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Martin Delany, author of Blake, or The Huts of America, was a free black man, associate of Frederick Douglas, an abolitionist, journalist, physician, soldier and writer, and an early advocate of black nationalism. He wrote his two-part novel, the first part of which was serialised in the The Anglo-African Magazine in 1859, in response to Harriet Beecher Stowe’s Uncle Tom’s Cabin. Where Stowe’s book urged patience and resignation for enslaved black people, and valorised Christian piety among slaves, Delany tells a story of planning for an armed insurrection of black people in North America, and Cuba and labels Christianity as the religion of the oppressor. It should be noted, although, that by this he means a white-led Christian church which preaches patience and acceptance of one’s fate. His main character espouses instead a form of liberation Christianity in which black Christians will interpret scripture directly and in revolutionary terms.

Delany explains his concept of religion most clearly in this speech by his main character, Blake (known throughout the first part of the book as Henry Holland): “No religion but that which brings us liberty will we know; no God but He who owns us as his children will we serve. The whites accept of nothing but that which promotes their interests and happiness, socially, politically and religiously. They would discard a religion, tear down a church, overthrow a government, or desert a country, which did not enhance their freedom. In God’s great and righteous name, are we not willing to do the same?” .... “Our ceremonies, then,” continued Blake, “are borrowed from no denomination, creed, nor church: no existing organization, secret, secular, nor religious; but originated by ourselves, adopted to our own condition, circumstances, and wants, founded upon the eternal word of God our Creator, as impressed upon the tablet of each of our hearts.”

The full text of the novel has been lost, but Part One and a large part of Part Two survive. [1] It is a fascinating read, being of interest both as a work of African-American nationalist literature, and as an early work of black speculative fiction.

The novel begins with the heart-rending account of the break-up of a black family through the sale of a young slave woman. Colonel Franks, a Southern landowner, is persuaded by Arabella Ballard, a relative of his wife’s, and the wife of a business associate, to sell her Maggie, a house servant trained as a lady’s maid, to accompany her on a trip to Cuba. It is strongly suggested that his decision to sell Maggie - his biological daughter - is motivated by her refusal of his sexual advances toward her. By this sale she is separated from her young son Joe, her husband, known as Henry Holland, an educated black man from the West Indies tricked into slavery when young, and from her mother, Mammy Judy, the cook, and Mammy Judy’s husband Daddy Joe, who are also devastated by the loss.

But where Judy and Daddy Joe try to accept the loss of Maggie with Christian platitudes about suffering and being together again in Heaven, Henry is outraged at the callous destruction of his family and rejects the advice of the others to accept the loss and trust in God. He confronts the Colonel over the sale of his wife, and in turn is sold himself. But before his new master can take possession, he runs away. After arranging for his son to be carried to safety in Canada, he contacts two trusted friends, Andy and Charles, and shares with them his plan, not only to never be enslaved again, but to organise a country-wide slave revolution, a goal that they eagerly agree to support him in.

Delany makes the reader look at all aspects of slavery, from the philosophical arguments used to justify the ownership of human beings, to the economics of plantation culture, to the casual everyday cruelty exhibited toward enslaved blacks. He also examines the range of survival strategies used by black people under slavery, showing the ways in which the myths of the slave who is eager to please, happy amusing, slow-witted, childlike, or a comforting ‘mammy’ are all, to some degree or other, masks adopted as means of surviving interactions with whites - with varied results, depending on the skill of the actor and the mood and whim of the target. The real hearts and minds of black people appear only when they speak together, or act out of the sight of whites, in the black-occupied ‘huts of America’ where they can congregate away from the gaze of the master. Even the very real faith of some blacks is exaggerated into a performance of confused and frenzied religiosity - for example, when Mammy Judy uses this strategy as a way of avoiding uncomfortable questions about the whereabouts of Henry and his son Joe. There are no happy plantation stories here.

As Henry travels through the South, spreading the idea of an organised rebellion, his encounters with the workers on different plantations provide a sense of the scope of slavery as a means of cheap labour - the sheer numbers of blacks working to produce the cash crops that drove the economic growth of not only the plantation south but the industrial north - and the ways in which this commodified labour force was treated.

Henry’s travels through the Southern states, rousing the black populace to prepare for a coming insurrection, occupy much of the book; having made this circuit, he returns to the Franks plantation, gathers these closest to him, and leads them to Canada, where he buys land and sets up a community of escaped slaves. Then, his family and friends taken care of, he heads toward Cuba in search of his wife. Thus ends Part One of Blake.

