“You May Quote Me”

No peepers peeping yet on Tuesday....

The American spring is by no means so agreeable as the American autumn; both move with faultering step, and slow; but this lingering pace, which is delicious in autumn, is most tormenting in the spring. In the one case you are about to part with a friend, who is becoming more gentle and agreeable at every step, and such steps can hardly be made too slowly; but in the other you have been shut up with black frost and biting blasts, and where your best consolation was being smoke-dried.

 

-      Fanny Trollope, Domestic Manners of the Americans

 

Ah, spring, you are such a tease!

The sun shone in Leelanau on Easter! All day long! We couldn’t call it a warm day, but it was lovely. Even though the daffodils hadn’t opened yet, the little blue squills were cheery in the sunlight.

Monday was a day of rain. Shrug! “April showers”— you know the rest. On that rainy day I drove south of Traverse City on an errand that had been postponed long enough but on the way stopped at a thrift shop to look through music CDs for something to combat the dreariness of the day and give me voices in the car that were not battering me with current events. What I found was the original cast recording of “The Phantom of the Opera.” It more than fulfilled my requirements: I was in another world all afternoon! The mood of the rain … memories along every mile of road … images of the Paris Opera … the lyrics and the music!!! “Wishing I could hear your voice again….” Oh, yes! And, of course, "The Music of the Night"! I was ecstatic and miserable and floating on air and drowned in sorrow. When I got home, I told Sunny, “I’ve been breaking my heart in Paris. It will take me a while to come back to you.”

From the previous century's bulbs 

Tuesday the sun returned, and the “wild” daffodils at my place began to open (the ones that I planted not quite ready but getting close), and with another day of sun in the forecast, I hung towels out on the line. Sunny and I played in the yard, I worked at outdoor tasks, and we made it to the dog park and met with friends there. 

No more snow!!! Airborne puppy!

Mrs. Trollope said it first.

The passage quoted at the beginning of today’s post is the first paragraph of Chapter XIV in Mrs. Trollope’s book (I call her “Mrs. Trollope” because that’s how she was referred to at the time her book made such a sensation), and I used it today because it captures so well the feelings of most of my fellow northern Michigan residents. But naturally, most of the book is given over to subjects other than climate and weather. It was after reading both the Rev. Isaac Fidler’s and James Stuart, Esquire’s accounts of visiting the young United States, comparing them, and musing over the difference in the two gentlemen’s impressions, that I decided the time had come for me to read the famous account, read by both Fidler and Stuart, of American life written by Englishwoman Frances Trollope, whose visit began in the last days of 1828 and extended into 1832. 

 

Look again at those dates above. Alexis de Tocqueville and Gustave Beaumont made their nine-month visit to “America” (i.e., the United States of) in 1831-32, so their time here would have overlapped with that of Mrs. Trollope, but I can find no evidence that the three ever met. The latter expressly says in the preface to her book (speaking of herself in the first person in the preface but in the first person in the main text):

 

She leaves to abler pens the more ambitious task of commenting on the democratic form of the American government; while, by describing, faithfully, the daily aspect of ordinary life, she has endeavored to shew how greatly the advantage is on the side of those who are governed by the few, instead of the many.

 

In other words, she isn’t going to get into politics, but it’s obvious to her, after over three years in the U.S. that England, with its monarch and aristocracy and established national Church, has the better form of government for all concerned. That, of course, is her opinion. Her observations and the conversations she committed to paper as quickly as possible so as not to lose either the words or the tone—those cannot be as easily dismissed as her opinions, if one does not share or appreciate them. 

 

Fidler and Stuart, men, along with Monsieur de Tocqueville, focusing on politics, had little to say of the life of American women, and Fanny Trollope gives detailed observations on that topic. 

 

In general, she sees the two sexes mixing very rarely. In public gatherings (mostly religious but occasionally a lecture), the norm is for men and women to sit separately. Men do their drinking at night, away from home, in places where women are not welcome (probably not allowed), and even in the home, the midday dinner meal lasts only about ten minutes, with husband and wife separating as soon as they leave the table, while at breakfast the husband reads his newspaper until he leaves for his office or shop. Boarding house meals are similarly silent and rushed.

 

As dancing and theatre-going are mostly out of bounds for 1830s Americans, young people meet at preachings or are introduced in the homes of friends. “Refined” young American ladies in this time period would never dream of allowing so much as an elbow to come into contact with any part of the body of a man or boy at a dinner table or on a staircase! When Fanny proposed a “pic-nic,” she was advised by a very proper young lady that it would be very improper for men and women to sit together on the ground. In cities, there are occasional balls. When refreshments are offered, men and women go to separate rooms. (How, though, I wonder, did they dance without touching?)

