Collected Works of Frances Trollope
Page 1
The Collected Works of
FRANCES TROLLOPE
(1779-1863)
Contents
The Novels
THE LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF JONATHAN JEFFERSON WHITLAW
THE VICAR OF WREXHILL
THE WIDOW BARNABY
MICHAEL ARMSTRONG, THE FACTORY BOY
THE WIDOW MARRIED
THE WARD OF THORPE-COMBE
THE BARNABYS IN AMERICA
MRS. MATTHEWS
GERTRUDE
The Non-Fiction
DOMESTIC MANNERS OF THE AMERICANS (1832)
PARIS AND THE PARISIANS
The Biographies
FRANCES TROLLOPE by Richard Garnett
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE by Anthony Trollope
The Delphi Classics Catalogue
© Delphi Classics 2016
Version 1
The Collected Works of
FRANCES TROLLOPE
By Delphi Classics, 2016
COPYRIGHT
Collected Works of Frances Trollope
First published in the United Kingdom in 2016 by Delphi Classics.
© Delphi Classics, 2016.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form other than that in which it is published.
ISBN: 978 1 78656 043 8
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The Novels
Frances Trollope was born in Stapleton, Bristol
THE LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF JONATHAN JEFFERSON WHITLAW
OR, SCENES ON THE MISSISSIPPI
The Life and Adventures of Jonathan Jefferson Whitlaw; Or Scenes on the Mississippi was first published in 1836. The author was born in 1789, but did not begin her professional writing career until she was fifty-three. She married the barrister, Thomas Anthony Trollope, in 1809 and had four children, including the famous Victorian novelist, Anthony Trollope. He was a prolific and highly successful author whose best known works include the Chronicles of Barsetshire series and the Palliser Novels. Thomas Trollope struggled to make money from either law or his farming enterprises, and after a failed attempt by Frances to create a life in America with her children, she returned to England and began writing in order to support her family. Thomas’ financial situation deteriorated to such an extent that he faced possible imprisonment for failure to pay his debts. The couple, as well as their children, were forced to flee to Belgium and the family solely subsisted on Frances’ earnings from her writing.
The Life and Adventures of Jonathan Jefferson Whitlaw was an instant commercial success and went through three editions within a year of publication. The novel is categorised as an antislavery work, and it has been argued that it served as an influence for Harriet Beecher Stowe’s famous 1852 abolitionist book, Uncle Tom’s Cabin. Trollope’s novel focuses on the eponymous Jonathan Jefferson: a cruel, brutal and conniving slave manager. The author emphasises the sexual violence and terror enacted upon black women by white men. She underlines how rape is employed as a method of social control, highlighting the unconstrained legal and societal power that someone like Jonathan possesses over black slave women. Unfortunately, the author also dedicates significant attention to the white abolitionists, Edward and Lucy Bligh, and it is difficult to escape the strong sense of paternalism that permeates the novel. However, an interesting aspect of the work is the way in which the writer clearly demonstrates that while Jonathan Whitlaw is an appalling man, he is very much a product of his environment. She stresses that his values and behaviour are in complete accordance with the dominant ideology of the society. Another important element of the novel is the prominence of Old Juno, an aging female slave, who is not only depicted as a strong and defiant woman, but as the instrumental force in exacting revenge on the villainous Whitlaw.
Title page from the 1836 edition
CONTENTS
VOLUME I.
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
CHAPTER X.
CHAPTER XI.
CHAPTER XII.
CHAPTER XIII.
CHAPTER XIV.
CHAPTER XV.
CHAPTER XVI.
CHAPTER XVII.
CHAPTER XVIII.
VOLUME II.
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
CHAPTER X.
CHAPTER XI.
CHAPTER XII.
CHAPTER XIII.
CHAPTER XIV.
CHAPTER XV.
CHAPTER XVI.
CHAPTER XVII.
CHAPTER XVIII.
VOLUME III.
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
CHAPTER X.
CHAPTER XI.
CHAPTER XII.
CHAPTER XIII.
CHAPTER XIV.
CHAPTER XV.
CHAPTER XVI.
CHAPTER XVII.
CHAPTER XVIII.
TO THOSE
STATES OF THE AMERICAN UNION
IN WHICH SLAVERY HAS BEEN ABOLISHED, OR NEVER PERMITTED, THESE VOLUMES ARE RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED BY
THE AUTHOR.
LONDON, 27th APRIL, 1836.
VOLUME I.
CHAPTER I.