Where Part One was largely an exploration of the life of blacks under slavery, with some detailed advice on the dangers facing escaping slaves due to the Fugitive Slave Act and directions on how to reach Canada - complete with warnings not to expect much beyond freedom on arrival in what was still a very racially stratified society - the early chapters of Part Two examine first the conditions of slavery in Cuba, and then the conditions of the slave trade itself, as Henry’s adventures continue. It is in this section of the novel that Delany’s African nationalism is most strongly elucidated, in passage such as this:

“Heretofore that country [Africa] has been regarded as desolate-unadapted to useful cultivation or domestic animals, and consequently, the inhabitants savage, lazy, idle, and incapable of the higher civilization and only fit for bondmen, contributing nothing to the civilized world but that which is extorted from them as slaves. Instead of this, let us prove, not only that the African race is now the principal producer of the greater part of the luxuries of enlightened countries, as various fruits, rice, sugar, coffee, chocolate, cocoa, spices, and tobacco; but that in Africa their native land, they are among the most industrious people in the world, highly cultivating the lands, and that ere long they and their country must hold the balance of commercial power by supplying as they now do as foreign bondmen in strange lands, the greatest staple commodities in demand, as rice, coffee, sugar, and especially cotton, from their own native shores, the most extensive native territory, climate, soil, and greatest number of (almost the only natural producers) inhabitants in the universe; and that race and country will at once rise to the first magnitude of importance in the estimation of the greatest nations on earth, from their dependence upon them for the great staples from which is derived their national wealth.”

In Part Two, Henry, now using the name Gilbert, travels to Cuba in the service of a party of three young white men - Captain Richard Paul, Lieutenant Augustus Seely, and Midshipman Lawrence Spencer - desirous of entering the slave trade, and Cordelia Woodward, a young woman who later becomes Seely’s wife.

Once in Cuba, Henry leaves the party to search for his wife; finding Maggie at last, he gives her the money to purchase her freedom, and arranges for Joe to be brought to Cuba by some of his friends in Canada. We now learn that Henry, who speaks both Spanish and Creole fluently, is originally from Cuba, and that his name is actually Henrico Blacus - Henry Blake. He visits his cousin, Placido, a revolutionary poet, and they agree on working toward an uprising in Cuba. Henry then takes a position as a sailing master on a slave ship carrying arms - the Vulture, commanded by Captain Paul and his associates.

Blake’s journey to Africa, where the Vulture takes on two thousand kidnapped and branded Africans, gives Delany the opportunity to enumerate the horrors of the Middle Passage, the physical and mental torture endured by the transportees, the callousness toward the health and lives of their human cargo.

On his return, Blake discovers that he has been appointed the General of the Cuban Army of Emancipation; the revolutionaries, comprising many of the free blacks and people of mixed race in Cuba as well as soaves, plan for action. The last preserved chapter offers a picture of heightened political tensions between the Spanish administrators, the American platers who seek to have Cuba annexed by the US, and the black and mixed race general population, free and slave. Conditions are ripe for a revolution; but the conclusion of the book is lost to us.

Those looking for a cohesive personal narrative in Blake will be disappointed. This is not that kind of novel. Henry’s travels and exploits are governed, not by the desire to tell a story, but to impart information and promote a cause. Its shape is also affected by the length of time taken to write the work. Delany began publishing the chapters in 1959, before the outbreak of civil war. By the time he finished writing, it was 1862, and the possibility existed that a Union victory might end the rule of slavery in the South, rendering moot his main character’s arguments for a black insurrection. The value of Blake lies in its articulation of a nationalist vision of diasporic Africans, and its contemporary account of the conditions of black people under slavery.


[1] Part One has been published online (http://utc.iath.virginia.edu/africam/blakehp.html)
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Somehow I had never, until now, read Jane Austen’s early - but posthumously published - short epistolary novel Lady Susan. I am very happy to have amended this lack. It’s a wicked and cynical little piece, and it is clearly the unpolished work of an author who has not yet found her strengths or style, but it’s highly entertaining.

The main character - and, unusual for any novel of the time, antagonist - is Lady Susan Vernon, a beautiful and amoral widow of around 35, who is wealthy enough to be comfortable in society, pretty and coquettish enough to seduce men left, right and centre for the sheer amusement of the endeavour, and selfish enough to have hatched a plan to marry her daughter off to a rich but weak young man, so she will be assured of access to money down the line should her own assets begin to run dry.

The plot is rather simple, and the main cast of characters limited. Lady Susan, her confidante and accomplice Alicia Johnson, her brother-in-law Charles Vernon and his wife Catherine (nèe De Courcy), Catherine’s brother Reginald De Courcy, and Lady Susan’s daughter Frederica. Lady Susan, who has recently made a conquest of Mr. Mainwaring, with whose family she has been visiting, and has simultaneously detached the young and wealthy James Martin from her own lover’s daughter with the intention of fostering a marriage between him and her own daughter, finds it expedient to withdraw from the Mainwaring establishment and visit her brother-in-law. While there, she makes another conquest in Reginald De Courcy. Eventually, her schemes to marry Reginald while keeping Mainwaring on the side, and force Frederica to marry James Martin, fall through, but Lady Susan manages to snatch some degree of satisfaction from even the jaws of so significant a defeat.

