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Title: Life of Harriet Beecher Stowe
- Compiled From Her Letters and Journals by Her Son Charles Edward Stowe
Author: Stowe, Harriet Beecher
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.
*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Life of Harriet Beecher Stowe
- Compiled From Her Letters and Journals by Her Son Charles Edward Stowe" ***
[Illustration: Richmond, Del. J. & J. Wilson, So.
H.B. Stowe]
LIFE OF
HARRIET BEECHER STOWE
COMPILED FROM
Her Letters and Journals
BY HER SON
CHARLES EDWARD STOWE
[Illustration]
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY
The Riverside Press, Cambridge
1890
Copyright, 1889,
BY CHARLES E. STOWE,
_All rights reserved._
_The Riverside Press, Cambridge, Mass., U. S.A._
Electrotyped and Printed by H. O. Houghton & Co.
[Illustration: Handwritten letter]
It seems but fitting, that I should preface this story of my life with
a few notes of instruction.
The desire to leave behind me some recollections of my life, has
been cherished by me, for many years past; but failing strength or
increasing infirmities have prevented its accomplishment.
At my suggestion and with what assistance I have been able to render,
my son, Ross Charles Edward Stowe, has compiled from my letters and
journals, this biography. It is this true story of my life, told for
the most part, in my own words and has therefore all the force of an
autobiography.
It is perhaps much more accurate as to detail & impression than is
possible with any autobiography, written later in life.
If these pages, shall help those who read them to a firmer trust in God
& a deeper sense of His fatherly goodness throughout the days of our
earthly pilgrimage I can say with Valiant for Truth in the Pilgrim's
Progress!
I am going to my Father's & tho with great difficulty, I am got
thither, get now, I do not repent me of all the troubles I have been
at, to arrive where I am.
My sword I give to him that shall succeed me in my pilgrimage & my
courage & skill to him that can get it.
Hartford Sept 30
1889
Harriet Beecher Stowe
INTRODUCTORY STATEMENT
I DESIRE to express my thanks here to Harper & Brothers, of New York,
for permission to use letters already published in the "Autobiography
and Correspondence of Lyman Beecher." I have availed myself freely
of this permission in chapters i. and iii. In chapter xx. I have
given letters already published in the "Life of George Eliot," by Mr.
Cross; but in every instance I have copied from the original MSS. and
not from the published work. In conclusion, I desire to express my
indebtedness to Mr. Kirk Munroe, who has been my co-laborer in the work
of compilation.
CHARLES E. STOWE.
HARTFORD, _September 30, 1889_.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I.
CHILDHOOD 1811-1824.
DEATH OF HER MOTHER.--FIRST JOURNEY FROM HOME.--LIFE AT NUT
PLAINS.--SCHOOL DAYS AND HOURS WITH FAVORITE AUTHORS.--THE
NEW MOTHER.--LITCHFIELD ACADEMY AND ITS INFLUENCE.--FIRST
LITERARY EFFORTS.--A REMARKABLE COMPOSITION.--GOES TO HARTFORD 1
CHAPTER II.
SCHOOL DAYS IN HARTFORD, 1824-1832.
MISS CATHERINE BEECHER.--PROFESSOR FISHER.--THE WRECK OF THE
ALBION AND DEATH OF PROFESSOR FISHER.--"THE MINISTER'S
WOOING."--MISS CATHERINE BEECHER'S SPIRITUAL HISTORY.--MRS.
STOWE'S RECOLLECTIONS OF HER SCHOOL DAYS IN HARTFORD.--HER
CONVERSION.--UNITES WITH THE FIRST CHURCH IN HARTFORD.--HER
DOUBTS AND SUBSEQUENT RELIGIOUS DEVELOPMENT.--HER FINAL PEACE 22
CHAPTER III.
CINCINNATI, 1832-1836.
DR. BEECHER CALLED TO CINCINNATI.--THE WESTWARD JOURNEY.--FIRST
LETTER FROM HOME.--DESCRIPTION OF WALNUT HILLS.--STARTING A NEW
SCHOOL.--INWARD GLIMPSES.--THE SEMI-COLON CLUB.--EARLY
IMPRESSIONS OF SLAVERY.--A JOURNEY TO THE EAST.--THOUGHTS
AROUSED BY FIRST VISIT TO NIAGARA.--MARRIAGE TO PROFESSOR STOWE 53
CHAPTER IV.
EARLY MARRIED LIFE, 1836-1840.
PROFESSOR STOWE'S INTEREST IN POPULAR EDUCATION.--HIS DEPARTURE
FOR EUROPE.--SLAVERY RIOTS IN CINCINNATI.--BIRTH OF TWIN
DAUGHTERS.--PROFESSOR STOWE'S RETURN AND VISIT TO
COLUMBUS.--DOMESTIC TRIALS.--AIDING A FUGITIVE
SLAVE.--AUTHORSHIP UNDER DIFFICULTIES.--A BEECHER ROUND ROBIN 78
CHAPTER V.
POVERTY AND SICKNESS, 1840-1850.
FAMINE IN CINCINNATI.--SUMMER AT THE EAST.--PLANS FOR LITERARY
WORK.--EXPERIENCE ON A RAILROAD.--DEATH OF HER BROTHER
GEORGE.--SICKNESS AND DESPAIR.--A JOURNEY IN SEARCH OF
HEALTH.--GOES TO BRATTLEBORO' WATER-CURE.--TROUBLES AT LANE
SEMINARY.--CHOLERA IN CINCINNATI.--DEATH OF YOUNGEST
CHILD.--DETERMINED TO LEAVE THE WEST 100
CHAPTER VI.
REMOVAL TO BRUNSWICK, 1850-1852.
MRS. STOWE'S REMARKS ON WRITING AND UNDERSTANDING
BIOGRAPHY.--THEIR APPROPRIATENESS TO HER OWN BIOGRAPHY.--REASONS
FOR PROFESSOR STOWE'S LEAVING CINCINNATI.--MRS. STOWE'S JOURNEY
TO BROOKLYN.--HER BROTHER'S SUCCESS AS A MINISTER.--LETTERS
FROM HARTFORD AND BOSTON.--ARRIVES IN BRUNSWICK.--HISTORY OF THE
SLAVERY AGITATION.--PRACTICAL WORKING OF THE FUGITIVE SLAVE
LAW.--MRS. EDWARD BEECHER'S LETTER TO MRS. STOWE AND ITS
EFFECT.--DOMESTIC TRIALS.--BEGINS TO WRITE "UNCLE TOM'S CABIN"
AS A SERIAL FOR THE "NATIONAL ERA."--LETTER TO FREDERICK
DOUGLASS.--"UNCLE TOM'S CABIN" A WORK OF RELIGIOUS EMOTION 126
CHAPTER VII.
UNCLE TOM'S CABIN, 1852.
"UNCLE TOM'S CABIN" AS A SERIAL IN THE "NATIONAL ERA."--AN
OFFER FOR ITS PUBLICATION IN BOOK FORM.--WILL IT BE A
SUCCESS?--AN UNPRECEDENTED CIRCULATION.--CONGRATULATORY
MESSAGES.--KIND WORDS FROM ABROAD.--MRS. STOWE TO THE EARL OF
CARLISLE.--LETTERS FROM AND TO LORD SHAFTESBURY.--CORRESPONDENCE
WITH ARTHUR HELPS 156
CHAPTER VIII.
FIRST TRIP TO EUROPE, 1853.
THE EDMONDSONS.--BUYING SLAVES TO SET THEM FREE.--JENNY
LIND.--PROFESSOR STOWE IS CALLED TO ANDOVER.--FITTING UP THE NEW
HOME.--THE "KEY TO UNCLE TOM'S CABIN."--"UNCLE TOM" ABROAD.--HOW
IT WAS PUBLISHED IN ENGLAND.--PREFACE TO THE EUROPEAN
EDITION.--THE BOOK IN FRANCE.--IN GERMANY.--A GREETING FROM
CHARLES KINGSLEY.--PREPARING TO VISIT SCOTLAND.--LETTER TO MRS.
FOLLEN 178
CHAPTER IX.
SUNNY MEMORIES, 1853.
CROSSING THE ATLANTIC.--ARRIVAL IN ENGLAND.--RECEPTION IN
LIVERPOOL.--WELCOME TO SCOTLAND.--A GLASGOW TEA-PARTY.--EDINBURGH
HOSPITALITY.--ABERDEEN.--DUNDEE AND BIRMINGHAM.--JOSEPH
STURGE.--ELIHU BURRITT.--LONDON.--THE LORD MAYOR'S
DINNER.--CHARLES DICKENS AND HIS WIFE 205
CHAPTER X.
FROM OVER THE SEA, 1853.
THE EARL OF CARLISLE.--ARTHUR HELPS.--THE DUKE AND DUCHESS OF
ARGYLL.--MARTIN FARQUHAR TUPPER.--A MEMORABLE MEETING AT
STAFFORD HOUSE.--MACAULAY AND DEAN MILMAN.--WINDSOR
CASTLE.--PROFESSOR STOWE RETURNS TO AMERICA.--MRS. STOWE ON THE
CONTINENT.--IMPRESSIONS OF PARIS.--EN ROUTE TO SWITZERLAND AND
GERMANY.--BACK TO ENGLAND.--HOMEWARD BOUND 228
CHAPTER XI.
HOME AGAIN, 1853-1856.
ANTI-SLAVERY WORK.--STIRRING TIMES IN THE UNITED
STATES.--ADDRESS TO THE LADIES OF GLASGOW.--APPEAL TO THE WOMEN
OF AMERICA.--CORRESPONDENCE WITH WILLIAM LLOYD GARRISON.--THE
WRITING OF "DRED."--FAREWELL LETTER FROM GEORGIANA MAY.--SECOND
VOYAGE TO ENGLAND 250
CHAPTER XII.
DRED, 1856.
SECOND VISIT TO ENGLAND.--A GLIMPSE AT THE QUEEN.--THE DUKE OF
ARGYLL AND INVERARY.--EARLY CORRESPONDENCE WITH LADY
BYRON.--DUNROBIN CASTLE AND ITS INMATES.--A VISIT TO STOKE
PARK.--LORD DUFFERIN.--CHARLES KINGSLEY AT HOME.--PARIS
REVISITED.--MADAME MOHL'S RECEPTIONS 270
CHAPTER XIII.
OLD SCENES REVISITED, 1856.
EN ROUTE TO ROME.--TRIALS OF TRAVEL.--A MIDNIGHT ARRIVAL AND
AN INHOSPITABLE RECEPTION.--GLORIES OF THE ETERNAL CITY.--NAPLES
AND VESUVIUS.--VENICE.--HOLY WEEK IN ROME.--RETURN TO
ENGLAND.--LETTER FROM HARRIET MARTINEAU ON "DRED."--A WORD FROM
MR. PRESCOTT ON "DRED."--FAREWELL TO LADY BYRON 294
CHAPTER XIV.
THE MINISTER'S WOOING, 1857-1859.
DEATH OF MRS. STOWE'S OLDEST SON.--LETTER TO THE DUCHESS OF
SUTHERLAND.--LETTER TO HER DAUGHTERS IN PARIS.--LETTER TO HER
SISTER CATHERINE.--VISIT TO BRUNSWICK AND ORR'S ISLAND.--WRITES
"THE MINISTER'S WOOING" AND "THE PEARL OF ORR'S ISLAND."--MR.
WHITTIER'S COMMENTS.--MR. LOWELL ON "THE MINISTER'S
WOOING."--LETTER TO MRS. STOWE FROM MR. LOWELL.--JOHN RUSKIN
ON "THE MINISTER'S WOOING."--A YEAR OF SADNESS.--LETTER TO LADY
BYRON.--LETTER TO HER DAUGHTER.--DEPARTURE FOR EUROPE 315
CHAPTER XV.
THE THIRD TRIP TO EUROPE, 1859.
THIRD VISIT TO EUROPE.--LADY BYRON ON "THE MINISTER'S
WOOING."--SOME FOREIGN PEOPLE AND THINGS AS THEY APPEARED TO
PROFESSOR STOWE.--A WINTER IN ITALY.--THINGS UNSEEN AND
UNREVEALED.--SPECULATIONS CONCERNING SPIRITUALISM.--JOHN
RUSKIN.--MRS. BROWNING.--THE RETURN TO AMERICA.--LETTERS TO DR.
HOLMES 343
CHAPTER XVI.
THE CIVIL WAR, 1860-1865.
THE OUTBREAK OF CIVIL WAR.--MRS. STOWE'S SON
ENLISTS.--THANKSGIVING DAY IN WASHINGTON.--THE PROCLAMATION OF
EMANCIPATION.--REJOICINGS IN BOSTON.--FRED STOWE AT
GETTYSBURG.--LEAVING ANDOVER AND SETTLING IN HARTFORD.--A REPLY
TO THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND.--LETTERS FROM JOHN BRIGHT, ARCHBISHOP
WHATELY, AND NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 363
CHAPTER XVII.
FLORIDA, 1865-1869.
LETTER TO DUCHESS OF ARGYLL.--MRS. STOWE DESIRES TO HAVE A HOME
AT THE SOUTH.--FLORIDA THE BEST FIELD FOR DOING GOOD.--SHE BUYS
A PLACE AT MANDARIN.--A CHARMING WINTER RESIDENCE.--"PALMETTO
LEAVES."--EASTER SUNDAY AT MANDARIN.--CORRESPONDENCE WITH DR.
HOLMES.--"POGANUC PEOPLE."--RECEPTIONS IN NEW ORLEANS AND
TALLAHASSEE.--LAST WINTER AT MANDARIN 395
CHAPTER XVIII.
OLDTOWN FOLKS, 1869.
PROFESSOR STOWE THE ORIGINAL OF "HARRY" IN "OLDTOWN
FOLKS."--PROFESSOR STOWE'S LETTER TO GEORGE ELIOT.--HER REMARKS
ON THE SAME.--PROFESSOR STOWE'S NARRATIVE OF HIS YOUTHFUL
ADVENTURES IN THE WORLD OF SPIRITS.--PROFESSOR STOWE'S INFLUENCE
ON MRS. STOWE'S LITERARY LIFE.--GEORGE ELIOT ON "OLDTOWN FOLKS" 419
CHAPTER XIX.
THE BYRON CONTROVERSY, 1869-1870.
MRS. STOWE'S STATEMENT OF HER OWN CASE.--THE CIRCUMSTANCES UNDER
WHICH SHE FIRST MET LADY BYRON.--LETTERS TO LADY BYRON.--LETTER
TO DR. HOLMES WHEN ABOUT TO PUBLISH "THE TRUE STORY OF LADY
BYRON'S LIFE" IN THE "ATLANTIC."--DR. HOLMES'S REPLY.--THE
CONCLUSION OF THE MATTER 445
CHAPTER XX.
GEORGE ELIOT.
CORRESPONDENCE WITH GEORGE ELIOT.--GEORGE ELIOT'S FIRST
IMPRESSIONS OF MRS. STOWE.--MRS. STOWE'S LETTER TO MRS.