 

Mrs. Trollope gives it as her opinion that American manners would be much improved if there were more mixing of ladies and gentlemen. For one thing, she suspects the men would do much less chewing of tobacco and spitting on the floor, which was one of her constant complaints. This spitting occurred even in the House of Representatives, although the Senate, she allowed, was more dignified: its members sat up straight, rather than lounging and putting up their feet, and there was very little spitting. From the gallery, she was unable to hear much of the discussion on the floor.

 

Everywhere in the country, however, she found conversation among men almost exclusively political, while the women, in their limited sphere, gossiped among themselves and spoke of dress. Mrs. Trollope was frequently bored to tears and wondered how the women could stand the tedium of their lives. She hoped to find literary conversation in her American travels, but this hope was dashed again and again. Americans of the merchant class were not conversant even with Shakespeare and could hardly imagine they were missing anything. Their ambition was all financial, getting ahead the focus and aim of their lives.

 

Despite fierce denials met with in the United States, and despite James Stuart’s suspicion that Mrs. Trollope exaggerated or invented much of what she reported, I found her observations quite believable and calmly expressed. As to the narrow American focus on getting ahead financially, this is confirmed in de Tocqueville’s writings. Mrs. Trollope finds confirmation of her impression given by an Englishman she met.

I heard an Englishman … declare that in following, in meeting, or in overtaking in the street, on the road, or in the field, at the theatre, the coffeehouse, or at home, he had never heard Americans conversing [this would be American men] without the word DOLLAR being pronounced between them. Such unity of purpose, such sympathy of feeling, can, I believe, be found nowhere else, except, perhaps, in an ants’ nest.

I have read elsewhere (perhaps in Dickens?) about the constant spitting of chewing tobacco and the haste with which Americans rapidly gulped down meals in silence. Could Mrs. Trollope return today, she would find Americans enjoying more leisurely meals but snacking and sipping and gulping throughout the day, too. She would find conversation of men and women to include lively discussion of professional sports, books, films, and more, along with politics and financial matters. 

 

Our own pictures of American life in that period, whether in the North or the South, in cities or plantations or on the frontier, is generally oversimplified to the point of falsehood. Seeing our country not through history textbooks or hagiographies of famous men but through the eyes of visitors from overseas, making contemporary observations firsthand, makes for eye-opening reading. And if those observers sometimes disagree on specifics, don’t we do the same now, in the present? It’s a reason not to read only one account and think you have gotten a complete picture.

 

***

 

Well! After writing the paragraph above, I picked up the book again to continue my reading, and what did I come upon?

 

While reading and transcribing my notes, I underwent a strict self-examination. I passed in review all I had seen, all I had felt, and scrupulously challenged every expression of disapprobation; the result was, that I omitted in transcription much that I had written, as containing unnecessary details of things which had displeased me; yet, as I did so, I felt strongly that there was no exaggeration in them; but such details, though true, might be ill-natured, and I retained no more than were necessary to convey the general impressions I received.

 

Further along, near the end of her book, she devotes an entire chapter to the American reception of another English visitor’s writings following his visit to the U.S. Travels in North America, by Captain Basil Hall, was met with exactly the kind of angry denial that was to greet Mrs. Trollope’s own work, although when she finally procured her own copy of his Travels, she found that this visitor of goodwill ”earnestly sought out things to admire and commend” in America.

When he praises, it is with evident pleasure, and when he finds fault, it is with evident reluctance and restraint….

Both Captain Hall and Mrs. Trollope (and the captain had traveled all over the world) found it more difficult to be understood by Americans than by men and women of any other nation, which Mrs. T imputed to the exceedingly thin skin of Americans, who wanted to hear nothing but praise. I do think we have improved in this regard since the 1830s and realize that our way of life is not perfect.

The subject was metaphor, the teacher said.

 

Here is one of those silly, unimportant little issues that turn me unreasonably peevish. I was reading a book review online, and the writer of the review, a teacher of writing, praised the book author’s use of metaphor, proceeding to give half a dozen examples—all of which were similes, not metaphors! This would probably not matter to me at all, except that I wrote my doctoral dissertation on theories of metaphor, and metaphor is a puzzle for those who wrestle with literal meaning. Simile is no problem. Something is like something else. Fill in ‘something’ and ‘something’ with two different things, and you’ve got a simile. A metaphor, on the other hand, says that the first something is the second something. 

