Infernal Regions and the Invisible Girl

Frances Milton Trollope, the mother of the novelist, arrived in

America with three of her children on Christmas Eve in 1827. She

settled in Cincinnati, where, eventually, she built a "Bazaar." It

was an emporium for fancy goods, the upper stories reserved for social

and cultural events. On her return to England, Mrs. Trollope com-

pleted Domestic Manners of the Americans, published in 1832

to acclaim in England and opprobrium in America. Mary Russell

Mitford, novelist and dramatist, author of Our Village, was a

friend and literary sponsor. The following conversation takes place

between them at Harrow, after Mrs. Trollope's return, a time when

it's possible to imagine her practicing aloud for her book.

Had I the tenth part of your great descriptive

Powers, my dear Miss Mitford . . . . I do not,

Yet I am writing very diligently.

Three years' atrocious discommodity:

The nearest thing of course is Dante, nor

Do you imagine I mean the Paradiso.

Lasciar ogni speranza . . . . Yes, precisely.

I felt that I had come to River Styx:

Miasmal waters of the Mississippi,

And crocodiles, the horror, the horror of them!

How one pitied the wretched woodcutter

Who lives in their society on the shore,

Selling fuel to passing steamboats, half

Dead from hunger, burning with ague, whisky

His single remedy and sole distraction . . ..

At first the town of Cincinnati seemed

A different prospect, built of brick and stone-

The site is truly splendid, hills and slopes

That overlook the beautiful Ohio.

Even so, I ought to have foreseen

An outpost in the American wilds, not forty

Years old, could hardly produce amenities

Comparable to those of Bath or Malvern.

Its citizens are far outnumbered by

Their roving pigs, who swarm the streets and act

As unpaid rubbish carters, for there are

No others to perform that service. Of course,

Like most new towns, it's based on commerce, not

On ancient feudal privilege and custom.

Still, I maintain that manners cost us nothing,

That a gentlewoman travelling

With her children and no husband there

To assist her might in reason hope to have

Kindly treatment from all but crocodiles.

As she was English she could count on nothing

Of the sort! How they loathe their mother

Country and all its works! Fanatical

Patriotism . . . . Also, I was female,

Therefore had broken hallowed rules of conduct

Merely by refusing to stay at home.

A seven-fold shield of insignificance

Guards American womanhood from the least

Stain of independent activity.

The Yankee disposes; his wife and chattels obey.

He also chews tobacco, and he spits

Whether provoked or not-Miss Mitford, we

Laugh, but it is revolting, you can't conceive-.

And then, a total lack of probity

Where interest is concerned, which might, believe me,

Set canny Yorkshire at defiance. Money

Tops the range of Yankee aspiration.

My wish to show them other modes of life

Overrode natural caution. Would they

Ever have attained the realms where I

Proposed to take them? Ah, it cost me dearly

To leave my marvelous Bazaar so soon

After building it. A charming resort,

Egypto-Graeco-Moresco-Gothic, the style-

Byronic, one might say, or like the Regent's

Pavilion. Commerce on the street level,

And all of painting, music, and poetry

I could arrange for on the floors above:

A slow ascent to Heaven, as in Dante.

In fact, they had their own Inferno-surely

I mentioned meeting a Frenchman named Dorfeuille?

Disheartened, but very nice. His Western Museum

Had not done well. Geology and fossils,

Though most instructive, brought few 'visitors.

Some novelties and freaks of nature fared

Little better. No, his greatest triumph

Was our "Infernal Regions," devised with help

From a young sculptor-Hiram Powers, very

Gifted. The figures, formed, alas, in wax,

Were nonetheless extremely fine. Ha-ha,

They gave the spectators a terrible fright,

And that experience was much enjoyed.

Hell is the core of their religious faith,

You see. I heard a three-hour Baptist sermon

On the dread topic, worse by far than our

Infernal Regions. "Revivals," so they're called,

Provide the summer entertainment, and-

I shan't forbear to say-are vile occasions

Indeed, a base infection of irreligion.

It shall be called a heinous libel, yet

I tell you that young ladies put themselves

In fits of madness-answering the divine

Afflatus (they believe). They rush headlong

To the great altar, fling themselves to earth,

And then the groans, the tears, the flailing limbs,

The shrieked and inarticulate confessions-.

More than one young person's neck I saw

Encircled by a reverend arm, as he bent

Forward and whispered like the toad at Eve's

Ear... . A shocking spectacle, but then

Infernality's the key to Yankee

Affective life, for it reminds them of home;

And anyone who had the skill to give

Visible form to such imaginations

Was sure to draw the multitudes. These thoughts

I represented to Monsieur Dorfeuille.

I made his fortune! Not my own, I fear.

The difficulties were immense, children

Ill, my dear husband far away, unable

. Tocomfort.... That second year I too was stricken.

Nine weeks I could not leave my room. The novels

Of Mr. Cooper occupied my hours-

You've read them? I never closed my eyes but saw

Myriads of bloody scalps afloat in my dreams... .

Red Indians crept about with noiseless tread;

Forests blazed; whichever way I fled

A keen eye and a long rifle were sure

To be on my trail. . . . But I eluded them

And have survived. Ah, here's my son! Henry,

Come and greet our guest. He was my mainstay

In America, Miss Mitford. And-

Shall I tell this? Of course I shall. You see,

"Infernal Regions" was not the first tableau

That I devised for our good friend's Museum.

The old Egyptian Mysteries have always

Held a fascination for me, thus

I wondered whether we might not set up

A secret oracle in a magic chamber. . . .

But not for gawking eyes. Instead, the voice

Of a girl, invisible but near at hand

To answer any question posed (provided

It was proper, of course). They came in droves

To consult this prodigy, and some believed.

Her answers came in Latin, French, and Greek,

Striking wonder into the hearts of all -

Much as the poet reveres his sacred Muse.

No, Miss Mitford, the oracle was not

Myself, I speak no Greek nor Latin, only

A little French. It was my boy, my Henry.

He was so young his treble voice could be

Mistaken for a girl's. Concealed in the gloom

Of the Magic Chamber, he replied to all

Their questions-very sagely, may I say.

Advice in Greek was listened to with hushed

Respect, however little understood.

They hearkened to invisibility-

A source of truth not readily confuted-

But never once to me! Perhaps, when I

Myself have put on invisibility,

Speaking to them from print on page, they shall?