FOLLEN.--GEORGE ELIOT'S LETTER TO MRS. STOWE.--MRS. STOWE'S
REPLY.--LIFE IN FLORIDA.--ROBERT DALE OWEN AND MODERN
SPIRITUALISM.--GEORGE ELIOT'S LETTER ON THE PHENOMENA OF
SPIRITUALISM.--MRS. STOWE'S DESCRIPTION OF SCENERY IN
FLORIDA.--MRS. STOWE CONCERNING "MIDDLEMARCH."--GEORGE ELIOT
TO MRS. STOWE DURING REV. H. W. BEECHER'S TRIAL.--MRS. STOWE
CONCERNING HER LIFE EXPERIENCE WITH HER BROTHER, H. W. BEECHER,
AND HIS TRIAL.--MRS. LEWES' LAST LETTER TO MRS. STOWE.--DIVERSE
MENTAL CHARACTERISTICS OF THESE TWO WOMEN.--MRS. STOWE'S FINAL
ESTIMATE OF MODERN SPIRITUALISM 459
CHAPTER XXI.
CLOSING SCENES, 1870-1889.
LITERARY LABORS.--COMPLETE LIST OF PUBLISHED BOOKS.--FIRST
READING TOUR.--PEEPS BEHIND THE CURTAIN.--SOME NEW ENGLAND
CITIES.--A LETTER FROM MAINE.--PLEASANT AND UNPLEASANT
READINGS.--SECOND TOUR.--A WESTERN JOURNEY.--VISIT TO OLD
SCENES.--CELEBRATION OF SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY.--CONGRATULATORY
POEMS FROM MR. WHITTIER AND DR. HOLMES.--LAST WORDS 489
[Illustration]
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
PAGE
PORTRAIT OF MRS. STOWE. From a crayon by Richmond, made in
England in 1853 _Frontispiece_
SILVER INKSTAND PRESENTED TO MRS. STOWE BY HER ENGLISH
ADMIRERS IN 1853 xi
PORTRAIT OF MRS. STOWE'S GRANDMOTHER, ROXANNA FOOTE. From
a miniature painted on ivory by her daughter, Mrs.
Lyman Beecher 6
BIRTHPLACE AT LITCHFIELD, CONN.[A] 10
PORTRAIT OF CATHERINE E. BEECHER. From a photograph taken in
1875 30
THE HOME AT WALNUT HILLS, CINCINNATI[A] 56
PORTRAIT OF HENRY WARD BEECHER. From a photograph by Rockwood,
in 1884 130
MANUSCRIPT PAGE OF "UNCLE TOM'S CABIN" (fac-simile) 160
THE ANDOVER HOME. From a painting by F. Rondel, in 1860, owned
by Mrs. H. F. Allen 186
PORTRAIT OF LYMAN BEECHER, AT THE AGE OF EIGHTY-SEVEN. From a
painting owned by the Boston Congregational Club 264
PORTRAIT OF THE DUCHESS OF SUTHERLAND. From an engraving
presented to Mrs. Stowe 318
THE OLD HOME AT HARTFORD 374
THE HOME AT MANDARIN, FLORIDA 402
PORTRAIT OF CALVIN ELLIS STOWE. From a photograph taken in 1882 422
PORTRAIT OF MRS. STOWE. From a photograph by Ritz and Hastings,
in 1884 470
THE LATER HARTFORD HOME 508
FOOTNOTE:
[A] From recent photographs and from views in the Autobiography of
Lyman Beecher, published by Messrs. Harper & Brothers.
LIFE AND LETTERS OF HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.
CHAPTER I.
CHILDHOOD, 1811-1824.
DEATH OF HER MOTHER.--FIRST JOURNEY FROM HOME.--LIFE
AT NUT PLAINS.--SCHOOL DAYS AND HOURS WITH FAVORITE
AUTHORS.--THE NEW MOTHER.--LITCHFIELD ACADEMY AND ITS
INFLUENCE.--FIRST LITERARY EFFORTS.--A REMARKABLE
COMPOSITION.--GOES TO HARTFORD.
HARRIET BEECHER (STOWE) was born June 14, 1811, in the characteristic
New England town of Litchfield, Conn. Her father was the Rev. Dr. Lyman
Beecher, a distinguished Calvinistic divine, her mother Roxanna Foote,
his first wife. The little new-comer was ushered into a household of
happy, healthy children, and found five brothers and sisters awaiting
her. The eldest was Catherine, born September 6, 1800. Following her
were two sturdy boys, William and Edward; then came Mary, then George,
and at last Harriet. Another little Harriet born three years before had
died when only one month old, and the fourth daughter was named, in
memory of this sister, Harriet Elizabeth Beecher. Just two years after
Harriet was born, in the same month, another brother, Henry Ward, was
welcomed to the family circle, and after him came Charles, the last of
Roxanna Beecher's children.
The first memorable incident of Harriet's life was the death of her
mother, which occurred when she was four years old, and which ever
afterwards remained with her as the tenderest, saddest, and most sacred
memory of her childhood. Mrs. Stowe's recollections of her mother are
found in a letter to her brother Charles, afterwards published in the
"Autobiography and Correspondence of Lyman Beecher." She says:--
"I was between three and four years of age when our mother died, and
my personal recollections of her are therefore but few. But the deep
interest and veneration that she inspired in all who knew her were such
that during all my childhood I was constantly hearing her spoken of,
and from one friend or another some incident or anecdote of her life
was constantly being impressed upon me.
"Mother was one of those strong, restful, yet widely sympathetic
natures in whom all around seemed to find comfort and repose. The
communion between her and my father was a peculiar one. It was an
intimacy throughout the whole range of their being. There was no human
mind in whose decisions he had greater confidence. Both intellectually
and morally he regarded her as the better and stronger portion of
himself, and I remember hearing him say that after her death his first
sensation was a sort of terror, like that of a child suddenly shut out
alone in the dark.
"In my own childhood only two incidents of my mother twinkle like rays
through the darkness. One was of our all running and dancing out before
her from the nursery to the sitting-room one Sabbath morning, and her
pleasant voice saying after us, 'Remember the Sabbath day to keep it
holy, children.'
"Another remembrance is this: mother was an enthusiastic horticulturist
in all the small ways that limited means allowed. Her brother John
in New York had just sent her a small parcel of fine tulip-bulbs. I
remember rummaging these out of an obscure corner of the nursery one
day when she was gone out, and being strongly seized with the idea that
they were good to eat, using all the little English I then possessed
to persuade my brothers that these were onions such as grown people
ate and would be very nice for us. So we fell to and devoured the
whole, and I recollect being somewhat disappointed in the odd sweetish
taste, and thinking that onions were not so nice as I had supposed.
Then mother's serene face appeared at the nursery door and we all ran
towards her, telling with one voice of our discovery and achievement.
We had found a bag of onions and had eaten them all up.
"Also I remember that there was not even a momentary expression of
impatience, but that she sat down and said, 'My dear children, what you
have done makes mamma very sorry. Those were not onions but roots of
beautiful flowers, and if you had let them alone we should have next
summer in the garden great beautiful red and yellow flowers such as you
never saw.' I remember how drooping and dispirited we all grew at this
picture, and how sadly we regarded the empty paper bag.
"Then I have a recollection of her reading aloud to the children Miss
Edgeworth's 'Frank,' which had just come out, I believe, and was
exciting a good deal of attention among the educational circles of
Litchfield. After that came a time when every one said she was sick,
and I used to be permitted to go once a day into her room, where she
sat bolstered up in bed. I have a vision of a very fair face with a
bright red spot on each cheek and her quiet smile. I remember dreaming
one night that mamma had got well, and of waking with loud transports
of joy that were hushed down by some one who came into the room. My
dream was indeed a true one. She was forever well.
"Then came the funeral. Henry was too little to go. I can see his
golden curls and little black frock as he frolicked in the sun like a
kitten, full of ignorant joy.
"I recollect the mourning dresses, the tears of the older children, the
walking to the burial-ground, and somebody's speaking at the grave.
Then all was closed, and we little ones, to whom it was so confused,
asked where she was gone and would she never come back.
"They told us at one time that she had been laid in the ground, and at
another that she had gone to heaven. Thereupon Henry, putting the two
things together, resolved to dig through the ground and go to heaven
to find her; for being discovered under sister Catherine's window one
morning digging with great zeal and earnestness, she called to him to
know what he was doing. Lifting his curly head, he answered with great
simplicity, 'Why, I'm going to heaven to find mamma.'
"Although our mother's bodily presence thus disappeared from our
circle, I think her memory and example had more influence in moulding
her family, in deterring from evil and exciting to good, than
the living presence of many mothers. It was a memory that met us
everywhere, for every person in the town, from the highest to the
lowest, seemed to have been so impressed by her character and life that
they constantly reflected some portion of it back upon us.
"The passage in 'Uncle Tom' where Augustine St. Clare describes
his mother's influence is a simple reproduction of my own mother's
influence as it has always been felt in her family."
Of his deceased wife Dr. Beecher said: "Few women have attained to
more remarkable piety. Her faith was strong and her prayer prevailing.
It was her wish that all her sons should devote themselves to the
ministry, and to it she consecrated them with fervent prayer. Her
prayers have been heard. All her sons have been converted and are now,
according to her wish, ministers of Christ."
Such was Roxanna Beecher, whose influence upon her four-year-old
daughter was strong enough to mould the whole after-life of the author
of "Uncle Tom's Cabin." After the mother's death the Litchfield home
was such a sad, lonely place for the child that her aunt, Harriet
Foote, took her away for a long visit at her grandmother's at Nut
Plains, near Guilford, Conn., the first journey from home the little
one had ever made. Of this visit Mrs. Stowe herself says:--
"Among my earliest recollections are those of a visit to Nut Plains
immediately after my mother's death. Aunt Harriet Foote, who was with
mother during all her last sickness, took me home to stay with her.
At the close of what seemed to me a long day's ride we arrived after
dark at a lonely little white farmhouse, and were ushered into a large
parlor where a cheerful wood fire was crackling. I was placed in the
arms of an old lady, who held me close and wept silently, a thing at
which I marveled, for my great loss was already faded from my childish
mind.
[Illustration: _Roxanna Foote_]
"I remember being put to bed by my aunt in a large room, on one side
of which stood the bed appropriated to her and me, and on the other
that of my grandmother. My aunt Harriet was no common character. A more
energetic human being never undertook the education of a child. Her
ideas of education were those of a vigorous English woman of the old
school. She believed in the Church, and had she been born under that
_régime_ would have believed in the king stoutly, although being of the
generation following the Revolution she was a not less stanch supporter
of the Declaration of Independence.
"According to her views little girls were to be taught to move very
gently, to speak softly and prettily, to say 'yes ma'am,' and 'no
ma'am,' never to tear their clothes, to sew, to knit at regular hours,
to go to church on Sunday and make all the responses, and to come home
and be catechised.
"During these catechisings she used to place my little cousin Mary
and myself bolt upright at her knee, while black Dinah and Harry, the
bound boy, were ranged at a respectful distance behind us; for Aunt
Harriet always impressed it upon her servants 'to order themselves
lowly and reverently to all their betters,' a portion of the Church
catechism that always pleased me, particularly when applied to them, as
it insured their calling me 'Miss Harriet,' and treating me with a
degree of consideration such as I never enjoyed in the more democratic
circle at home. I became proficient in the Church catechism, and gave
my aunt great satisfaction by the old-fashioned gravity and steadiness
with which I learned to repeat it.
"As my father was a Congregational minister, I believe Aunt Harriet,
though the highest of High Church women, felt some scruples as
to whether it was desirable that my religious education should
be entirely out of the sphere of my birth. Therefore when this
catechetical exercise was finished she would say, 'Now, niece, you
have to learn another catechism, because your father is a Presbyterian
minister,'--and then she would endeavor to make me commit to memory the
Assembly catechism.
"At this lengthening of exercise I secretly murmured. I was rather
pleased at the first question in the Church catechism, which is
certainly quite on the level of any child's understanding,--'What is
your name?' It was such an easy good start, I could say it so loud and
clear, and I was accustomed to compare it with the first question in
the Primer, 'What is the chief end of man?' as vastly more difficult
for me to answer. In fact, between my aunt's secret unbelief and my own
childish impatience of too much catechism, the matter was indefinitely
postponed after a few ineffectual attempts, and I was overjoyed to hear
her announce privately to grandmother that she thought it would be time
enough for Harriet to learn the Presbyterian catechism when she went
home."
Mingled with this superabundance of catechism and plentiful needlework
the child was treated to copious extracts from Lowth's Isaiah,
Buchanan's Researches in Asia, Bishop Heber's Life, and Dr. Johnson's
Works, which, after her Bible and Prayer Book, were her grandmother's
favorite reading. Harriet does not seem to have fully appreciated
these; but she did enjoy her grandmother's comments upon their biblical
readings. Among the Evangelists especially was the old lady perfectly
at home, and her idea of each of the apostles was so distinct and
dramatic that she spoke of them as of familiar acquaintances. She
would, for instance, always smile indulgently at Peter's remarks and
say, "There he is again, now; that's just like Peter. He's always so
ready to put in."
It must have been during this winter spent at Nut Plains, amid such
surroundings, that Harriet began committing to memory that wonderful
assortment of hymns, poems, and scriptural passages from which in after
years she quoted so readily and effectively, for her sister Catherine,
in writing of her the following November, says:--
"Harriet is a very good girl. She has been to school all this summer,
and has learned to read very fluently. She has committed to memory
twenty-seven hymns and two long chapters in the Bible. She has a
remarkably retentive memory and will make a very good scholar."
At this time the child was five years old, and a regular attendant
at "Ma'am Kilbourne's" school on West Street, to which she walked
every day hand in hand with her chubby, rosy-faced, bare-footed,
four-year-old brother, Henry Ward. With the ability to read germinated
the intense literary longing that was to be hers through life. In
those days but few books were specially prepared for children, and
at six years of age we find the little girl hungrily searching for
mental food amid barrels of old sermons and pamphlets stored in a
corner of the garret. Here it seemed to her were some thousands of the
most unintelligible things. "An appeal on the unlawfulness of a man
marrying his wife's sister" turned up in every barrel she investigated,
by twos, or threes, or dozens, till her soul despaired of finding an
end. At last her patient search was rewarded, for at the very bottom
of a barrel of musty sermons she discovered an ancient volume of
"The Arabian Nights." With this her fortune was made, for in these
most fascinating of fairy tales the imaginative child discovered a
well-spring of joy that was all her own. When things went astray with
her, when her brothers started off on long excursions, refusing to take
her with them, or in any other childish sorrow, she had only to curl
herself up in some snug corner and sail forth on her bit of enchanted
carpet into fairyland to forget all her griefs.
In recalling her own child-life Mrs. Stowe, among other things,
describes her father's library, and gives a vivid bit of her own
experiences within its walls. She says: "High above all the noise of
the house, this room had to me the air of a refuge and a sanctuary. Its
walls were set round from floor to ceiling with the friendly, quiet
faces of books, and there stood my father's great writing-chair, on one
arm of which lay open always his Cruden's Concordance and his Bible.
Here I loved to retreat and niche myself down in a quiet corner with my
favorite books around me. I had a kind of sheltered feeling as I thus
sat and watched my father writing, turning to his books, and speaking
from time to time to himself in a loud, earnest whisper. I vaguely felt
that he was about some holy and mysterious work quite beyond my little
comprehension, and I was careful never to disturb him by question or
remark.
[Illustration: BIRTHPLACE AT LITCHFIELD, CONNECTICUT.]