 

“My love is like a red, red rose.” Fine.

 

“Juliet is the sun.” A different kettle of fish!

 

Simile, I’m thinking, is a pretty easy case to make, because, at least for a philosopher, any two things are alike in some way or other, however remote. Persuading someone of identity, merely by stating it, requires a skillful writer and a reader who trusts that writer. 

 

At least, so seems to me. Your thoughts?

Blue sky over blue water

REMINDER --

Once There Came Two Englishmen

First, The Lo-o-o-ong Birthday!

 

Before beginning with the Englishmen, I want to note that the birthday I was so reluctant to welcome stretched out to about two weeks, from the first early package in the mail to the last birthday dinner, at which my hostess provided me with my very first experience of the famous Sanders Bumpy Cake from Detroit! I had heard of it but had never seen, let alone tasted, one before. What a treat!

The beautiful cyclamen above, my favorite hothouse plant of early spring, had better be my last birthday gift this year, but could anything be lovelier?

 

And Now, Two Englishmen in Pre-Civil War America

 

Observations on Professions, Literature, Manners, and Emigration, in the United States and Canada, Made During a Residence There in 1832, by the Rev. Isaac Fidler (NY: J. & J. Harper, 1833)

 

Three Years in North America, Vol. II (from the second London edition), by James Stuart, Esq. (NY: J. & Harper, 1833)

 

Arriving in New York in December of 1831, after seven weeks at sea, Rev. Isaac Fidler reports that he found lodging for himself, his wife, two children, and a servant lodgings in a boarding house for $21 a week, water and three meals a day included. They subsequently moved into an unfurnished apartment, dismayed at the cost (more than a furnished flat at home, the author tells us), as an entire house, which would have been their preference, was far beyond their means, even after the servant left them for better wages with an American family.

Like so many others, Rev. Fidler’s reasons came to America with the hope of improving his situation in life. 

 

Educated for the church, but destitute of interest or patronage, I remained a mere teacher at home, with little to encourage my ambition….

 

He had hopes of finding employment in an Episcopal church in the United States. When disappointed here, as he had been in England, Fidler tried his luck in Canada, but Mrs. Fidler did not care for that country, and so back to England the family went, having spent altogether less than a year in North America.

 

James Stuart, on the other hand, as indicated in his book’s title, was here for three years, his travels were much more extensive, and, as a man of apparently independent means, he was at leisure to look more carefully into the regions through which he traveled. (Stuart, actually a Scot, was married but childless; if his wife accompanied him to America, she makes no appearance in his book.) Despite a background in law, Stuart had been embroiled in more than one controversy in England that led to duels. He seems, however, to have passed his visit to our shores peaceably. 

Both Fidler and Stuart note American shrewdness and fixation with finances. Both also read Mrs. Trollope’s popular book, Domestic Manners of the Americans, before undertaking their stateside visits. Fidler, who also read Stuart’s book before publishing his own, was convinced of the absolute truth of Mrs. Trollope’s negative stories and hoped Americans would take her lessons to heart and improve themselves. Americans, for their part, denied the Trollope stories, and some American booksellers refused to carry her book—which only persuaded Fidler that the stories must be true, “as they always denounce as false whatever truth offends them.” (Thus claims of either “Guilty” and “Not Guilty” indicate guilt, as Fidler sees it here. Interesting.)

 

Stuart’s opinion, happily, was otherwise. He spent much longer in North America, traveled to every part of the country, and spoke with Americans from all walks of life, while Fidler concentrated on those who had been born in England and had emigrated as adults. Stuart also visited every denomination of church and attended at least one camp meeting (it was apparently a single camp meeting that Mrs. Trollope had painted in lurid terms), and he saw no such excesses of lewd behavior as she had reported. 

 

(Frances Milton Trollope was the mother of the English novelist, Anthony Trollope. When the latter traveled to the States himself—the northern states, at least, during the Civil War—he was grateful to be received hospitably, given his mother’s harsh published views.)

 

Stuart reported favorably on American cuisine (e.g., judging American canvasback duck as tasty as Scotch grouse) and gave fascinating details of the period’s modes of travel.