Letters exchanged between Lady Susan and Alicia give us a clear picture of Lady Susan’s character and intentions, while letters from Catherine Vernon to her mother reveal the plot from an observer’s perspective. Occasional letters written by other characters - primarily Reginald - give additional details as to Lady Susan’s actions and their consequences. The most distinctive voice belongs to Lady Susan herself; her cheerful malignancy is fascinating. The other characters are less distinct - the only other truly individual voice is that of Lady Susan’s confidante Alicia. As Milton discovered, it’s much easier to make evil interesting than to do the same for good.

The novel ends rather abruptly, with a brief epilogue outlining the ultimate fates of the various parties following the collapse of Lady Susan’s plotting. Austen either decided to end it quickly, or never expanded the latter part of her outline into the epistolary format of the main portion of the novel. In either case, there is not evidence that she ever returned to the story to develop it further, but went on to write her first published novel, Pride and Prejudice. Lady Susan remains, just barely completed, but nonetheless fascinating for being an unpolished gem.

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Sometimes I do read things that are not science fiction or fantasy. In 2010, I read some historical fiction based on the lives of Jane Austen and on the lives of various women in the court of King Henry VIII - two of my favourite subjects. I also read a very funny modern feminist novel. And I decided that since I had read Alcott's Little Women so many times, I really ought to read the other books she wrote about Jo March. While reading Little Men, I encountered reference to a play by Edward Bulwer Lytton which was somewhat pivotal to a full understanding of what was happening, so I hunted it down on the Gutenberg Project and read it.


Syrie James, The Lost Memoirs of Jane Austen

Philippa Gregory, The Boleyn Inheritance

Molly Hite, Class Porn

Louisa May Alcott, Little Men
Louisa May Alcott, Jo’s Boys

Edward Bulwer Lytton, The lady of Lyons, or Love and pride: a play in five acts

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Northanger Abbey, Jane Austen

I’ll say it up front: this is my least favourite of Austen’s novels. I re-read it rarely, in comparison to my favourites, Pride and Prejudice and Sense and Sensibility. It doesn’t call out to me in the way that the others do, reminding me that it’s sitting on my shelves, waiting for me to turn my attention once more to its pages.

But, a few days ago, I was flipping channels and happened upon a film version of the book – one I hadn’t even known existed – and I decided to read it again to see if my feelings about it had changed.

They haven’t.

It’s an enjoyable read, to be sure – it’s hard to imagine not finding something to enjoy in an Austen novel – but I remain unable to connect to Catherine Morland the way I do with the women of Austen’s other novels. Part of it, I think, is that Austen has made too much of a satire of Catherine’s character for me to warm to her. Most of Austen’s other protagonists – Elizabeth Bennet, Elinor Dashwood, Emma Woodhouse, Fanny Price, Anne Elliot – have their weaknesses, flaws and follies, but they also have their strengths. They are strong characters with distinguishing qualities. They are individuals. Catherine Moreland has never seemed to me to emerge from the text as a person in her own right the way Austen’s other protagonists do – the circumstances she finds herself in seem to overwhelm her, and she never seems to be much more than a pretty and somewhat silly girl who loves reading Gothic novels.

All the other elements of the Austen novel are present, and indeed the social satire is stronger here than in some of the other novels, and the skewering of the conventions of the Gothic novel are fine indeed, but without a strong and central protagonist, the rest of it falls just a little flat.

Austenalia

Aug. 12th, 2006 03:14 am
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I recently went on one of my Jane Austen jags. First, I watched all of the Austen-related DVDs I own (my collection is far from complete, but I'm working on it):

Pride and Prejudice (Jennifer Ehle)
Sense and Sensibility (Emma Thompson)
Emma (Kate Beckinsale)
Mansfield Park (Frances O'Connor)
Persuasion (Amanda Root)
Bride and Prejudice.

I identify the lead in each of the direct adaptations, because there have been multiple versions filmed of them - and one day I do intend to own all the more recent ones, at least, that can be found on DVD. I'll probably skip the 1940 Greer Garson Pride and Prejudice because it took so many liberties with both characters and plot.

Then I went back to the books. Most of them, anyway - Emma, Persuasion, Mansfield Park, Sense and Sensibility. I ran out of steam before I got to Northanger Abbey and Pride and Prejudice. Maybe later this year.

I must admit that I haven't read the juvenilia, or the unfinished works. I'm a fan, but not a scholar, I guess, in this instance. The novels are enough for me, at least for now.

I doubt that a year goes by in which I don't re-read at least one of Austen's books. And I know I'm not the only one who is absolutely captivated by Austen, whether it be for her complex and believable female characters, her sometimes obvious, sometimes subtle satirical view of the society she lived in, the window she creates into a world where women's fates depended on whether or not a man would marry her - and what kind of man he was, the choices and strategies of her heroines as they thread their way through the complex web of social conventions and strictures around them, or something else all together.

For me, it's all of these, and probably much more.

Jane Austen rocks.

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