"The books ranged around filled me too with a solemn awe. On the
lower shelves were enormous folios, on whose backs I spelled in black
letters, 'Lightfoot Opera,' a title whereat I wondered, considering
the bulk of the volumes. Above these, grouped along in friendly,
social rows, were books of all sorts, sizes, and bindings, the titles
of which I had read so often that I knew them by heart. There were
Bell's Sermons, Bonnett's Inquiries, Bogue's Essays, Toplady on
Predestination, Boston's Fourfold State, Law's Serious Call, and other
works of that kind. These I looked over wistfully, day after day,
without even a hope of getting something interesting out of them. The
thought that father could read and understand things like these filled
me with a vague awe, and I wondered if I would ever be old enough to
know what it was all about.
"But there was one of my father's books that proved a mine of wealth
to me. It was a happy hour when he brought home and set up in his
bookcase Cotton Mather's 'Magnalia,' in a new edition of two volumes.
What wonderful stories those! Stories too about my own country. Stories
that made me feel the very ground I trod on to be consecrated by some
special dealing of God's Providence."
In continuing these reminiscences Mrs. Stowe describes as follows her
sensations upon first hearing the Declaration of Independence: "I
had never heard it before, and even now had but a vague idea of what
was meant by some parts of it. Still I gathered enough from the recital
of the abuses and injuries that had driven my nation to this course to
feel myself swelling with indignation, and ready with all my little
mind and strength to applaud the concluding passage, which Colonel
Talmadge rendered with resounding majesty. I was as ready as any of
them to pledge my life, fortune, and sacred honor for such a cause.
The heroic element was strong in me, having come down by ordinary
generation from a long line of Puritan ancestry, and just now it made
me long to do something, I knew not what: to fight for my country, or
to make some declaration on my own account."
When Harriet was nearly six years old her father married as his second
wife Miss Harriet Porter of Portland, Maine, and Mrs. Stowe thus
describes her new mother: "I slept in the nursery with my two younger
brothers. We knew that father was gone away somewhere on a journey
and was expected home, therefore the sound of a bustle in the house
the more easily awoke us. As father came into our room our new mother
followed him. She was very fair, with bright blue eyes, and soft auburn
hair bound round with a black velvet bandeau, and to us she seemed very
beautiful.
"Never did stepmother make a prettier or sweeter impression. The
morning following her arrival we looked at her with awe. She seemed to
us so fair, so delicate, so elegant, that we were almost afraid to go
near her. We must have appeared to her as rough, red-faced, country
children, honest, obedient, and bashful. She was peculiarly dainty
and neat in all her ways and arrangements, and I used to feel breezy,
rough, and rude in her presence.
"In her religion she was distinguished for a most unfaltering
Christ-worship. She was of a type noble but severe, naturally hard,
correct, exact and exacting, with intense natural and moral ideality.
Had it not been that Doctor Payson had set up and kept before her a
tender, human, loving Christ, she would have been only a conscientious
bigot. This image, however, gave softness and warmth to her religious
life, and I have since noticed how her Christ-enthusiasm has sprung up
in the hearts of all her children."
In writing to her old home of her first impressions of her new one,
Mrs. Beecher says: "It is a very lovely family, and with heartfelt
gratitude I observed how cheerful and healthy they were. The sentiment
is greatly increased, since I perceive them to be of agreeable habits
and some of them of uncommon intellect."
This new mother proved to be indeed all that the name implies to her
husband's children, and never did they have occasion to call her aught
other than blessed.
Another year finds a new baby brother, Frederick by name, added to
the family. At this time too we catch a characteristic glimpse of
Harriet in one of her sister Catherine's letters. She says: "Last week
we interred Tom junior with funeral honors by the side of old Tom of
happy memory. Our Harriet is chief mourner always at their funerals.
She asked for what she called an _epithet_ for the gravestone of Tom
junior, which I gave as follows:--
"Here lies our Kit,
Who had a fit,
And acted queer,
Shot with a gun,
Her race is run,
And she lies here."
In June, 1820, little Frederick died from scarlet fever, and Harriet
was seized with a violent attack of the same dread disease; but, after
a severe struggle, recovered.
Following her happy, hearty child-life, we find her tramping through
the woods or going on fishing excursions with her brothers, sitting
thoughtfully in her father's study, listening eagerly to the animated
theological discussions of the day, visiting her grandmother at Nut
Plains, and figuring as one of the brightest scholars in the Litchfield
Academy, taught by Mr. John Brace and Miss Pierce. When she was eleven
years old her brother Edward wrote of her: "Harriet reads everything
she can lay hands on, and sews and knits diligently."
At this time she was no longer the youngest girl of the family, for
another sister (Isabella) had been born in 1822. This event served
greatly to mature her, as she was intrusted with much of the care of
the baby out of school hours. It was not, however, allowed to interfere
in any way with her studies, and, under the skillful direction of her
beloved teachers, she seemed to absorb knowledge with every sense.
She herself writes: "Much of the training and inspiration of my early
days consisted not in the things that I was supposed to be studying,
but in hearing, while seated unnoticed at my desk, the conversation
of Mr. Brace with the older classes. There, from hour to hour, I
listened with eager ears to historical criticisms and discussions,
or to recitations in such works as Paley's Moral Philosophy, Blair's
Rhetoric, Allison on Taste, all full of most awakening suggestions to
my thoughts.
"Mr. Brace exceeded all teachers I ever knew in the faculty of teaching
composition. The constant excitement in which he kept the minds of his
pupils, the wide and varied regions of thought into which he led them,
formed a preparation for composition, the main requisite for which is
to have something which one feels interested to say."
In her tenth year Harriet began what to her was the fascinating work
of writing compositions, and so rapidly did she progress that at the
school exhibition held when she was twelve years old, hers was one of
the two or three essays selected to be read aloud before the august
assembly of visitors attracted by the occasion.
Of this event Mrs. Stowe writes: "I remember well the scene at that
exhibition, to me so eventful. The hall was crowded with all the
literati of Litchfield. Before them all our compositions were read
aloud. When mine was read I noticed that father, who was sitting on
high by Mr. Brace, brightened and looked interested, and at the close
I heard him ask, 'Who wrote that composition?' 'Your daughter, sir,'
was the answer. It was the proudest moment of my life. There was no
mistaking father's face when he was pleased, and to have interested him
was past all juvenile triumphs."
That composition has been carefully preserved, and on the old yellow
sheets the cramped childish handwriting is still distinctly legible.
As the first literary production of one who afterwards attained such
distinction as a writer, it is deemed of sufficient value and interest
to be embodied in this biography exactly as it was written and read
sixty-five years ago. The subject was certainly a grave one to be
handled by a child of twelve.
CAN THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL BE PROVED BY THE LIGHT OF NATURE?
It has justly been concluded by the philosophers
of every age that "The proper study of mankind is
man," and his nature and composition, both physical
and mental, have been subjects of the most critical
examination. In the course of these researches many
have been at a loss to account for the change which
takes place in the body at the time of death. By some
it has been attributed to the flight of its tenant, and
by others to its final annihilation.
The questions, "What becomes of the soul at the time
of death?" and, if it be not annihilated, "What is
its destiny after death?" are those which, from the
interest that we all feel in them, will probably
engross universal attention.
In pursuing these inquiries it will be necessary to
divest ourselves of all that knowledge which we have
obtained from the light which revelation has shed over
them, and place ourselves in the same position as the
philosophers of past ages when considering the same
subject.
The first argument which has been advanced to prove
the immortality of the soul is drawn from the nature
of the mind itself. It has (say the supporters of
this theory) no composition of parts, and therefore,
as there are no particles, is not susceptible of
divisibility and cannot be acted upon by decay, and
therefore if it will not decay it will exist forever.
Now because the mind is not susceptible of decay
effected in the ordinary way by a gradual separation of
particles, affords no proof that that same omnipotent
power which created it cannot by another simple
exertion of power again reduce it to nothing. The only
reason for belief which this argument affords is that
the soul cannot be acted upon by decay. But it does not
prove that it cannot destroy its existence. Therefore,
for the validity of this argument, it must either be
proved that the "Creator" has not the power to destroy
it, or that he has not the will; but as neither of
these can be established, our immortality is left
dependent on the pleasure of the Creator. But it is
said that it is evident that the Creator designed the
soul for immortality, or he would never have created it
so essentially different from the body, for had they
both been designed for the same end they would both
have been created alike, as there would have been no
object in forming them otherwise. This only proves that
the soul and body had not the same destinations. Now
of what these destinations are we know nothing, and
after much useless reasoning we return where we began,
our argument depending upon the good pleasure of the
Creator.
And here it is said that a being of such infinite
wisdom and benevolence as that of which the Creator is
possessed would not have formed man with such vast
capacities and boundless desires, and would have given
him no opportunity for exercising them.
In order to establish the validity of this argument it
is necessary to prove by the light of Nature that the
Creator _is_ benevolent, which, being impracticable, is
of itself sufficient to render the argument invalid.
But the argument proceeds upon the supposition that
to destroy the soul would be unwise. Now this is
arraigning the "All-wise" before the tribunal of his
subjects to answer for the mistakes in his government.
Can we look into the council of the "Unsearchable" and
see what means are made to answer their ends? We do
not know but the destruction of the soul may, in the
government of God, be made to answer such a purpose
that its existence would be contrary to the dictates of
wisdom.
The great desire of the soul for immortality, its
secret, innate horror of annihilation, has been brought
to prove its immortality. But do we always find this
horror or this desire? Is it not much more evident
that the great majority of mankind have no such dread
at all? True that there is a strong feeling of horror
excited by the idea of perishing from the earth and
being forgotten, of losing all those honors and all
that fame awaited them. Many feel this secret horror
when they look down upon the vale of futurity and
reflect that though now the idols of the world, soon
all which will be left them will be the common portion
of mankind--oblivion! But this dread does not arise
from any idea of their destiny beyond the tomb, and
even were this true, it would afford no proof that
the mind would exist forever, merely from its strong
desires. For it might with as much correctness be
argued that the body will exist forever because we have
a great dread of dying, and upon this principle nothing
which we strongly desire would ever be withheld from
us, and no evil that we greatly dread will ever come
upon us, a principle evidently false.
Again, it has been said that the constant progression
of the powers of the mind affords another proof of its
immortality. Concerning this, Addison remarks, "Were a
human soul ever thus at a stand in her acquirements,
were her faculties to be full blown and incapable of
further enlargement, I could imagine that she might
fall away insensibly and drop at once into a state
of annihilation. But can we believe a thinking being
that is in a perpetual progress of improvement, and
traveling on from perfection to perfection after having
just looked abroad into the works of her Creator and
made a few discoveries of his infinite wisdom and
goodness, must perish at her first setting out and in
the very beginning of her inquiries?"
In answer to this it may be said that the soul is not
always progressing in her powers. Is it not rather a
subject of general remark that those brilliant talents
which in youth expand, in manhood become stationary,
and in old age gradually sink to decay? Till when the
ancient man descends to the tomb scarce a wreck of that
once powerful mind remains.
Who, but upon reading the history of England, does not
look with awe upon the effects produced by the talents
of her Elizabeth? Who but admires that undaunted
firmness in time of peace and that profound depth
of policy which she displayed in the cabinet? Yet
behold the tragical end of this learned, this politic
princess! Behold the triumphs of age and sickness
over her once powerful talents, and say not that the
faculties of man are always progressing in their powers.
From the activity of the mind at the hour of death has
also been deduced its immortality. But it is not true
that the mind is always active at the time of death. We
find recorded in history numberless instances of those
talents, which were once adequate to the government of
a nation, being so weakened and palsied by the touch
of sickness as scarcely to tell to beholders what they
once were. The talents of the statesman, the wisdom of
the sage, the courage and might of the warrior, are
instantly destroyed by it, and all that remains of them
is the waste of idiocy or the madness of insanity.
Some minds there are who at the time of death retain
their faculties though much impaired, and if the
argument be valid these are the only cases where
immortality is conferred. Again, it is urged that the
inequality of rewards and punishments in this world
demand another in which virtue may be rewarded and vice
punished. This argument, in the first place, takes
for its foundation that by the light of nature the
distinction between virtue and vice can be discovered.
By some this is absolutely disbelieved, and by all
considered as extremely doubtful. And, secondly, it
puts the Creator under an obligation to reward and
punish the actions of his creatures. No such obligation
exists, and therefore the argument cannot be valid. And
this supposes the Creator to be a being of justice,
which cannot by the light of nature be proved, and
as the whole argument rests upon this foundation it
certainly cannot be correct.
This argument also directly impeaches the wisdom of the
Creator, for the sense of it is this,--that, forasmuch
as he was not able to manage his government in this
world, he must have another in which to rectify the
mistakes and oversights of this, and what an idea would
this give us of our All-wise Creator?
It is also said that all nations have some conceptions
of a future state, that the ancient Greeks and Romans
believed in it, that no nation has been found but have
possessed some idea of a future state of existence.
But their belief arose more from the fact that they
wished it to be so than from any real ground of belief;
for arguments appear much more plausible when the mind
wishes to be convinced. But it is said that every
nation, however circumstanced, possess some idea of
a future state. For this we may account by the fact
that it was handed down by tradition from the time of
the flood. From all these arguments, which, however
plausible at first sight, are found to be futile, may
be argued the necessity of a revelation. Without it,
the destiny of the noblest of the works of God would
have been left in obscurity. Never till the blessed
light of the Gospel dawned on the borders of the pit,
and the heralds of the Cross proclaimed "Peace on earth
and good will to men," was it that bewildered and
misled man was enabled to trace his celestial origin
and glorious destiny.
The sun of the Gospel has dispelled the darkness that
has rested on objects beyond the tomb. In the Gospel
man learned that when the dust returned to dust the
spirit fled to the God who gave it. He there found
that though man has lost the image of his divine
Creator, he is still destined, after this earthly house
of his tabernacle is dissolved, to an inheritance
incorruptible, undefiled, and that fadeth not away, to
a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens.
Soon after the writing of this remarkable composition, Harriet's
child-life in Litchfield came to an end, for that same year she went
to Hartford to pursue her studies in a school which had been recently
established by her sister Catherine in that city.
CHAPTER II.
SCHOOL DAYS IN HARTFORD, 1824-1832.
MISS CATHERINE BEECHER.--PROFESSOR FISHER.--THE WRECK
OF THE ALBION AND DEATH OF PROFESSOR FISHER.--"THE
MINISTER'S WOOING."--MISS CATHERINE BEECHER'S SPIRITUAL
HISTORY.--MRS. STOWE'S RECOLLECTIONS OF HER SCHOOL
DAYS IN HARTFORD.--HER CONVERSION.--UNITES WITH THE
FIRST CHURCH IN HARTFORD.--HER DOUBTS AND SUBSEQUENT
RELIGIOUS DEVELOPMENT.--HER FINAL PEACE.
THE school days in Hartford began a new era in Harriet's life. It was
the formative period, and it is therefore important to say a few words
concerning her sister Catherine, under whose immediate supervision she
was to continue her education. In fact, no one can comprehend either
Mrs. Stowe or her writings without some knowledge of the life and
character of this remarkable woman, whose strong, vigorous mind and
tremendous personality indelibly stamped themselves on the sensitive,
yielding, dreamy, and poetic nature of the younger sister. Mrs. Stowe
herself has said that the two persons who most strongly influenced
her at this period of her life were her brother Edward and her sister
Catherine.