AT one of those bold sweeps of the Mississippi river which occasionally vary the monotony of its scenery by giving to a portion of its dark, deep waters the appearance of a lake, may yet be seen the traces of what was once — some dozen years ago perhaps — a human habitation. The spot is fearfully wild, and possesses no single feature of the sweet, heartcheering beauty which a lover of Nature would select for the embellishment of his familiar home; yet it is not altogether without interest, — that species of interest, at least, which arises from a vague and shadowy outline, and the absence of every object, either of grace or of deformity, which might lower by its insignificance the effect of the moody grandeur that seems to brood over the almost boundless plain through which the father of waters rolls his mighty waves.
There is in truth an unbroken vastness in the scenes displayed at many points of the Mississippi river that seizes very powerfully on the imagination; and though composed for the most part of obje
cts that chill and revolt the mind, the combination of them would, I think, detain the eye for some short space from many a fairer landscape, were it possible that such could rise beside it.
Unwonted to European eyes, and mystically heavy, is the eternal gloom that seems settled upon that region. Whatever wind may blow — however bright and burning that southern sun may blaze in the unclouded sky, the stream is for ever turbid, and for ever dark, turning all that is reflected on its broad breast to its own murky hue, and so blending all things into one sad, sombre tint, till the very air seems tinged with grey, and Nature looks as if she had put on a suit of morning to do honour to some sad solemnity. Nor can one look long upon the scene without fancying that Nature has indeed some cause to mourn; for at one moment an uprooted forest is seen borne along by the rapid flood, its leafy honours half concealed beneath the untransparent wave, while its faithless roots mock the air by rearing their unsightly branches in their stead. At another, the sullen stillness is interrupted by a blast that will rend from the earth her verdant mantle — there her only boast, and leave the groaning forest crushed, prostrate, unbarked and unboughed, the very emblem of ruin, desolation, and despair.
It is perhaps this very perfection of melancholy dreariness which creates the interest experienced on viewing the singular scenery of the Mississippi. But though one may feel well disposed to linger for a moment to gaze on its strange and dismal vastness, it offers little to tempt a longer stay. The drowsy alligator, luxuriating on its slimy banks, or the unsocial bear, happy in the undisputed possession of its tangled thickets, alone seem formed to find prolonged enjoyment there.
Yet this was the spot selected and chosen, at no very distant period of the earth’s history, as the abode of a man who nevertheless had all the world before him where to choose; and, what is perhaps more extraordinary still, he never either regretted his choice, or felt the slightest inclination to change his habitation for the space of at least ten years after he made it.
This chosen spot was thenceforward distinguished by the name of Mohana Creek; an appellation borrowed from a deep ravine not a hundred yards distant from it, which during the winter and spring carried a huge stream of pine-stained water to the river.
It was indeed this valuable creek which attracted the careful and skilful eye of Jonathan Whitlaw, and finally led him to select its vicinity for the erection of a permanent dwelling for himself and his family.
What the original cause might have been which induced Mr. Jonathan Whitlaw to “squat in the bush,” (as the taking possession of any heretofore unappropriated land is called in Transatlantic phrase,) was never, I believe, very clearly understood; and as the point is not likely to be one of much interest to the general reader, I will not delay the progress of my narrative by repeating the various conjectures on the subject which have reached me: it is sufficient for my purpose to state, that about three o’clock P. M. on a certain Tuesday in the month of April 18 — , a very small flat boat, formed of unpainted deals, with nothing but a few articles of old household furniture for its cargo, and two women, one man, and a dog for its crew, came down the stream, and by the aid of its paddles was brought within grappling-reach of the bank immediately above Mohana Creek.
Little and light as was her lading, the boat was deep in the water, and the two women had perched themselves with their feet drawn up on an old chest, that formed the most substantial part of the cargo, in order to keep themselves out of the water, which a very considerable leak was permitting to enter, in such abundance as to render the frail craft not only very uncomfortable, but very unsafe.
“By the living Jingo,” cried the man, springing on shore, “it is time to be smart, or we shall be going down where nobody never comes up. Be spry, gals!” he continued, stretching out his hand to assist the disembarkation of the females: “you hold her fast on with the hook, Portia, till I can grapple her tight to a tree; and you, Clio, look sharp and fix them notions safe and dry on shore as fast as I can pitch them at ye.”
The individual who thus, in the true Columbian style, now planted his foot on the land, and thereby took possession of it, was a powerful muscular man somewhat past thirty. His features were regular, and might have been called handsome, had the expression of his countenance been less unpleasing; but labour and intemperance had each left traces there.
The women who were his companions appeared both of them to be under twenty, and of the very lowest order of society. Their garments were scanty and sordid, and they had much the look and air of that poorly-paid class known in every manufacturing town in the United States as “the gals of the factory.”
Whatever else they might be, however, they seemed to possess one excellent feminine quality in perfection, — they were most “obedient to command;” and though one of them was very evidently in a state which rendered her little fit for hard work, they both of them readily and actively performed the tasks allotted to them, till the boat was disembarrassed of all the load she had carried, save the water — and that was visibly increasing upon her rapidly.