 

…The river was hard frozen, and we expected to cross on the ice; but the passage of the mails on the ice is, it seems, prohibited by the rules of the post-office of this country; and persons are employed to keep an open course for the small rowing boats, in which the mails are transported. We embarked and were pushed forward by three men, who propelled the boat by long poles shod with iron….

 

Fidler’s American travels seem to have been restricted to New York (city and state), New Jersey, and Boston, Massachusetts. He noted that Americans were “prejudiced” against British aristocracy, and he considered most American writing to “exhibit a curious medley of prejudice, ignorance, and bombast.” All of North America, in fact, struck him as crude and unrefined.

 

Fidler, not having traveled in the South, did not give an opinion on slavery but did note:

 

In New-York no white person will sit down to eat at the same table with a coloured person, nor associate in same company. … I talked with several coloured people [in Canada], and always found them, in conversation, rational and sensible.

 

He spoke apparently at length with one “coloured” woman while briefly attached to a church in Canada.

 

I encouraged her to join our Sunday school, which she did a few times; but had not acquired ability to read, before she left the neighborhood. Her husband had been a slave in the States, and had made a premature [sic] liberation of himself by crossing the boundary line. Yet he could not gain a living by his skill and labor. He was a helpless and dependent creature. I perceived the necessity of conveying useful instruction to people inured to slavery, before emancipation and the rights of freedom are bestowed. Liberty to the captive is assuredly no blessing, where this had not been previously provided. 

 

(Liberty no blessing? That, of course, was the English clergyman’s view, not an opinion given by the formerly enslaved man, whose “premature liberation” of himself would seem to indicate that he preferred freedom, despite its difficulties.) 

 

Fidler spent much more of his North American time in Canada than in the U.S. As a Church of England clergyman, he found Canada’s Anglican religious observances congenial and would have been happy to settle there permanently, had his wife been so inclined. As for religion in America, he considered Methodist to be “bigots” and expected that in time the Episcopal church would become the national church of the United States, but he had not attended the meeting of Congress that Stuart did, or he might not have made such a prediction. [See my discussion in this post, under the section “Reading the Past,” for that background.]

 

Stuart traveled extensively in the antebellum South, as well as west to St. Louis, and thus had more to say about America’s “peculiar institution” (slavery) than Fidler. In Charleston, for example, he noted his landlady 

 

… give a young man, a servant, such a blow behind the ear as made him reel, and I afterward found that it was her daily and hourly practice to beat her servants, male and female, either with her fist, or with a thong made of cowhide.

 

He quotes another writer telling a story a serving girl in the same landlady’s establishment, punished by “twenty-six lashes inflicted … with a cow-hide” while another “young negro slave who waited in the house” had to stand by and count the lashes. Nor was this the end of the girl’s punishment, as the Frenchman she had defended herself against complained to the police, had her arrested, and she was then whipped again “in his presence.”

 

“I regret that I did not take a note of this miscreant’s name, in order that I might give his disgraceful conduct its merited publicity.”

 

Note that the unnamed “miscreant,” quite rightly, is the Frenchman, not the punished serving girl.

 

Both men frequently note prices, Stuart going far beyond Fidler in that regard, paying attention to commodity markets and the resources of different regions, as well as personal finances. At one point he makes the acquaintance of a fellow Scot in Illinois, who had first settled in New York but then been tempted further west by newspaper stories describing prairie land in Illinois.

 

He therefore came directly here from New-York, and procured 500 acres of the very best land in the state, as he thinks, of rich soil from three to four feet deep. It produces from thirty to forty-five bushels of wheat, and excellent corn and oats in rotation. It would do it injury to give it manure. The land is so easily ploughed, that a two-horse plough ploughs two and a half acres per day. There is never any want of a market. Everything is bought by the merchants for New-Orleans, or for Galena, where a vast number of workmen are congregated, who are employed in the lead mines on the north-western parts of the state. There is also a considerable demand for cattle for new settlers. Cattle are allowed to run out on the prairie during the whole winter….

 

Returning to the parson: Except for his lack of satisfaction and gratitude, Fidler’s style of writing reminds me of Mr. Collins (a fictional reverend) in Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice, as he exhibits the same overly conscious sense of social hierarchy as did the clergyman in the novel and similarly preens himself on his own judgment. Noting in his book’s preface that he has done all he could to avoid repeating anything Mrs. Trollope “had already said in a very popular and attractive style” and anything in Mr. Stuart’s book (the style and content of which he passed over in silence), Fidler writes of his own authorship in the third person: 

 

He flatters himself, therefore … that those who have read the above works may yet peruse his with some advantage.