Catherine was the oldest child of Lyman Beecher and Roxanna Foote, his
wife. In a little battered journal found among her papers is a short
sketch of her life, written when she was seventy-six years of age.
In a tremulous hand she begins: "I was born at East Hampton, L. I.,
September 5, 1800, at 5 P. M., in the large parlor opposite father's
study. Don't remember much about it myself." The sparkle of wit in this
brief notice of the circumstances of her birth is very characteristic.
All through her life little ripples of fun were continually playing on
the surface of that current of intense thought and feeling in which her
deep, earnest nature flowed.
When she was ten years of age her father removed to Litchfield, Conn.,
and her happy girlhood was passed in that place. Her bright and
versatile mind and ready wit enabled her to pass brilliantly through
her school days with but little mental exertion, and those who knew
her slightly might have imagined her to be only a bright, thoughtless,
light-hearted girl. In Boston, at the age of twenty, she took lessons
in music and drawing, and became so proficient in these branches as
to secure a position as teacher in a young ladies' school, kept by
a Rev. Mr. Judd, an Episcopal clergyman, at New London, Conn. About
this time she formed the acquaintance of Professor Alexander Metcalf
Fisher, of Yale College, one of the most distinguished young men in
New England. In January of the year 1822 they became engaged, and the
following spring Professor Fisher sailed for Europe to purchase books
and scientific apparatus for the use of his department in the college.
In his last letter to Miss Beecher, dated March 31, 1822, he writes:--
"I set out at 10 precisely to-morrow, in the Albion for Liverpool; the
ship has no superior in the whole number of excellent vessels belonging
to this port, and Captain Williams is regarded as first on their list
of commanders. The accommodations are admirable--fare $140. Unless our
ship should speak some one bound to America on the passage, you will
probably not hear from me under two months."
Before two months had passed came vague rumors of a terrible shipwreck
on the coast of Ireland. Then the tidings that the Albion was lost.
Then came a letter from Mr. Pond, at Kinsale, Ireland, dated May 2,
1822:--
"You have doubtless heard of the shipwreck of the Albion packet of New
York, bound to Liverpool. It was a melancholy shipwreck. It happened
about four o'clock on the morning of the 22d of April. Professor
Fisher, of Yale College, was one of the passengers. Out of twenty-three
cabin passengers, but one reached the shore. He is a Mr. Everhart,
of Chester County, Pennsylvania. He informs me that Professor Fisher
was injured by things that fetched away in the cabin at the time the
ship was knocked down. This was between 8 and 9 o'clock in the evening
of the twenty-first. Mr. Fisher, though badly bruised, was calm and
resolute, and assisted Captain Williams by taking the injured compass
to his berth and repairing it. About five minutes before the vessel
struck Captain Williams informed the passengers of their danger, and
all went on deck except Professor Fisher, who remained sitting in his
berth. Mr. Everhart was the last person who left the cabin, and the
last who ever saw Professor Fisher alive."
I should not have spoken of this incident of family history with
such minuteness, except for the fact that it is so much a part of
Mrs. Stowe's life as to make it impossible to understand either
her character or her most important works without it. Without this
incident "The Minister's Wooing" never would have been written, for
both Mrs. Marvyn's terrible soul struggles and old Candace's direct
and effective solution of all religious difficulties find their origin
in this stranded, storm-beaten ship on the coast of Ireland, and the
terrible mental conflicts through which her sister afterward passed,
for she believed Professor Fisher eternally lost. No mind more directly
and powerfully influenced Harriet's than that of her sister Catherine,
unless it was her brother Edward's, and that which acted with such
overwhelming power on the strong, unyielding mind of the older sister
must have, in time, a permanent and abiding influence on the mind of
the younger.
After Professor Fisher's death his books came into Miss Beecher's
possession, and among them was a complete edition of Scott's works. It
was an epoch in the family history when Doctor Beecher came down-stairs
one day with a copy of "Ivanhoe" in his hand, and said: "I have always
said that my children should not read novels, but they must read these."
The two years following the death of Professor Fisher were passed by
Miss Catherine Beecher at Franklin, Mass., at the home of Professor
Fisher's parents, where she taught his two sisters, studied mathematics
with his brother Willard, and listened to Doctor Emmons' fearless
and pitiless preaching. Hers was a mind too strong and buoyant to be
crushed and prostrated by that which would have driven a weaker and
less resolute nature into insanity. Of her it may well be said:--
"She faced the spectres of the mind
And laid them, thus she came at length
To find a stronger faith her own."
Gifted naturally with a capacity for close metaphysical analysis and a
robust fearlessness in following her premises to a logical conclusion,
she arrived at results startling and original, if not always of
permanent value.
In 1840 she published in the "Biblical Repository" an article on Free
Agency, which has been acknowledged by competent critics as the ablest
refutation of Edwards on "The Will" which has appeared. An amusing
incident connected with this publication may not be out of place here.
A certain eminent theological professor of New England, visiting a
distinguished German theologian and speaking of this production, said:
"The ablest refutation of Edwards on 'The Will' which was ever written
is the work of a woman, the daughter of Dr. Lyman Beecher." The worthy
Teuton raised both hands in undisguised astonishment. "You have a woman
that can write an able refutation of Edwards on 'The Will'? God forgive
Christopher Columbus for discovering America!"
Not finding herself able to love a God whom she thought of in her own
language as "a perfectly happy being, unmoved by my sorrows or tears,
and looking upon me only with dislike and aversion," she determined "to
find happiness in living to do good." "It was right to pray and read
the Bible, so I prayed and read. It was right to try to save others,
so I labored for their salvation. I never had any fear of punishment
or hope of reward all these years." She was tormented with doubts.
"What has the Son of God done which the meanest and most selfish
creature upon earth would not have done? After making such a wretched
race and placing them in such disastrous circumstances, somehow,
without any sorrow or trouble, Jesus Christ had a human nature that
suffered and died. If something else besides ourselves will do all the
suffering, who would not save millions of wretched beings and receive
all the honor and gratitude without any of the trouble? Sometimes when
such thoughts passed through my mind, I felt that it was all pride,
rebellion, and sin."
So she struggles on, sometimes floundering deep in the mire of doubt,
and then lifted for the moment above it by her naturally buoyant
spirits, and general tendency to look on the bright side of things. In
this condition of mind, she came to Hartford in the winter of 1824,
and began a school with eight scholars, and it was in the practical
experience of teaching that she found a final solution of all her
difficulties. She continues:--
"After two or three years I commenced giving instruction in mental
philosophy, and at the same time began a regular course of lectures
and instructions from the Bible, and was much occupied with plans for
governing my school, and in devising means to lead my pupils to become
obedient, amiable, and pious. By degrees I finally arrived at the
following principles in the government of my school:--
"First. It is indispensable that my scholars should feel that I am
sincerely and deeply interested in their best happiness, and the more I
can convince them of this, the more ready will be their obedience.
"Second. The preservation of authority and order depends upon the
certainty that unpleasant consequences to themselves will inevitably be
the result of doing wrong.
"Third. It is equally necessary, to preserve my own influence and their
affection, that they should feel that punishment is the natural result
of wrong-doing in such a way that they shall regard themselves, instead
of me, as the cause of their punishment.
"Fourth. It is indispensable that my scholars should see that my
requisitions are reasonable. In the majority of cases this can be
shown, and in this way such confidence will be the result that they
will trust to my judgment and knowledge, in cases where no explanation
can be given.
"Fifth. The more I can make my scholars feel that I am actuated by a
spirit of self-denying benevolence, the more confidence they will feel
in me, and the more they will be inclined to submit to self-denying
duties for the good of others.
"After a while I began to compare my experience with the government of
God. I finally got through the whole subject, and drew out the results,
and found that all my difficulties were solved and all my darkness
dispelled."
Her solution in brief is nothing more than that view of the divine
nature which was for so many years preached by her brother, Henry Ward
Beecher, and set forth in the writings of her sister Harriet,--the
conception of a being of infinite love, patience, and kindness who
suffers with man. The sufferings of Christ on the cross were not the
sufferings of his human nature merely, but the sufferings of the
divine nature in Him. In Christ we see the only revelation of God, and
that is the revelation of one that suffers. This is the fundamental
idea in "The Minister's Wooing," and it is the idea of God in which the
storm-tossed soul of the older sister at last found rest. All this was
directly opposed to that fundamental principle of theologians that God,
being the infinitely perfect Being, cannot suffer, because suffering
indicates imperfection. To Miss Beecher's mind the lack of ability to
suffer with his suffering creatures was a more serious imperfection.
Let the reader turn to the twenty-fourth chapter of "The Minister's
Wooing" for a complete presentation of this subject, especially the
passage that begins, "Sorrow is divine: sorrow is reigning on the
throne of the universe."
In the fall of the year 1824, while her sister Catherine was passing
through the soul crisis which we have been describing, Harriet came to
the school that she had recently established.
In a letter to her son written in 1886, speaking of this period of her
life, Mrs. Stowe says: "Somewhere between my twelfth and thirteenth
year I was placed under the care of my elder sister Catherine, in the
school that she had just started in Hartford, Connecticut. When I
entered the school there were not more than twenty-five scholars in it,
but it afterwards numbered its pupils by the hundreds. The school-room
was on Main Street, nearly opposite Christ Church, over Sheldon &
Colton's harness store, at the sign of the two white horses. I never
shall forget the pleasure and surprise which these two white horses
produced in my mind when I first saw them. One of the young men who
worked in the rear of the harness store had a most beautiful tenor
voice, and it was my delight to hear him singing in school hours:--
[Illustration: Catherine E. Beecher]
'When in cold oblivion's shade
Beauty, wealth, and power are laid,
When, around the sculptured shrine,
Moss shall cling and ivy twine,
Where immortal spirits reign,
There shall we all meet again.'
"As my father's salary was inadequate to the wants of his large family,
the expense of my board in Hartford was provided for by a species of
exchange. Mr. Isaac D. Bull sent a daughter to Miss Pierce's seminary
in Litchfield, and she boarded in my father's family in exchange for
my board in her father's family. If my good, refined, neat, particular
stepmother could have chosen, she could not have found a family more
exactly suited to her desires. The very soul of neatness and order
pervaded the whole establishment. Mr. I. D. Bull was a fine, vigorous,
white-haired man on the declining slope of life, but full of energy
and of kindness. Mr. Samuel Collins, a neighbor who lived next door,
used to frequently come in and make most impressive and solemn calls on
Miss Mary Anne Bull, who was a brunette and a celebrated beauty of the
day. I well remember her long raven curls falling from the comb that
held them up on the top of her head. She had a rich soprano voice, and
was the leading singer in the Centre Church choir. The two brothers
also had fine, manly voices, and the family circle was often enlivened
by quartette singing and flute playing. Mr. Bull kept a very large
wholesale drug store on Front Street, in which his two sons, Albert
and James, were clerks. The oldest son, Watson Bull, had established a
retail drug store at the sign of the 'Good Samaritan.' A large picture
of the Good Samaritan relieving the wounded traveler formed a striking
part of the sign, and was contemplated by me with reverence.
"The mother of the family gave me at once a child's place in her heart.
A neat little hall chamber was allotted to me for my own, and a well
made and kept single bed was given me, of which I took daily care with
awful satisfaction. If I was sick nothing could exceed the watchful
care and tender nursing of Mrs. Bull. In school my two most intimate
friends were the leading scholars. They had written to me before I
came and I had answered their letters, and on my arrival they gave me
the warmest welcome. One was Catherine Ledyard Cogswell, daughter of
the leading and best-beloved of Hartford physicians. The other was
Georgiana May, daughter of a most lovely Christian woman who was a
widow. Georgiana was one of many children, having two younger sisters,
Mary and Gertrude, and several brothers. Catherine Cogswell was one of
the most amiable, sprightly, sunny-tempered individuals I have ever
known. She was, in fact, so much beloved that it was difficult for
me to see much of her. Her time was all bespoken by different girls.
One might walk with her to school, another had the like promise on
the way home. And at recess, of which we had every day a short half
hour, there was always a suppliant at Katy's shrine, whom she found it
hard to refuse. Yet, among all these claimants, she did keep a little
place here and there for me. Georgiana was older and graver, and less
fascinating to the other girls, but between her and me there grew up
the warmest friendship, which proved lifelong in its constancy.
"Catherine and Georgiana were reading 'Virgil' when I came to the
school. I began the study of Latin alone, and at the end of the first
year made a translation of 'Ovid' in verse, which was read at the final
exhibition of the school, and regarded, I believe, as a very creditable
performance. I was very much interested in poetry, and it was my dream
to be a poet. I began a drama called 'Cleon.' The scene was laid in the
court and time of the emperor Nero, and Cleon was a Greek lord residing
at Nero's court, who, after much searching and doubting, at last comes
to the knowledge of Christianity. I filled blank book after blank book
with this drama. It filled my thoughts sleeping and waking. One day
sister Catherine pounced down upon me, and said that I must not waste
my time writing poetry, but discipline my mind by the study of Butler's
'Analogy.' So after this I wrote out abstracts from the 'Analogy,' and
instructed a class of girls as old as myself, being compelled to master
each chapter just ahead of the class I was teaching. About this time I
read Baxter's 'Saint's Rest.' I do not think any book affected me more
powerfully. As I walked the pavements I used to wish that they might
sink beneath me if only I might find myself in heaven. I was at the
same time very much interested in Butler's 'Analogy,' for Mr. Brace
used to lecture on such themes when I was at Miss Pierce's school at
Litchfield. I also began the study of French and Italian with a Miss
Degan, who was born in Italy.
"It was about this time that I first believed myself to be a Christian.
I was spending my summer vacation at home, in Litchfield. I shall
ever remember that dewy, fresh summer morning. I knew that it was a
sacramental Sunday, and thought with sadness that when all the good
people should take the sacrificial bread and wine I should be left
out. I tried hard to feel my sins and count them up; but what with the
birds, the daisies, and the brooks that rippled by the way, it was
impossible. I came into church quite dissatisfied with myself, and as
I looked upon the pure white cloth, the snowy bread and shining cups,
of the communion table, thought with a sigh: 'There won't be anything
for me to-day; it is all for these grown-up Christians.' Nevertheless,
when father began to speak, I was drawn to listen by a certain
pathetic earnestness in his voice. Most of father's sermons were as
unintelligible to me as if he had spoken in Choctaw. But sometimes he
preached what he was accustomed to call a 'frame sermon;' that is, a
sermon that sprung out of the deep feeling of the occasion, and which
consequently could be neither premeditated nor repeated. His text was
taken from the Gospel of John, the declaration of Jesus: 'Behold, I
call you no longer servants, but friends.' His theme was Jesus as a
soul friend offered to every human being.
"Forgetting all his hair-splitting distinctions and dialectic
subtleties, he spoke in direct, simple, and tender language of the
great love of Christ and his care for the soul. He pictured Him as
patient with our errors, compassionate with our weaknesses, and
sympathetic for our sorrows. He went on to say how He was ever near
us, enlightening our ignorance, guiding our wanderings, comforting our
sorrows with a love unwearied by faults, unchilled by ingratitude, till
at last He should present us faultless before the throne of his glory
with exceeding joy.
"I sat intent and absorbed. Oh! how much I needed just such a friend,
I thought to myself. Then the awful fact came over me that I had never
had any conviction of my sins, and consequently could not come to Him.