“It don’t signify thinking of anything else,” observed Mr. Jonathan Whitlaw, “till I have saved them elegant sawed planks. Wood is plenty enough, and to spare, no doubt; but sawing is sawing all the world over, so you must jest wait a spell, gals, till I’m ready to fix you: and if you will but bide clever a bit, and say not a word till I bid you, why then I’ll set to fix you and all your notions about you outright, as slick as may be.”
A goodly axe being part of the treasure landed, it required but a few minutes to demolish the frail vessel, and deposit her timbers on the bank. This done, Jonathan Whitlaw turned to his wife and his sister, nothing dismayed, as it should seem, at the apparent impossibility of leaving the dreary spot on which they stood; and having filled the hollow of his left cheek with tobacco, and settled himself in his ill-fitting attire with sundry of those jerks and tugs incomprehensible to all who have not looked at the natives of the New World face to face, he thus again addressed them:
“Well, now, this is what I call a right-down elegant location. D’ye comprehend the privilege of that handsome creek, gals? Maybe you don’t, and maybe I do. Mind now what I say: if that creek don’t prove as good as a dozen axes, say my name’s not Jonathan.”
“My!” — exclaimed the matronly Portia, drawing her thin shawl more tightly round her; for the April sun, though it had almost scorched them on the river, could not prevent the deep, dank shade of the spot from sending a cold shiver through her limbs. “Well, now, Jonathan, but that will be considerable convenient anyhow.”
“I expect so,” replied the man, folding his arms, and turning himself slowly round to every point of the compass to ascertain the capabilities of the spot for the” improvements” he meditated. “I expect so,” he repeated with an absent air, as if his faculties were wholly absorbed by the examination he was making.
To an unpractised eye, a single glance might have seemed sufficient to discover everything that the desolate spot had to show. Before them spread the mighty mass of muddy waters, bounded, as it seemed, on all sides by the matted foliage of the level forest, above whose unvaried line sprang the high arch of heaven. Beneath their feet was a boggish, peat-like soil, that looked as if occasionally it might itself become a part of the swollen river’s bed. Around them rose innumerable tall, slender trees, between whose stems the eye could not penetrate two hundred yards in any direction, so thickly was the ground covered with an undergrowth of bear-brake and reeds.
To an unpractised eye, one glance would have been enough, and too much, to show all that could there be seen; unless the next might have discovered a friendly bark upon that muddy stream, which might have borne the gazer from it for ever.
But with Jonathan Whitlaw the case was very different. Not a stem, not a stick, not a reed, not a hollow half filled with stagnant water, nor a crevice that might facilitate its escape, but was examined with as much earnest attention, and reasoned upon with as much provident wisdom, as might
suffice to decide the locality of a palace.
The women meanwhile again seated themselves on the chest which had done them such good service in the boat, and for a time sat silently watching the master of their destiny as he meditated in the secret council-chamber of his own breast the plans on which it hung. A low whispering then commenced between them, the result of which was a half-timid, halfcoaxing attempt on the part of Clio, the bolder spirited of the two, to draw his attention from the future to the present.
“I say, Bub,” she began, “I say, — do you know that Porchy and I are right down dead almost for summet to eat? I can get at the bag with the corn-cakes in no time. Shall I, Jonathan?”
Jonathan turned his quid of tobacco deliberately from one cheek to the other, and then replied, “I’ll tell you what it is, sis, — we are here — no matter why, — Perhaps ’tis because I happen to like this here part of the country best — but at any rate here we be, and I can tell you that here we must bide — but as to spending our days in nothing but eating, it’s what I’m not provided for. Now look you, both of you, and I’ll tell you the case at once. The nearest town to this here bit is Natchez, and I calculate that is not over nigh for a walk through the bush, seeing it can’t be much less than twenty miles right a-head. I won’t say that we can’t buy a bushel of corn-meal no nigher, but I won’t say that we can; but this I will say, that near or far, we shan’t never get it at all without having the Spanish wheels ready, I expect; and concerning that commodity I’ll tell you no lies, — I have got no more of it than a mouse might carry easy at full trot. But, however, there stands the meal-tub chock full, and dry as a ripe tassel, — I took care of that. And here’s five gallons of whisky, and there’s my axe, and here’s my arms,” baring them as he spoke to the shoulder. “So be good gals, and I’ll fix a palace for you; but don’t be for everlasting talking of eating, jest in the beginning, — I shall be wrathy enough if you do, I tell you that: so mind and say no more about it, but each of you take a drop with me, and you’ll be after helping me build in no time.”