 

Oh, yes, the advantageous perusal! 

 

Ah, but now, my own confession! It is impossible for me to read Fidler objectively, since the 19^th-century reader who once possessed the copy now mine added extensive marginalia, in soft pencil, from beginning to end of the narrative. At one point early on, that reader noted “True” in the margin, but more often, as he got deeper into the book, he was writing the word “Lie” “You lie!” or even, once, “Big Lie.” 

Here the long-ago reader remarked to the author, "You old Sponge."

I found the entertainment value increasing with longer marginal notions. Here are a few samples:

 

      “Old sour Crout”

      “Fiddler Diddaler”

      “Charitable Parson Fiddler”

      “Fiddle it off, Parson”

      “You lie, Parson”

      “Quarrelling Parson Fiddler”

      “Fidgetty Old Mrs. Fiddler” [She was never satisfied, according to her husband.]

      “Oh you old humbug”

 

The anonymous reader with his pencil even takes leave of the author on the last page of the book with “the hopes of the Reader that you will never return here” and makes reference to the writer’s “amiable spouse” and the writer’s own “amiable, candid disposition” with obvious sarcasm. I must say, it was fun sharing my reading with Anonymous from almost 200 years ago! Fidler alone would have been far too solemn!

Back to the Present?

 

One reason I have shared these two books today, other than having made extensive notes on them months ago, is to avoid discussion of current events. My head is not in the sand, never fear (though as often as possible I put my mind “somewhere else” at bedtime), but on Sundays now I am staying resolutely offline and away from the news, taking the day to restore my spirit. And although planting anything outdoors this early would be premature—no wild leeks poking up in the woods yet, no peepers peeping in the ponds—it feels good to rake the yard and to spend time at the dog park with Sunny and her friends. Small beginnings of the young season, too, are to be found, for those with searching eyes. Whatever transpires in the summer to come, right now I am grateful to be granted another spring.

August Afterglow

Lake Michigan after sunset

The past weekend brought many visitors to Northport, some familiar for years with Leelanau, others seeing it for the first time. My stepdaughters had booked four nights at the Jolli-Lodge, south of Leland on Lake Michigan, their favorite place for the past two years, owing to special 2022 memories, while grandson Jack and his college buddy, Daniel, tent-camped in the backyard of my old farmhouse. 

Jolli-Lodge

Backyard camp

Before any family showed up, however, my friend and book colleague Helen, from Arizona, appeared in Northport on Thursday evening, all the way from Arizona! We had dinner together at Faro and then a visit in the bookstore on Saturday, when I was able to introduce her to my stepdaughters. Our visits are never long enough, since that very first week we spent together in Carefree years ago, but Helen’s first visit to northern Michigan will not be her last, and we are already looking forward to the next. Book people never run out of conversation!

 

Booksellers Pamela and Helen

My Michigan-&-Minnesota contingent joined me for Indian food (from Rosie at NJ’s) on the porch on Saturday after my stepdaughters enjoyed their very first Northport dog parade and the boys showed up (too late for the parade) from Kalamazoo. And after dinner? Those college boys cleared the table and did the dishes and put away the leftovers, all on their own sweet initiative! What a treat that was! They can visit any old time they want, believe me! I must admit there was a lot of barking over the weekend, but no wonder! We were all in high spirits. 

Sunny loved the soccer ball.

I took Sunday off work – did not even go to Northport – and, other than giving Sunny a bath and doing a single load of laundry to hang out in the sunshine, did very little before our family dinner meet-up at Nitolo’s in Lake Leelanau. Resisted the compulsive urge to make another batch of two of jam and held myself down to a little desultory weeding and edging, cutting of flowers for the porch table, tossing a tennis ball and a Frisbee a few times before stretching out comfortably with a book on the end of the porch -- the book at last resting on my face, I took a short summer nap! (What a concept!) Meanwhile, the boys explored Sleeping Bear and Traverse City, and the women beach and vineyard, disappointed only that the Port Oneida Fair on Friday and Saturday did not continue through Sunday, as they'd hoped.

But Nitolo’s never disappoints, and neither did sunset afterward at the Jolli-Lodge with s’mores, beach fires, happy families, lapping waves, and Petoskey stones. 

BIG one!

Sweet, peaceful place! No doubt there would have been less sleeping that night if any of us had remembered the Perseid meteor showers and/or known in advance that there would be a show of northern lights! As it was, we missed both. Still, no complaints. 