I longed to cry out 'I will,' when father made his passionate appeal,
'Come, then, and trust your soul to this faithful friend.' Like a flash
it came over me that if I needed conviction of sin, He was able to give
me even this also. I would trust Him for the whole. My whole soul was
illumined with joy, and as I left the church to walk home, it seemed to
me as if Nature herself were hushing her breath to hear the music of
heaven.
"As soon as father came home and was seated in his study, I went up to
him and fell in his arms saying, 'Father, I have given myself to Jesus,
and He has taken me.' I never shall forget the expression of his face
as he looked down into my earnest, childish eyes; it was so sweet, so
gentle, and like sunlight breaking out upon a landscape. 'Is it so?' he
said, holding me silently to his heart, as I felt the hot tears fall on
my head. 'Then has a new flower blossomed in the kingdom this day.'"
If she could have been let alone, and taught "to look up and not down,
forward and not back, out and not in," this religious experience might
have gone on as sweetly and naturally as the opening of a flower in
the gentle rays of the sun. But unfortunately this was not possible
at that time, when self-examination was carried to an extreme that was
calculated to drive a nervous and sensitive mind well-nigh distracted.
First, even her sister Catherine was afraid that there might be
something wrong in the case of a lamb that had come into the fold
without being first chased all over the lot by the shepherd; great
stress being laid, in those days, on what was called "being under
conviction." Then also the pastor of the First Church in Hartford, a
bosom friend of Dr. Beecher, looked with melancholy and suspicious
eyes on this unusual and doubtful path to heaven,--but more of this
hereafter. Harriet's conversion took place in the summer of 1825, when
she was fourteen, and the following year, April, 1826, Dr. Beecher
resigned his pastorate in Litchfield to accept a call to the Hanover
Street Church, Boston, Mass. In a letter to her grandmother Foote at
Guilford, dated Hartford, March 4, 1826, Harriet writes:--
"You have probably heard that our home in Litchfield is broken up.
Papa has received a call to Boston, and concluded to accept, because
he could not support his family in Litchfield. He was dismissed last
week Tuesday, and will be here (Hartford) next Tuesday with mamma and
Isabel. Aunt Esther will take Charles and Thomas to her house for the
present. Papa's salary is to be $2,000 and $500 settlement.
"I attend school constantly and am making some progress in my studies.
I devote most of my attention to Latin and to arithmetic, and hope soon
to prepare myself to assist Catherine in the school."
This breaking up of the Litchfield home led Harriet, under her
father's advice, to seek to connect herself with the First Church of
Hartford. Accordingly, accompanied by two of her school friends, she
went one day to the pastor's study to consult with him concerning the
contemplated step. The good man listened attentively to the child's
simple and modest statement of Christian experience, and then with an
awful, though kindly, solemnity of speech and manner said, "Harriet,
do you feel that if the universe should be destroyed (awful pause)
you could be happy with God alone?" After struggling in vain, in her
mental bewilderment, to fix in her mind some definite conception of the
meaning of the sounds which fell on her ear like the measured strokes
of a bell, the child of fourteen stammered out, "Yes, sir."
"You realize, I trust," continued the doctor, "in some measure at
least, the deceitfulness of your heart, and that in punishment for your
sins God might justly leave you to make yourself as miserable as you
have made yourself sinful?"
"Yes, sir," again stammered Harriet.
Having thus effectually, and to his own satisfaction, fixed the child's
attention on the morbid and over-sensitive workings of her own heart,
the good and truly kind-hearted man dismissed her with a fatherly
benediction. But where was the joyous ecstasy of that beautiful Sabbath
morning of a year ago? Where was that heavenly friend? Yet was not
this as it should be, and might not God leave her "to make herself as
miserable as she had made herself sinful"?
In a letter addressed to her brother Edward, about this time, she
writes: "My whole life is one continued struggle: I do nothing right.
I yield to temptation almost as soon as it assails me. My deepest
feelings are very evanescent. I am beset behind and before, and my sins
take away all my happiness. But that which most constantly besets me is
pride--I can trace almost all my sins back to it."
In the mean time, the school is prospering. February 16, 1827,
Catherine writes to Dr. Beecher: "My affairs go on well. The stock is
all taken up, and next week I hope to have out the prospectus of the
'Hartford Female Seminary.' I hope the building will be done, and all
things in order, by June. The English lady is coming with twelve pupils
from New York." Speaking of Harriet, who was at this time with her
father in Boston, she adds: "I have received some letters from Harriet
to-day which make me feel uneasy. She says, 'I don't know as I am fit
for anything, and I have thought that I could wish to die young, and
let the remembrance of me and my faults perish in the grave, rather
than live, as I fear I do, a trouble to every one. You don't know how
perfectly wretched I often feel: so useless, so weak, so destitute of
all energy. Mamma often tells me that I am a strange, inconsistent
being. Sometimes I could not sleep, and have groaned and cried till
midnight, while in the daytime I tried to appear cheerful and succeeded
so well that papa reproved me for laughing so much. I was so absent
sometimes that I made strange mistakes, and then they all laughed at
me, and I laughed, too, though I felt as though I should go distracted.
I wrote rules; made out a regular system for dividing my time; but
my feelings vary so much that it is almost impossible for me to be
regular.'"
But let Harriet "take courage in her dark sorrows and melancholies," as
Carlyle says: "Samuel Johnson too had hypochondrias; all great souls
are apt to have, and to be in thick darkness generally till the eternal
ways and the celestial guiding stars disclose themselves, and the vague
abyss of life knits itself up into firmaments for them."
At the same time (the winter of 1827), Catherine writes to Edward
concerning Harriet: "If she could come here (Hartford) it might be the
best thing for her, for she can talk freely to me. I can get her books,
and Catherine Cogswell, Georgiana May, and her friends here could do
more for her than any one in Boston, for they love her and she loves
them very much. Georgiana's difficulties are different from Harriet's:
she is speculating about doctrines, etc. Harriet will have young
society here all the time, which she cannot have at home, and I think
cheerful and amusing friends will do much for her. I can do better in
preparing her to teach drawing than any one else, for I best know what
is needed."
It was evidently necessary that something should be done to restore
Harriet to a more tranquil and healthful frame of mind; consequently in
the spring of 1827, accompanied by her friend Georgiana May, she went
to visit her grandmother Foote at Nut Plains, Guilford. Miss May refers
to this visit in a letter to Mrs. Foote, in January of the following
winter.
HARTFORD, _January 4, 1828._
DEAR MRS. FOOTE:--... I very often think of you and
the happy hours I passed at your house last spring.
It seems as if it were but yesterday: now, while I am
writing, I can see your pleasant house and the familiar
objects around you as distinctly as the day I left
them. Harriet and I are very much the same girls we
were then. I do not believe we have altered very much,
though she is improved in some respects.
The August following this visit to Guilford Harriet writes to her
brother Edward in a vein which is still streaked with sadness, but
shows some indication of returning health of mind.
"Many of my objections you did remove that afternoon we spent together.
After that I was not as unhappy as I had been. I felt, nevertheless,
that my views were very indistinct and contradictory, and feared that
if you left me thus I might return to the same dark, desolate state
in which I had been all summer. I felt that my immortal interest,
my happiness for both worlds, was depending on the turn my feelings
might take. In my disappointment and distress I called upon God, and
it seemed as if I was heard. I felt that He could supply the loss of
all earthly love. All misery and darkness were over. I felt as if
restored, nevermore to fall. Such sober certainty of waking bliss had
long been a stranger to me. But even then I had doubts as to whether
these feelings were right, because I felt love to God alone without
that ardent love for my fellow-creatures which Christians have often
felt.... I cannot say exactly what it is makes me reluctant to speak
of my feelings. It costs me an effort to express feeling of any kind,
but more particularly to speak of my private religious feelings. If any
one questions me, my first impulse is to conceal all I can. As for
expression of affection towards my brothers and sisters, my companions
or friends, the stronger the affection the less inclination have I to
express it. Yet sometimes I think myself the most frank, open, and
communicative of beings, and at other times the most reserved. If you
can resolve all these caprices into general principles, you will do
more than I can. Your speaking so much philosophically has a tendency
to repress confidence. We never wish to have our feelings analyzed
down; and very little, nothing, that we say brought to the test of
mathematical demonstration.
"It appears to me that if I only could adopt the views of God you
presented to my mind, they would exert a strong and beneficial
influence over my character. But I am afraid to accept them for several
reasons. First, it seems to be taking from the majesty and dignity
of the divine character to suppose that his happiness can be at all
affected by the conduct of his sinful, erring creatures. Secondly, it
seems to me that such views of God would have an effect on our own
minds in lessening that reverence and fear which is one of the greatest
motives to us for action. For, although to a generous mind the thought
of the love of God would be a sufficient incentive to action, there are
times of coldness when that love is not felt, and then there remains no
sort of stimulus. I find as I adopt these sentiments I feel less fear
of God, and, in view of sin, I feel only a sensation of grief which is
more easily dispelled and forgotten than that I formerly felt."
A letter dated January 3, 1828, shows us that Harriet had returned to
Hartford and was preparing herself to teach drawing and painting, under
the direction of her sister Catherine.
MY DEAR GRANDMOTHER,--I should have written before to
assure you of my remembrance of you, but I have been
constantly employed, from nine in the morning till
after dark at night, in taking lessons of a painting
and drawing master, with only an intermission long
enough to swallow a little dinner which was sent to me
in the school-room. You may easily believe that after
spending the day in this manner, I did not feel in a
very epistolary humor in the evening, and if I had
been, I could not have written, for when I did not go
immediately to bed I was obliged to get a long French
lesson.
The seminary is finished, and the school going on
nicely. Miss Clarissa Brown is assisting Catherine in
the school. Besides her, Catherine, and myself, there
are two other teachers who both board in the family
with us: one is Miss Degan, an Italian lady who teaches
French and Italian; she rooms with me, and is very
interesting and agreeable. Miss Hawks is rooming with
Catherine. In some respects she reminds me very much
of my mother. She is gentle, affectionate, modest, and
retiring, and much beloved by all the scholars.... I
am still going on with my French, and carrying two
young ladies through Virgil, and if I have time, shall
commence Italian.
I am very comfortable and happy.
I propose, my dear grandmamma, to send you by the first
opportunity a dish of fruit of my own painting. Pray
do not now devour it in anticipation, for I cannot
promise that you will not find it sadly tasteless in
reality. If so, please excuse it, for the sake of the
poor young artist. I admire to cultivate a taste for
painting, and I wish to improve it; it was what my
dear mother admired and loved, and I cherish it for
her sake. I have thought more of this dearest of all
earthly friends these late years, since I have been old
enough to know her character and appreciate her worth.
I sometimes think that, had she lived, I might have
been both better and happier than I now am, but God is
good and wise in all his ways.
A letter written to her brother Edward in Boston, dated March 27, 1828,
shows how slowly she adopted the view of God that finally became one of
the most characteristic elements in her writings.
"I think that those views of God which you have presented to me have
had an influence in restoring my mind to its natural tone. But still,
after all, God is a being afar off. He is so far above us that anything
but the most distant reverential affection seems almost sacrilegious.
It is that affection that can lead us to be familiar that the heart
needs. But easy and familiar expressions of attachment and that sort
of confidential communication which I should address to papa or you
would be improper for a subject to address to a king, much less for
us to address to the King of kings. The language of prayer is of
necessity stately and formal, and we cannot clothe all the little
minutiæ of our wants and troubles in it. I wish I could describe to you
how I feel when I pray. I feel that I love God,--that is, that I love
Christ,--that I find comfort and happiness in it, and yet it is not
that kind of comfort which would arise from free communication of my
wants and sorrows to a friend. I sometimes wish that the Saviour were
visibly present in this world, that I might go to Him for a solution of
some of my difficulties.... Do you think, my dear brother, that there
is such a thing as so realizing the presence and character of God that
He can supply the place of earthly friends? I really wish to know what
you think of this.... Do you suppose that God really loves sinners
before they come to Him? Some say that we ought to tell them that God
hates them, that He looks on them with utter abhorrence, and that they
must love Him before He will look on them otherwise. Is it right to say
to those who are in deep distress, 'God is interested in you; He feels
for and loves you'?"
Appended to this letter is a short note from Miss Catherine Beecher,
who evidently read the letter over and answered Harriet's questions
herself. She writes: "When the young man came to Jesus, is it not said
that Jesus loved him, though he was unrenewed?"
In April, 1828, Harriet again writes to her brother Edward:--
"I have had more reason to be grateful to that friend than ever
before. He has not left me in all my weakness. It seems to me that
my love to Him is the love of despair. All my communion with Him,
though sorrowful, is soothing. I am painfully sensible of ignorance
and deficiency, but still I feel that I am willing that He should know
all. He will look on all that is wrong only to purify and reform. He
will never be irritated or impatient. He will never show me my faults
in such a manner as to irritate without helping me. A friend to whom I
would acknowledge all my faults must be perfect. Let any one once be
provoked, once speak harshly to me, once sweep all the chords of my
soul out of tune, I never could confide there again. It is only to the
most perfect Being in the universe that imperfection can look and hope
for patience. How strange!... You do not know how harsh and forbidding
everything seems, compared with his character. All through the day in
my intercourse with others, everything has a tendency to destroy the
calmness of mind gained by communion with Him. One flatters me, another
is angry with me, another is unjust to me.
"You speak of your predilections for literature having been a snare to
you. I have found it so myself. I can scarcely think, without tears
and indignation, that all that is beautiful and lovely and poetical
has been laid on other altars. Oh! will there never be a poet with a
heart enlarged and purified by the Holy Spirit, who shall throw all the
graces of harmony, all the enchantments of feeling, pathos, and poetry,
around sentiments worthy of them?... It matters little what service He
has for me.... I do not mean to live in vain. He has given me talents,
and I will lay them at his feet, well satisfied, if He will accept
them. All my powers He can enlarge. He made my mind, and He can teach
me to cultivate and exert its faculties."
The following November she writes from Groton, Conn., to Miss May:--
"I am in such an uncertain, unsettled state, traveling back and
forth, that I have very little time to write. In the first place, on
my arrival in Boston I was obliged to spend two days in talking and
telling news. Then after that came calling, visiting, etc., and then I
came off to Groton to see my poor brother George, who was quite out of
spirits and in very trying circumstances. To-morrow I return to Boston
and spend four or five days, and then go to Franklin, where I spend the
rest of my vacation.
"I found the folks all well on my coming to Boston, and as to my new
brother, James, he has nothing to distinguish him from forty other
babies, except a very large pair of blue eyes and an uncommonly fair
complexion, a thing which is of no sort of use or advantage to a man or
boy.
"I am thinking very seriously of remaining in Groton and taking care of
the female school, and at the same time being of assistance and company
for George. On some accounts it would not be so pleasant as returning
to Hartford, for I should be among strangers. Nothing upon this point
can be definitely decided till I have returned to Boston, and talked to
papa and Catherine."
Evidently papa and Catherine did not approve of the Groton plan, for
in February of the following winter Harriet writes from Hartford to
Edward, who is at this time with his father in Boston:--
"My situation this winter (1829) is in many respects pleasant. I room
with three other teachers, Miss Fisher, Miss Mary Dutton, and Miss
Brigham. Ann Fisher you know. Miss Dutton is about twenty, has a fine
mathematical mind, and has gone as far into that science perhaps as
most students at college. She is also, as I am told, quite learned in
the languages.... Miss Brigham is somewhat older: is possessed of a
fine mind and most unconquerable energy and perseverance of character.
