beds were yet to be had, and seeing a newcomer quietly edge up and take a position at the end of the line, he decided to do likewise. What use to contend? He was weary to-night. It was a simple way out of one difficulty, at least. To-morrow, maybe, he would do better.

 

Back of him, where some of those were whose beds were safe, a relaxed air was apparent. The strain of uncertainty being removed, he heard them talking with moderate freedom and some leaning toward sociability. Politics, religion, the state of the government, some newspaper sensations, and the more notorious facts the world over, found mouthpieces and auditors there. Cracked and husky voices pronounced forcibly upon odd matters. Vague and rambling observations were made in reply.

 

There were squints, and leers, and some dull, ox-like stares from those who were too dull or too weary to converse.

 

Standing tells. Hurstwood became more weary waiting. He thought he should drop soon and shifted restlessly from one foot to the other. At last his turn came. The man ahead had been paid for and gone to the blessed line of success. He was now first, and already the captain was talking for him.

 

“Twelve cents, gentlemen—twelve cents puts this man to bed. He wouldn’t stand here in the cold if he had any place to go.”

 

Hurstwood swallowed something that rose to his throat. Hunger and weakness had made a coward of him.

 

“Here you are,” said a stranger, handing money to the captain.

 

Now the latter put a kindly hand on the ex-manager’s shoulder.

 

“Line up over there,” he said.

 

Once there, Hurstwood breathed easier. He felt as if the world were not quite so bad with such a good man in it. Others seemed to feel like himself about this.

 

“Captain’s a great feller, ain’t he?” said the man ahead—a little, woe-begone, helpless-looking sort of individual, who looked as though he had ever been the sport and care of fortune.

 

“Yes,” said Hurstwood, indifferently.

 

“Huh! there’s a lot back there yet,” said a man farther up, leaning out and looking back at the applicants for whom the captain was pleading.

 

“Yes. Must be over a hundred to-night,” said another.

 

“Look at the guy in the cab,” observed a third.

 

A cab had stopped. Some gentleman in evening dress reached out a bill to the captain, who took it with simple thanks and turned away to his line. There was a general craning of necks as the jewel in the white shirt front sparkled and the cab moved off. Even the crowd gaped in awe.

 

“That fixes up nine men for the night,” said the captain, counting out as many of the line near him. “Line up over there. Now, then, there are only seven. I need twelve cents.”

 

Money came slowly. In the course of time the crowd thinned out to a meagre handful. Fifth Avenue, save for an occasional cab or foot passenger, was bare. Broadway was thinly peopled with pedestrians. Only now and then a stranger passing noticed the small group, handed out a coin, and went away, unheeding.

 

The captain remained stolid and determined. He talked on, very slowly, uttering the fewest words and with a certain assurance, as though he could not fail.

 

“Come; I can’t stay out here all night. These men are getting tired and cold. Some one give me four cents.”

 

There came a time when he said nothing at all. Money was handed him, and for each twelve cents he singled out a man and put him in the other line. Then he walked up and down as before, looking at the ground.

 

The theatres let out. Fire signs disappeared. A clock struck eleven. Another half-hour and he was down to the last two men.

 

“Come, now,” he exclaimed to several curious observers; “eighteen cents will fix us all up for the night. Eighteen cents. I have six. Somebody give me the money. Remember, I have to go over to Brooklyn yet to-night. Before that I have to take these men down and put them to bed. Eighteen cents.”

 

No one responded. He walked to and fro, looking down for several minutes, occasionally saying softly: “Eighteen cents.” It seemed as if this paltry sum would delay the desired culmination longer than all the rest had. Hurstwood, buoyed up slightly by the long line of which he was a part, refrained with an effort from groaning, he was so weak.

 

At last a lady in opera cape and rustling skirts came down Fifth Avenue, accompanied by her escort. Hurstwood gazed wearily, reminded by her both of Carrie in her new world and of the time when he had escorted his own wife in like manner.

 

While he was gazing, she turned and, looking at the remarkable company, sent her escort over. He came, holding a bill in his fingers, all elegant and graceful.

 

“Here you are,” he said.

 

“Thanks,” said the captain, turning to the two remaining applicants. “Now we have some for to-morrow night,” he added.

 

Therewith he lined up the last two and proceeded to the head, counting as he went.

 

“One hundred and thirty-seven,” he announced. “Now, boys, line up. Right dress there. We won’t be much longer about this. Steady, now.”

 

He placed himself at the head and called out “Forward.” Hurstwood moved with the line. Across Fifth Avenue, through Madison Square by the winding paths, east on Twenty-third Street, and down Third Avenue wound the long, serpentine company. Midnight pedestrians and loiterers stopped and stared as the company passed. Chatting policemen, at various corners, stared indifferently or nodded to the leader, whom they had seen before. On Third Avenue they marched, a seemingly weary way, to Eighth Street, where there was a lodging-house, closed, apparently, for the night. They were expected, however.

 

Outside in the gloom they stood, while the leader parleyed within. Then doors swung open and they were invited in with a “Steady, now.”

 

Some one was at the head showing rooms, so that there was no delay for keys. Toiling up the creaky stairs, Hurstwood looked back and saw the captain, watching; the last one of the line being included in his broad solicitude. Then he gathered his cloak about him and strolled out into the night.

 

“I can’t stand much of this,” said Hurstwood, whose legs ached him painfully, as he sat down upon the miserable bunk in the small, lightless chamber allotted to him. “I’ve got to eat, or I’ll die.”