Before Monday morning’s bookstore opening, there was an agility session for Sunny and me. I can’t be taking photos while we work, but when Sunny and Duffy had a little playtime after the work, I whipped out my phone. These shots aren't much, but we don't want to leave the dogs out of the post, do we? Especially since the past two years I have not photographed the dog parade but just let myself "be in the moment." 

The triple jump

Coach Mike's sheltie, Duffy

I have finished my reading of Constance Fenimore Woolson’s Anne, a novel that took many twists and turns before the last page (I won't give away any of the plot of Anne, so that anyone who digs up a modern reprint won't be deprived of surprise), and have started A Lantern in Her Hand, by Nebraska's Beth Streeter Aldrich. (It was, in fact, the Aldrich book that led me gently into an afternoon nap on Sunday.) Published in 1928, A Lantern in Her Hand tells of the life of a pioneer girl grown to womanhood in the days of prairie homesteading, with descriptions of both the beauties and the hardships of frontier life in 19th-century Nebraska. Woolson and Aldrich both portray strong female characters making their way and finding happiness in American times past, despite challenges and social strictures. 

 

From the visit of my Arizona hiking buddy and her dog through visits from my son and his wife to the annual sisters get-together and now August bringing another friend and more family, summer has been a busy time, passing as always in a happy blur. All of my July FOLTL book-author events are behind me now, too, and the long sunset of summer has begun. 

Family time. Happy dogs. Good books. Fresh cherries and sweet corn and bright flowers and berries galore. Sun and wind and water. We are almost halfway through August. Now life might be slowing down a little bit. Do you think it's possible? Afterglow --

If I Were a Luddite, Would I Be Blogging?

Someone else said it, so I don’t have to. It seems that kids who see parents reading bound, printed books see them as doing something different from reading on a screen. The kids respond differently, too. This does kind of shoot a hole in my poster idea: “READING IS NOT A SPECTATOR SPORT.” Maybe it is, after all.

But there are reasons to be online and good stuff to read, watch and listen to. For example, if you haven’t watched and listened to the Steve Jobs commencement speech video yet, get with it. How many videos do I watch online a year? Fewer than a dozen, I assure you, but this one is top of my recommendation list.

Getting back to books, though, here’s what absorbed me for an hour or two the other day:

Mary Wollstonecraft and Percy Bysshe Shelley married in 1816 after his first wife, Harriet, died a suicide by drowning. Percy and Harriet had been estranged for two years prior to her death, but Harriet’s suicide took place only after her husband had run away with the 17-year-old Mary.

Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley is famous as the author of classic horror novel, Frankenstein, which appeared in 1818, subtitled The Modern Prometheus. In this story, faithful to the original, young Frankenstein steals not mere fire as in the Greek myth but life itself, cobbling together a monster from purloined body parts stolen from morgues and graveyards and bringing his creation to life with “galvanism” (which Webster’s defines as “a direct current of electricity esp. when produced by chemical action”). Everyone knows what became of Frankenstein’s monster. Here is the story as given in The Reader’s Encyclopedia, by William Rose Benet:

Longing for sympathy and shunned by everyone, the creature ultimately turns to evil and brings dreadful retribution on the student for usurping the Creator’s prerogative, finally destroying him.

But then in 1820 came Percy Bysshe Shelley’s Prometheus Unbound, a drama in which Prometheus is released from the mountain where he was chained by Zeus as a punishment for stealing fire from the gods and giving it to human beings. Reunited with his true love, he is vindicated in having gone against Zeus, and a new Golden Age ensues. Down with the gods, up with the humans! seemed to be Shelley’s message. Quite a different message from that of the myth and of Mary’s story.

Following their marriage, Mary and Percy Shelley lost three infant children before having a daughter who survived. Mary suffered, understandably, from depression. Percy sought consolation with other women. The bloom was off the rose. Percy Bysshe Shelley drowned (an accident, apparently, rather than a suicide) in 1822 while still a young man. Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley lived on until 1851.

What would either of them make of today’s experimentation with cloning and genetic engineering? In hindsight, what fate would they think Prometheus deserved? Did Mary come to wish Percy had felt himself more bound (to her), not quite so free to overthrow convention and tradition, once the shoe was on the other foot and the consequences come home to roost?

So much has been done, exclaimed the soul of Frankenstein—more, far more, will I achieve; treading in the steps already marked, I will pioneer a new way, explore unknown powers, and unfold to the world the deepest mysteries of creation.