From early childhood she has been determined to obtain an education,
and to attain to a certain standard. Where persons are determined to
be anything, they will be. I think, for this reason, she will make a
first-rate character. Such are my companions. We spend our time in
school during the day, and in studying in the evening. My plan of study
is to read rhetoric and prepare exercises for my class the first half
hour in the evening; after that the rest of the evening is divided
between French and Italian. Thus you see the plan of my employment and
the character of my immediate companions. Besides these, there are
others among the teachers and scholars who must exert an influence
over my character. Miss Degan, whose constant occupation it is to make
others laugh; Mrs. Gamage, her room-mate, a steady, devoted, sincere
Christian.... Little things have great power over me, and if I meet
with the least thing that crosses my feelings, I am often rendered
unhappy for days and weeks.... I wish I could bring myself to feel
perfectly indifferent to the opinions of others. I believe that there
never was a person more dependent on the good and evil opinions of
those around than I am. This desire to be loved forms, I fear, the
great motive for all my actions.... I have been reading carefully the
book of Job, and I do not think that it contains the views of God which
you presented to me. God seems to have stripped a dependent creature
of all that renders life desirable, and then to have answered his
complaints from the whirlwind; and instead of showing mercy and pity,
to have overwhelmed him by a display of his power and justice.... With
the view I received from you, I should have expected that a being who
sympathizes with his guilty, afflicted creatures would not have spoken
thus. Yet, after all, I do believe that God is such a being as you
represent Him to be, and in the New Testament I find in the character
of Jesus Christ a revelation of God as merciful and compassionate; in
fact, just such a God as I need.
"Somehow or another you have such a reasonable sort of way of saying
things that when I come to reflect I almost always go over to your
side.... My mind is often perplexed, and such thoughts arise in it
that I cannot pray, and I become bewildered. The wonder to me is, how
all ministers and all Christians can feel themselves so inexcusably
sinful, when it seems to me we all come into the world in such a way
that it would be miraculous if we did not sin. Mr. Hawes always says in
prayer, 'We have nothing to offer in extenuation of any of our sins,'
and I always think when he says it, that we have everything to offer
in extenuation. The case seems to me exactly as if I had been brought
into the world with such a thirst for ardent spirits that there was
just a possibility, though no hope, that I should resist, and then
my eternal happiness made dependent on my being temperate. Sometimes
when I try to confess my sins, I feel that after all I am more to be
pitied than blamed, for I have never known the time when I have not
had a temptation within me so strong that it was certain I should not
overcome it. This thought shocks me, but it comes with such force, and
so appealingly, to all my consciousness, that it stifles all sense of
sin....
"Sometimes when I read the Bible, it seems to be wholly grounded on
the idea that the sin of man is astonishing, inexcusable, and without
palliation or cause, and the atonement is spoken of as such a wonderful
and undeserved mercy that I am filled with amazement. Yet if I give up
the Bible I gain nothing, for the providence of God in nature is just
as full of mystery, and of the two I think that the Bible, with all its
difficulties, is preferable to being without it; for the Bible holds
out the hope that in a future world all shall be made plain.... So you
see I am, as Mr. Hawes says, 'on the waves,' and all I can do is to
take the word of God that He does do right and there I rest."
The following summer, in July, she writes to Edward: "I have never
been so happy as this summer. I began it in more suffering than I
ever before have felt, but there is One whom I daily thank for all
that suffering, since I hope that it has brought me at last to rest
entirely in Him. I do hope that my long, long course of wandering and
darkness and unhappiness is over, and that I have found in Him who died
for me all, and more than all, I could desire. Oh, Edward, you can
feel as I do; you can speak of Him! There are few, very few, who can.
Christians in general do not seem to look to Him as their best friend,
or realize anything of his unutterable love. They speak with a cold,
vague, reverential awe, but do not speak as if in the habit of close
and near communion; as if they confided to Him every joy and sorrow and
constantly looked to Him for direction and guidance. I cannot express
to you, my brother, I cannot tell you, how that Saviour appears to me.
To bear with one so imperfect, so weak, so inconsistent, as myself,
implied, long-suffering and patience more than words can express. I
love most to look on Christ as my teacher, as one who, knowing the
utmost of my sinfulness, my waywardness, my folly, can still have
patience; can reform, purify, and daily make me more like himself."
So, after four years of struggling and suffering, she returns to the
place where she started from as a child of thirteen. It has been
like watching a ship with straining masts and storm-beaten sails,
buffeted by the waves, making for the harbor, and coming at last to
quiet anchorage. There have been, of course, times of darkness and
depression, but never any permanent loss of the religious trustfulness
and peace of mind indicated by this letter.
The next three years were passed partly in Boston, and partly in
Guilford and Hartford. Writing of this period of her life to the Rev.
Charles Beecher, she says:--
MY DEAR BROTHER,--The looking over of father's letters
in the period of his Boston life brings forcibly to
my mind many recollections. At this time I was more
with him, and associated in companionship of thought
and feeling for a longer period than any other of my
experience.
In the summer of 1832 she writes to Miss May, revealing her spiritual
and intellectual life in a degree unusual, even for her.
"After the disquisition on myself above cited, you will be prepared to
understand the changes through which this wonderful _ego et me ipse_
has passed.
"The amount of the matter has been, as this inner world of mine has
become worn out and untenable, I have at last concluded to come out of
it and live in the external one, and, as F---- S---- once advised me,
to give up the pernicious habit of meditation to the first Methodist
minister that would take it, and try to mix in society somewhat as
another person would.
"'_Horas non numero nisi serenas._' Uncle Samuel, who sits by me,
has just been reading the above motto, the inscription on a sun-dial
in Venice. It strikes me as having a distant relationship to what I
was going to say. I have come to a firm resolution to count no hours
but unclouded ones, and to let all others slip out of my memory and
reckoning as quickly as possible....
"I am trying to cultivate a general spirit of kindliness towards
everybody. Instead of shrinking into a corner to notice how other
people behave, I am holding out my hand to the right and to the left,
and forming casual or incidental acquaintances with all who will be
acquainted with me. In this way I find society full of interest and
pleasure--a pleasure which pleaseth me more because it is not old and
worn out. From these friendships I expect little; therefore generally
receive more than I expect. From past friendships I have expected
everything, and must of necessity have been disappointed. The kind
words and looks and smiles I call forth by looking and smiling are not
much by themselves, but they form a very pretty flower border to the
way of life. They embellish the day or the hour as it passes, and when
they fade they only do just as you expected they would. This kind of
pleasure in acquaintanceship is new to me. I never tried it before.
When I used to meet persons, the first inquiry was, 'Have they such and
such a character, or have they anything that might possibly be of use
or harm to me?'"
It is striking, the degree of interest a letter had for her.
"Your long letter came this morning. It revived much in my heart.
Just think how glad I must have been this morning to hear from you. I
was glad.... I thought of it through all the vexations of school this
morning.... I have a letter at home; and when I came home from school,
I went leisurely over it.
"This evening I have spent in a little social party,--a dozen or
so,--and I have been zealously talking all the evening. When I
came to my cold, lonely room, there was your letter lying on the
dressing-table. It touched me with a sort of painful pleasure, for it
seems to me uncertain, improbable, that I shall ever return and find
you as I have found your letter. Oh, my dear G----, it is scarcely
well to love friends thus. The greater part that I see cannot move me
deeply. They are present, and I enjoy them; they pass and I forget
them. But those that I love differently; those that I LOVE; and oh,
how much that word means! I feel sadly about them. They may change;
they must die; they are separated from me, and I ask myself why should
I wish to love with all the pains and penalties of such conditions? I
check myself when expressing feelings like this, so much has been said
of it by the sentimental, who talk what they could not have felt. But
it is so deeply, sincerely so in me, that sometimes it will overflow.
Well, there is a heaven,--a heaven,--a world of love, and love after
all is the life-blood, the existence, the all in all of mind."
This is the key to her whole life. She was impelled by love, and did
what she did, and wrote what she did, under the impulse of love. Never
could "Uncle Tom's Cabin" or "The Minister's Wooing" have been written,
unless by one to whom love was the "life-blood of existence, the all in
all of mind." Years afterwards Mrs. Browning was to express this same
thought in the language of poetry.
"But when a soul by choice and conscience doth
Throw out her full force on another soul,
The conscience and the concentration both
Make mere life love. For life in perfect whole
And aim consummated is love in sooth,
As nature's magnet heat rounds pole with pole."
CHAPTER III
CINCINNATI, 1832-1836.
DR. BEECHER CALLED TO CINCINNATI.--THE WESTWARD
JOURNEY.--FIRST LETTER FROM HOME.--DESCRIPTION
OF WALNUT HILLS.--STARTING A NEW SCHOOL.--INWARD
GLIMPSES.--THE SEMI-COLON CLUB.--EARLY IMPRESSIONS OF
SLAVERY.--A JOURNEY TO THE EAST.--THOUGHTS AROUSED BY
FIRST VISIT TO NIAGARA.--MARRIAGE TO PROFESSOR STOWE.
IN 1832, after having been settled for six years over the Hanover
Street Church in Boston, Dr. Beecher received and finally accepted a
most urgent call to become President of Lane Theological Seminary in
Cincinnati. This institution had been chartered in 1829, and in 1831
funds to the amount of nearly $70,000 had been promised to it provided
that Dr. Beecher accepted the presidency. It was hard for this New
England family to sever the ties of a lifetime and enter on so long
a journey to the far distant West of those days; but being fully
persuaded that their duty lay in this direction, they undertook to
perform it cheerfully and willingly. With Dr. Beecher and his wife were
to go Miss Catherine Beecher, who had conceived the scheme of founding
in Cincinnati, then considered the capital of the West, a female
college, and Harriet, who was to act as her principal assistant. In the
party were also George, who was to enter Lane as a student, Isabella,
James, the youngest son, and Miss Esther Beecher, the "Aunt Esther" of
the children.
Before making his final decision, Dr. Beecher, accompanied by his
daughter Catherine, visited Cincinnati to take a general survey of
their proposed battlefield, and their impressions of the city are given
in the following letter written by the latter to Harriet in Boston:--
"Here we are at last at our journey's end, alive and well. We are
staying with Uncle Samuel (Foote), whose establishment I will try and
sketch for you. It is on a height in the upper part of the city, and
commands a fine view of the whole of the lower town. The city does not
impress me as being so very new. It is true everything looks neat and
clean, but it is compact, and many of the houses are of brick and very
handsomely built. The streets run at right angles to each other, and
are wide and well paved. We reached here in three days from Wheeling,
and soon felt ourselves at home. The next day father and I, with three
gentlemen, walked out to Walnut Hills. The country around the city
consists of a constant succession and variety of hills of all shapes
and sizes, forming an extensive amphitheatre. The site of the seminary
is very beautiful and picturesque, though I was disappointed to find
that both river and city are hidden by intervening hills. I never saw
a place so capable of being rendered a paradise by the improvements
of taste as the environs of this city. Walnut Hills are so elevated
and cool that people have to leave there to be sick, it is said. The
seminary is located on a farm of one hundred and twenty-five acres of
fine land, with groves of superb trees around it, about two miles from
the city. We have finally decided on the spot where our house shall
stand in case we decide to come, and you cannot (where running water
or the seashore is wanting) find another more delightful spot for a
residence. It is on an eminence, with a grove running up from the back
to the very doors, another grove across the street in front, and fine
openings through which distant hills and the richest landscapes appear.
"I have become somewhat acquainted with those ladies we shall have
the most to do with, and find them intelligent, New England sort of
folks. Indeed, this is a New England city in all its habits, and its
inhabitants are more than half from New England. The Second Church,
which is the best in the city, will give father a unanimous call to be
their minister, with the understanding that he will give them what time
he can spare from the seminary.
"I know of no place in the world where there is so fair a prospect of
finding everything that makes social and domestic life pleasant. Uncle
John and Uncle Samuel are just the intelligent, sociable, free, and
hospitable sort of folk that everybody likes and everybody feels at
home with.
"The folks are very anxious to have a school on our plan set on foot
here. We can have fine rooms in the city college building, which is
now unoccupied, and everybody is ready to lend a helping hand. As to
father, I never saw such a field of usefulness and influence as is
offered to him here."
This, then, was the field of labor in which the next eighteen years
of the life of Mrs. Stowe were to be passed. At this time her sister
Mary was married and living in Hartford, her brothers Henry Ward and
Charles were in college, while William and Edward, already licensed to
preach, were preparing to follow their father to the West.
[Illustration: THE HOME AT WALNUT HILLS, CINCINNATI.]
Mr. Beecher's preliminary journey to Cincinnati was undertaken in
the early spring of 1832, but he was not ready to remove his family
until October of that year. An interesting account of this westward
journey is given by Mrs. Stowe in a letter sent back to Hartford from
Cincinnati, as follows:--
"Well, my dear, the great sheet is out and the letter is begun. All our
family are here (in New York), and in good health.
"Father is to perform to-night in the Chatham Theatre! 'positively
for the _last_ time this season!' I don't know, I'm sure, as we shall
ever get to Pittsburgh. Father is staying here begging money for the
Biblical Literature professorship; the incumbent is to be C. Stowe.
Last night we had a call from Arthur Tappan and Mr. Eastman. Father
begged $2,000 yesterday, and now the good people are praying him to
abide certain days, as he succeeds so well. They are talking of sending
us off and keeping him here. I really dare not go and see Aunt Esther
and mother now; they were in the depths of tribulation before at
staying so long, and now,
'In the lowest depths, _another_ deep!'
Father is in high spirits. He is all in his own element,--dipping into
books; consulting authorities for his oration; going round here, there,
everywhere; begging, borrowing, and spoiling the Egyptians; delighted
with past success and confident for the future.
"Wednesday. Still in New York. I believe it would kill me dead to live
long in the way I have been doing since I have been here. It is a sort
of agreeable delirium. There's only one thing about it, it is too
_scattering_. I begin to be athirst for the waters of quietness."
Writing from Philadelphia, she adds:--
"Well, we did get away from New York at last, but it was through much
tribulation. The truckman carried all the family baggage to the wrong
wharf, and, after waiting and waiting on board the boat, we were
obliged to start without it, George remaining to look it up. Arrived
here late Saturday evening,--dull, drizzling weather; poor Aunt Esther
in dismay,--not a clean cap to put on,--mother in like state; all of
us destitute. We went, half to Dr. Skinner's and half to Mrs. Elmes's:
mother, Aunt Esther, father, and James to the former; Kate, Bella, and
myself to Mr. Elmes's. They are rich, hospitable folks, and act the
part of Gaius in apostolic times.... Our trunks came this morning.
Father stood and saw them all brought into Dr. Skinner's entry, and
then he swung his hat and gave a 'hurrah,' as any man would whose
wife had not had a clean cap or ruffle for a week. Father does not
succeed very well in opening purses here. Mr. Eastman says, however,
that this is not of much consequence. I saw to-day a notice in the
'Philadelphian' about father, setting forth how 'this distinguished
brother, with his large family, having torn themselves from the
endearing scenes of their home,' etc., etc., 'were going, like Jacob,'
etc.,--a very scriptural and appropriate flourish. It is too much after
the manner of men, or, as Paul says, speaking 'as a fool.' A number of
the pious people of this city are coming here this evening to hold a
prayer-meeting with reference to the journey and its object. For _this_
I thank them."
From Downington she writes:--
"Here we all are,--Noah and his wife and his sons and his daughters,
with the cattle and creeping things, all dropped down in the front
parlor of this tavern, about thirty miles from Philadelphia. If to-day
is a fair specimen of our journey, it will be a very pleasant, obliging
driver, good roads, good spirits, good dinner, fine scenery, and now
and then some 'psalms and hymns and spiritual songs;' for with George
on board you may be sure of music of some kind. Moreover, George has
provided himself with a quantity of tracts, and he and the children
have kept up a regular discharge at all the wayfaring people we
encountered. I tell him he is _peppering_ the land with moral influence.
"We are all well; all in good spirits. Just let me give you a peep
into our traveling household. Behold us, then, in the front parlor of
this country inn, all as much at home as if we were in Boston. Father
is sitting opposite to me at this table, reading; Kate is writing a
billet-doux to Mary on a sheet like this; Thomas is opposite, writing
in a little journal that he keeps; Sister Bell, too, has her little
record; George is waiting for a seat that he may produce his paper
and write. As for me, among the multitude of my present friends, my
heart still makes occasional visits to absent ones,--visits full of
pleasure, and full of cause of gratitude to Him who gives us friends.
I have thought of you often to-day, my G. We stopped this noon at a
substantial Pennsylvania tavern, and among the flowers in the garden
was a late monthly honeysuckle like the one at North Guilford. I made
a spring for it, but George secured the finest bunch, which he wore in
his button-hole the rest of the noon.
"This afternoon, as we were traveling, we struck up and sang 'Jubilee.'
It put me in mind of the time when we used to ride along the rough
North Guilford roads and make the air vocal as we went along. Pleasant
times those. Those were blue skies, and that was a beautiful lake and
noble pine-trees and rocks they were that hung over it. But those we
shall look upon 'na mair.'
"Well, my dear, there is a land where we shall not _love_ and _leave_.
Those skies shall never cease to shine, the waters of life we shall
_never_ be called upon _to leave_. We have here no continuing city, but
we seek one to come. In such thoughts as these I desire ever to rest,
and with such words as these let us 'comfort one another and edify one
another.'"
"Harrisburg, Sunday evening. Mother, Aunt Esther, George, and the
little folks have just gathered into Kate's room, and we have just been
singing. Father has gone to preach for Mr. De Witt. To-morrow we expect
to travel sixty-two miles, and in two more days shall reach Wheeling;
there we shall take the steamboat to Cincinnati."
On the same journey George Beecher writes:--
"We had poor horses in crossing the mountains. Our average rate for
the last four days to Wheeling was forty-four miles. The journey,
which takes the mail-stage forty-eight hours, took us eight days.
At Wheeling we deliberated long whether to go on board a boat for
Cincinnati, but the prevalence of the cholera there at last decided
us to remain. While at Wheeling father preached eleven times,--nearly
every evening,--and gave them the Taylorite heresy on sin and decrees
to the highest notch; and what amused me most was to hear him establish
it from the Confession of Faith. It went high and dry, however, above
all objections, and they were delighted with it, even the old school
men, since it had not been christened 'heresy' in their hearing. After
remaining in Wheeling eight days, we chartered a stage for Cincinnati,
and started next morning.
"At Granville, Ohio, we were invited to stop and attend a protracted
meeting. Being in no great hurry to enter Cincinnati till the cholera
had left, we consented. We spent the remainder of the week there, and I
preached five times and father four. The interest was increasingly deep
and solemn each day, and when we left there were forty-five cases of
conversion in the town, besides those from the surrounding towns. The
people were astonished at the doctrine; said they never saw the truth
so plain in their lives."
Although the new-comers were cordially welcomed in Cincinnati, and
everything possible was done for their comfort and to make them feel
at home, they felt themselves to be strangers in a strange land.
Their homesickness and yearnings for New England are set forth by the
following extracts from Mrs. Stowe's answer to the first letter they
received from Hartford after leaving there:--
MY DEAR SISTER (Mary),--The Hartford letter from all and sundry has
just arrived, and after cutting all manner of capers expressive of
thankfulness, I have skipped three stairs at a time up to the study
to begin an answer. My notions of answering letters are according
to the literal sense of the word; not waiting six months and then
scrawling a lazy reply, but sitting down the moment you have read a
letter, and telling, as Dr. Woods says, "How the subject strikes you."
I wish I could be clear that the path of duty lay in talking to you
this afternoon, but as I find a loud call to consider the heels of
George's stockings, I must only write a word or two, and then resume
my darning-needle. You don't know how anxiously we all have watched
for some intelligence from Hartford. Not a day has passed when I have
not been the efficient agent in getting somebody to the post-office,
and every day my heart has sunk at the sound of "no letters." I felt a
tremor quite sufficient for a lover when I saw your handwriting once
more, so you see that in your old age you can excite quite as much
emotion as did the admirable Miss Byron in her adoring Sir Charles. I
hope the consideration and digestion of this fact will have its due
weight in encouraging you to proceed.
The fact of our having received said letter is as yet a state secret,
not to be made known till all our family circle "in full assembly meet"
at the tea-table. Then what an illumination! "How we shall be edified
and fructified," as that old Methodist said. It seems too bad to keep
it from mother and Aunt Esther a whole afternoon, but then I have the
comfort of thinking that we are consulting for their greatest happiness
"on the whole," which is metaphysical benevolence.
So kind Mrs. Parsons stopped in the very midst of her pumpkin pies to
think of us? Seems to me I can see her bright, cheerful face now! And
then those well known handwritings! We _do_ love our Hartford friends
dearly; there can be, I think, no controverting that fact. Kate says
that the word _love_ is used in _six senses_, and I am sure in some one
of them they will all come in. Well, good-by for the present.
Evening. Having finished the last hole on George's black vest, I stick
in my needle and sit down to be sociable. You don't know how coming
away from New England has sentimentalized us all! Never was there
such an abundance of meditation on our native land, on the joys of
friendship, the pains of separation. Catherine had an alarming paroxysm
in Philadelphia which expended itself in "The Emigrant's Farewell."
After this was sent off she felt considerably relieved. My symptoms
have been of a less acute kind, but, I fear, more enduring. There! the
tea-bell rings. Too bad! I was just going to say something bright. Now
to take your letter and run! How they will stare when I produce it!
After tea. Well, we have had a fine time. When supper was about half
over, Catherine began: "We have a dessert that we have been saving all
the afternoon," and then I held up my letter. "See here, this is from
Hartford!" I wish you could have seen Aunt Esther's eyes brighten, and
mother's pale face all in a smile, and father, as I unfolded the letter
and began. Mrs. Parsons's notice of her Thanksgiving predicament caused
just a laugh, and then one or two sighs (I told you we were growing
sentimental!). We did talk some of keeping it (Thanksgiving), but
perhaps we should all have felt something of the text, "How shall we
sing the Lord's song in a strange land?" Your praises of Aunt Esther
I read twice in an audible voice, as the children made some noise the
first time. I think I detected a visible blush, though she found at
that time a great deal to do in spreading bread and butter for James,
and shuffling his plate; and, indeed, it was rather a vehement attack
on her humility, since it gave her at least "angelic perfection," if
not "Adamic" (to use Methodist technics). Jamie began his Sunday-school
career yesterday. The superintendent asked him how old he was. "I'm
four years old now, and when it _snows very hard_ I shall be five," he
answered. I have just been trying to make him interpret his meaning;
but he says, "Oh, I said so because I could not think of anything else
to say." By the by, Mary, speaking of the temptations of cities, I
have much solicitude on Jamie's account lest he should form improper
intimacies, for yesterday or day before we saw him parading by the
house with his arm over the neck of a great hog, apparently on the most
amicable terms possible; and the other day he actually got upon the
back of one, and rode some distance. So much for allowing these animals
to promenade the streets, a particular in which Mrs. Cincinnati has
imitated the domestic arrangements of some of her elder sisters, and a
very disgusting one it is.
Our family physician is one Dr. Drake, a man of a good deal of
science, theory, and reputed skill, but a sort of general mark for
the opposition of all the medical cloth of the city. He is a tall,
rectangular, perpendicular sort of a body, as stiff as a poker, and
enunciates his prescriptions very much as though he were delivering
a discourse on the doctrine of election. The other evening he was
detained from visiting Kate, and he sent a very polite, ceremonious
note containing a prescription, with Dr. D.'s compliments to Miss
Beecher, requesting that she would take the inclosed in a little
molasses at nine o'clock precisely.
The house we are at present inhabiting is the most inconvenient,
ill-arranged, good-for-nothing, and altogether to be execrated affair
that ever was put together. It was evidently built without a thought of
a winter season. The kitchen is so disposed that it cannot be reached
from any part of the house without going out into the air. Mother is
actually obliged to put on a bonnet and cloak every time she goes into
it. In the house are two parlors with folding doors between them. The
back parlor has but one window, which opens on a veranda and has its
lower half painted to keep out what little light there is. I need
scarcely add that our landlord is an old bachelor and of course acted
up to the light he had, though he left little enough of it for his
tenants.
* * * * *
During this early Cincinnati life Harriet suffered much from ill-health
accompanied by great mental depression; but in spite of both she
labored diligently with her sister Catherine in establishing their
school. They called it the Western Female Institute, and proposed to
conduct it upon the college plan, with a faculty of instructors. As all
these things are treated at length in letters written by Mrs. Stowe to
her friend, Miss Georgiana May, we cannot do better than turn to them.
In May, 1833, she writes:--
"Bishop Purcell visited our school to-day and expressed himself as
greatly pleased that we had opened such an one here. He spoke of my
poor little geography,[1] and thanked me for the unprejudiced manner
in which I had handled the Catholic question in it. I was of course
flattered that he should have known anything of the book.
"How I wish you could see Walnut Hills. It is about two miles from the
city, and the road to it is as picturesque as you can imagine a road to
be without 'springs that run among the hills.' Every possible variety
of hill and vale of beautiful slope, and undulations of land set off by
velvet richness of turf and broken up by groves and forests of every
outline of foliage, make the scene Arcadian. You might ride over the
same road a dozen times a day untired, for the constant variation of
view caused by ascending and descending hills relieves you from all
tedium. Much of the wooding is beech of a noble growth. The straight,
beautiful shafts of these trees as one looks up the cool green recesses
of the woods seems as though they might form very proper columns for
a Dryad temple. There! Catherine is growling at me for sitting up so
late; so 'adieu to music, moonlight, and you.' I meant to tell you an
abundance of classical things that I have been thinking to-night, but
'woe's me.'
"Since writing the above my whole time has been taken up in the labor
of our new school, or wasted in the fatigue and lassitude following
such labor. To-day is Sunday, and I am staying at home because I think
it is time to take some efficient means to dissipate the illness and
bad feelings of divers kinds that have for some time been growing upon
me. At present there is and can be very little system or regularity
about me. About half of my time I am scarcely alive, and a great part
of the rest the slave and sport of morbid feeling and unreasonable
prejudice. I have everything but good health.
"I still rejoice that this letter will find you in good old
Connecticut--thrice blessed--'oh, had I the wings of a dove' I would be
there too. Give my love to Mary H. I remember well how gently she used
to speak to and smile on that forlorn old daddy that boarded at your
house one summer. It was associating with her that first put into my
head the idea of saying something to people who were not agreeable, and
of saying something when I had nothing to say, as is generally the case
on such occasions."
Again she writes to the same friend: "Your letter, my dear G., I have
just received, and read through three times. Now for my meditations
upon it. What a woman of the world you are grown. How good it would be
for me to be put into a place which so breaks up and precludes thought.
Thought, intense emotional thought, has been my disease. How much good
it might do me to be where I could not but be thoughtless....
"Now, Georgiana, let me copy for your delectation a list of matters
that I have jotted down for consideration at a teachers' meeting to be
held to-morrow night. It runneth as follows. Just hear! 'About quills
and paper on the floor; forming classes; drinking in the entry (cold
water, mind you); giving leave to speak; recess-bell, etc., etc.' 'You
are tired, I see,' says Gilpin, 'so am I,' and I spare you.
"I have just been hearing a class of little girls recite, and telling
them a fairy story which I had to spin out as it went along, beginning
with 'once upon a time there was,' etc., in the good old-fashioned way
of stories.
"Recently I have been reading the life of Madame de Staël and
'Corinne.' I have felt an intense sympathy with many parts of that
book, with many parts of her character. But in America feelings
vehement and absorbing like hers become still more deep, morbid, and
impassioned by the constant habits of self-government which the rigid
forms of our society demand. They are repressed, and they burn inward
till they burn the very soul, leaving only dust and ashes. It seems
to me the intensity with which my mind has thought and felt on every
subject presented to it has had this effect. It has withered and
exhausted it, and though young I have no sympathy with the feelings of
youth. All that is enthusiastic, all that is impassioned in admiration
of nature, of writing, of character, in devotional thought and
emotion, or in the emotions of affection, I have felt with vehement
and absorbing intensity,--felt till my mind is exhausted, and seems
to be sinking into deadness. Half of my time I am glad to remain in a
listless vacancy, to busy myself with trifles, since thought is pain,
and emotion is pain."
During the winter of 1833-34 the young school-teacher became so
distressed at her own mental listlessness that she made a vigorous
effort to throw it off. She forced herself to mingle in society, and,
stimulated by the offer of a prize of fifty dollars by Mr. James Hall,
editor of the "Western Monthly," a newly established magazine, for the
best short story, she entered into the competition. Her story, which
was entitled "Uncle Lot," afterwards republished in the "Mayflower,"
was by far the best submitted, and was awarded the prize without
hesitation. This success gave a new direction to her thoughts, gave her
an insight into her own ability, and so encouraged her that from that
time on she devoted most of her leisure moments to writing.
Her literary efforts were further stimulated at this time by the
congenial society of the Semi-Colon Club, a little social circle that
met on alternate weeks at Mr. Samuel Foote's and Dr. Drake's. The name
of the club originated with a roundabout and rather weak bit of logic
set forth by one of its promoters. He said: "You know that in Spanish
Columbus is called 'Colon.' Now he who discovers a new pleasure is
certainly half as great as he who discovers a new continent. Therefore
if Colon discovered a continent, we who have discovered in this club a
new pleasure should at least be entitled to the name of 'Semi-Colons.'"
So Semi-Colons they became and remained for some years.
At some meetings compositions were read, and at others nothing
was read, but the time was passed in a general discussion of some
interesting topic previously announced. Among the members of the club
were Professor Stowe, unsurpassed in Biblical learning; Judge James
Hall, editor of the "Western Monthly;" General Edward King; Mrs.
Peters, afterwards founder of the Philadelphia School of Design; Miss
Catherine Beecher; Mrs. Caroline Lee Hentz; E. P. Cranch; Dr. Drake;
S. P. Chase, and many others who afterwards became prominent in their
several walks of life.
In one of her letters to Miss May, Mrs. Stowe describes one of her
methods for entertaining the members of the Semi-Colon as follows:--
"I am wondering as to what I shall do next. I have been writing a
piece to be read next Monday evening at Uncle Sam's _soirée_ (the
Semi-Colon). It is a letter purporting to be from Dr. Johnson. I have
been stilting about in his style so long that it is a relief to me to
come down to the jog of common English. Now I think of it I will just
give you a history of my campaign in this circle.
"My first piece was a letter from Bishop Butler, written in his
outrageous style of parentheses and foggification. My second a
satirical essay on the modern uses of languages. This I shall send
to you, as some of the gentlemen, it seems, took a fancy to it and
requested leave to put it in the 'Western Magazine,' and so it is in
print. It is ascribed to _Catherine_, or I don't know that I should
have let it go. I have no notion of appearing in _propria personæ_.
"The next piece was a satire on certain members who were getting very
much into the way of joking on the worn-out subjects of matrimony and
old maid and old bachelorism. I therefore wrote a set of legislative
enactments purporting to be from the ladies of the society, forbidding
all such allusions in future. It made some sport at the time. I try not
to be personal, and to be courteous, even in satire.
"But I have written a piece this week that is making me some disquiet.
I did not like it that there was so little that was serious and
rational about the reading. So I conceived the design of writing a _set
of letters_, and throwing them in, as being the letters of a friend.
I wrote a letter this week for the first of the set,--easy, not very
sprightly,--describing an imaginary situation, a house in the country,
a gentleman and lady, Mr. and Mrs. Howard, as being pious, literary,
and agreeable. I threw into the letter a number of little particulars
and incidental allusions to give it the air of having been really a
letter. I meant thus to give myself an opportunity for the introduction
of different subjects and the discussion of different characters in
future letters.
"I meant to write on a great number of subjects in future. Cousin
Elisabeth, only, was in the secret; Uncle Samuel and Sarah Elliot were
not to know.
"Yesterday morning I finished my letter, smoked it to make it look
yellow, tore it to make it look old, directed it and scratched out the
direction, postmarked it with red ink, sealed it and broke the seal,
all this to give credibility to the fact of its being a real letter.
Then I inclosed it in an envelope, stating that it was a part of a
_set_ which had incidentally fallen into my hands. This envelope was
written in a scrawny, scrawly, gentleman's hand.
"I put it into the office in the morning, directed to 'Mrs. Samuel E.
Foote,' and then sent word to Sis that it was coming, so that she
might be ready to enact the part.
"Well, the deception took. Uncle Sam examined it and pronounced, _ex
cathedra_, that it must have been a real letter. Mr. Greene (the
gentleman who reads) declared that it must have come from Mrs. Hall,
and elucidated the theory by spelling out the names and dates which
I had erased, which, of course, he accommodated to his own tastes.
But then, what makes me feel uneasy is that Elisabeth, after reading
it, did not seem to be exactly satisfied. She thought it had too much
sentiment, too much particularity of incident,--she did not exactly
know what. She was afraid that it would be criticised unmercifully.
Now Elisabeth has a tact and quickness of perception that I trust
to, and her remarks have made me uneasy enough. I am unused to being
criticised, and don't know how I shall bear it."
In 1833 Mrs. Stowe first had the subject of slavery brought to her
personal notice by taking a trip across the river from Cincinnati into
Kentucky in company with Miss Dutton, one of the associate teachers in
the Western Institute. They visited an estate that afterwards figured
as that of Colonel Shelby in "Uncle Tom's Cabin," and here the young
authoress first came into personal contact with the negro slaves of
the South. In speaking, many years afterwards, of this visit, Miss
Dutton said: "Harriet did not seem to notice anything in particular
that happened, but sat much of the time as though abstracted in
thought. When the negroes did funny things and cut up capers, she did
not seem to pay the slightest attention to them. Afterwards, however,
in reading 'Uncle Tom.' I recognized scene after scene of that visit
portrayed with the most minute fidelity, and knew at once where the
material for that portion of the story had been gathered."
At this time, however, Mrs. Stowe was more deeply interested in the
subject of education than in that of slavery, as is shown by the
following extract from one of her letters to Miss May, who was herself
a teacher. She says:--
"We mean to turn over the West by means of _model schools_ in this, its
capital. We mean to have a young lady's school of about fifty or sixty,
a primary school of little girls to the same amount, and then a primary
school for _boys_. We have come to the conclusion that the work of
teaching will never be rightly done till it passes into _female_ hands.
This is especially true with regard to boys. To govern boys by moral
influences requires tact and talent and versatility it requires also
the same division of labor that female education does. But men of tact,
versatility, talent, and piety will not devote their lives to teaching.
They must be ministers and missionaries, and all that, and while there
is such a thrilling call for action in this way, every man who is
merely teaching feels as if he were a Hercules with a distaff, ready
to spring to the first trumpet that calls him away. As for division of
labor, men must have salaries that can support wife and family, and, of
course, a revenue would be required to support a requisite number of
teachers if they could be found.
"Then, if men have more knowledge they have less talent at
communicating it, nor have they the patience, the long-suffering, and
gentleness necessary to superintend the formation of character. We
intend to make these principles understood, and ourselves to set the
example of what females can do in this way. You see that first-rate
talent is necessary for all that we mean to do, especially for the
last, because here we must face down the prejudices of society and we
must have exemplary success to be believed. We want original, planning
minds, and you do not know how few there are among females, and how few
we can command of those that exist."
During the summer of 1834 the young teacher and writer made her first
visit East since leaving New England two years before. Its object
was mainly to be present at the graduation of her favorite brother,
Henry Ward, from Amherst College. The earlier part of this journey
was performed by means of stage to Toledo, and thence by steamer
to Buffalo. A pleasant bit of personal description, and also of
impressions of Niagara, seen for the first time on this journey, are
given in a letter sent back to Cincinnati during its progress. In it
she says of her fellow-travelers:--
"Then there was a portly, rosy, clever Mr. Smith, or Jones, or
something the like; and a New Orleans girl looking like distraction, as
far as dress is concerned, but with the prettiest language and softest
intonations in the world, and one of those faces which, while you say
it isn't handsome, keeps you looking all the time to see what it can
be that is so pretty about it. Then there was Miss B., an independent,
good-natured, do-as-I-please sort of a body, who seemed of perpetual
motion from morning till night. Poor Miss D. said, when we stopped at
night, 'Oh, dear! I suppose Lydia will be fiddling about our room till
morning, and we shall not one of us sleep.' Then, by way of contrast,
there was a Mr. Mitchell, the most gentlemanly, obliging man that ever
changed his seat forty times a day to please a lady. Oh, yes, he could
ride outside,--or, oh, certainly, he could ride inside,--he had no
objection to this, or that, or the other. Indeed, it was difficult to
say what could come amiss to him. He speaks in a soft, quiet manner,
with something of a drawl, using very correct, well-chosen language,
and pronouncing all his words with carefulness; has everything in his
dress and traveling appointments _comme il faut_; and seems to think
there is abundant time for everything that is to be done in this
world, without, as he says, 'any unnecessary excitement.' Before the
party had fully discovered his name he was usually designated as 'the
obliging gentleman,' or 'that gentleman who is so accommodating.' Yet
our friend, withal, is of Irish extraction, and I have seen him roused
to talk with both hands and a dozen words in a breath. He fell into
a little talk about abolition and slavery with our good Mr. Jones, a
man whose mode of reasoning consists in repeating the same sentence at
regular intervals as long as you choose to answer it. This man, who was
finally convinced that negroes were black, used it as an irrefragible
argument to all that could be said, and at last began to deduce from
it that they might just as well be slaves as anything else, and so he
proceeded till all the philanthropy of our friend was roused, and he
sprung up all lively and oratorical and gesticulatory and indignant to
my heart's content. I like to see a quiet man that can be roused."
In the same letter she gives her impressions of Niagara, as follows:--
"I have seen it (Niagara) and yet live. Oh, where is your soul? Never
mind, though. Let me tell, if I can, what is unutterable. Elisabeth,
it is not _like_ anything; it did not look like anything I expected;
it did not look like a waterfall. I did not once think whether it was
high or low; whether it roared or didn't roar; whether it equaled my
expectations or not. My mind whirled off, it seemed to me, in a new,
strange world. It seemed unearthly, like the strange, dim images in the
Revelation. I thought of the great white throne; the rainbow around
it; the throne in sight like unto an emerald; and oh! that beautiful
water rising like moonlight, falling as the soul sinks when it dies,
to rise refined, spiritualized, and pure. That rainbow, breaking out,
trembling, fading, and again coming like a beautiful spirit walking the
waters. Oh, it is lovelier than it is great; it is like the Mind that
made it: great, but so veiled in beauty that we gaze without terror.
I felt as if I could have _gone over_ with the waters; it would be
so beautiful a death; there would be no fear in it. I felt the rock
tremble under me with a sort of joy. I was so maddened that I could
have gone too, if it had gone."
While at the East she was greatly affected by hearing of the death of
her dear friend, Eliza Tyler, the wife of Professor Stowe. This lady
was the daughter of Dr. Bennett Tyler, president of the Theological
Institute of Connecticut, at East Windsor; but twenty-five years of
age at the time of her death, a very beautiful woman gifted with a
wonderful voice. She was also possessed of a well-stored mind and a
personal magnetism that made her one of the most popular members of
the Semi-Colon Club, in the proceedings of which she took an active
interest.
Her death left Professor Stowe a childless widower, and his forlorn
condition greatly excited the sympathy of her who had been his wife's
most intimate friend. It was easy for sympathy to ripen into love,
and after a short engagement Harriet E. Beecher became the wife of
Professor Calvin E. Stowe.
Her last act before the wedding was to write the following note to the
friend of her girlhood, Miss Georgiana May:--
_January 6, 1836._
Well, my dear G., about half an hour more and your old
friend, companion, schoolmate, sister, etc., will cease
to be Hatty Beecher and change to nobody knows who. My
dear, you are engaged, and pledged in a year or two to
encounter a similar fate, and do you wish to know how
you shall feel? Well, my dear, I have been dreading
and dreading the time, and lying awake all last week
wondering how I should live through this overwhelming
crisis, and lo! it has come and I feel _nothing at all_.
The wedding is to be altogether domestic; nobody
present but my own brothers and sisters, and my old
colleague, Mary Dutton; and as there is a sufficiency
of the ministry in our family we have not even to
call in the foreign aid of a minister. Sister Katy is
not here, so she will not witness my departure from
her care and guidance to that of another. None of my
numerous friends and acquaintances who have taken such
a deep interest in making the connection for me even
know the day, and it will be all done and over before
they know anything about it.
Well, it is really a mercy to have this entire
stupidity come over one at such a time. I should be
crazy to feel as I did yesterday, or indeed to feel
anything at all. But I inwardly vowed that my last
feelings and reflections on this subject should be
yours, and as I have not got any, it is just as well to
tell you _that_. Well, here comes Mr. S., so farewell,
and for the last time I subscribe
Your own
H. E. B.
FOOTNOTE:
[1] This geography was begun by Mrs. Stowe during the summer of 1832,
while visiting her brother William at Newport, R. I. It was completed
during the winter of 1833, and published by the firm of Corey, Fairbank
& Webster, of Cincinnati.
CHAPTER IV.
EARLY MARRIED LIFE, 1836-1840.
PROFESSOR STOWE'S INTEREST IN POPULAR EDUCATION.--HIS
DEPARTURE FOR EUROPE.--SLAVERY RIOTS IN
CINCINNATI.--BIRTH OF TWIN DAUGHTERS.--PROFESSOR
STOWE'S RETURN AND VISIT TO COLUMBUS.--DOMESTIC
TRIALS.--AIDING A FUGITIVE SLAVE.--AUTHORSHIP UNDER
DIFFICULTIES.--A BEECHER ROUND ROBIN.
THE letter to her friend Georgiana May, begun half an hour before her
wedding, was not completed until nearly two months after that event.
Taking it from her portfolio, she adds:--
"Three weeks have passed since writing the above, and my husband
and self are now quietly seated by our own fireside, as domestic as
any pair of tame fowl you ever saw; he writing to his mother, and I
to you. Two days after our marriage we took a wedding excursion, so
called, though we would most gladly have been excused this conformity
to ordinary custom had not necessity required Mr. Stowe to visit
Columbus, and I had too much adhesiveness not to go too. Ohio roads
at this season are no joke, I can tell you, though we were, on the
whole, wonderfully taken care of, and our expedition included as many
pleasures as an expedition at this time of the year _ever_ could.
"And now, my dear, perhaps the wonder to you, as to me, is how this
momentous crisis in the life of such a wisp of nerve as myself has
been transacted so quietly. My dear, it is a wonder to myself. I am
tranquil, quiet, and happy. I look _only_ on the present, and leave the
future with Him who has hitherto been so kind to me. 'Take no thought
for the morrow' is my motto, and my comfort is to rest on Him in whose
house there are many mansions provided when these fleeting earthly ones
pass away.
"Dear Georgy, naughty girl that I am, it is a month that I have let
the above lie by, because I got into a strain of emotion in it that I
dreaded to return to. Well, so it shall be no longer. In about five
weeks Mr. Stowe and myself start for New England. He sails the first
of May. I am going with him to Boston, New York, and other places, and
shall stop finally at Hartford, whence, as soon as he is gone, it is my
intention to return westward."
This reference to her husband as about to leave her relates to his
sailing for Europe to purchase books for Lane Seminary, and also as a
commissioner appointed by the State of Ohio to investigate the public
school systems of the old world. He had long been convinced that higher
education was impossible in the West without a higher grade of public
schools, and had in 1833 been one of the founders in Cincinnati of
"The College of Teachers," an institution that existed for ten years,
and exerted a widespread influence. Its objects were to popularize the
common schools, raise the standard of teachers, and create a demand
for education among the people. Professor Stowe was associated in this
movement with many of the leading intellects of Ohio at that time, and
among them were Albert Pickett, Dr. Drake, Smith Grimke, Archbishop
Purcell, President A. H. McGuffey, Dr. Beecher, Lydia Sigourney,
Caroline Lee Hentz, and others. Their influence finally extended to the
state legislature, and it was concluded to authorize Professor Stowe,
when abroad, to investigate and report upon the common school systems
of Europe, especially Prussia.
He sailed from New York for London in the ship Montreal, Captain
Champlin, on June 8, 1836, and carried with him, to be opened only
after he was at sea, a letter from his wife, from which the following
extract is made:--
"Now, my dear, that you are gone where you are out of the reach of my
care, advice, and good management, it is fitting that you should have
something under my hand and seal for your comfort and furtherance in
the new world you are going to. Firstly, I must caution you to set
your face as a flint against the 'cultivation of indigo,' as Elisabeth
calls it, in any way or shape. Keep yourself from it most scrupulously,
and though you are unprovided with that precious and savory treatise
entitled 'Kemper's Consolations,'[2] yet you can exercise yourself to
recall and set in order such parts thereof as would more particularly
suit your case, particularly those portions wherewith you so much
consoled Kate, Aunt Esther, and your unworthy handmaid, while you yet
tarried at Walnut Hills. But seriously, dear one, you must give more
way to hope than to memory. You are going to a new scene now, and one
that I hope will be full of enjoyment to you. I want you to take the
good of it.
"Only think of all you expect to see: the great libraries and
beautiful paintings, fine churches, and, above all, think of seeing
Tholuck, your great Apollo. My dear, I wish I were a man in your place;
if I wouldn't have a grand time!"
During her husband's absence abroad Mrs. Stowe lived quietly in
Cincinnati with her father and brothers. She wrote occasionally short
stories, articles, and essays for publication in the "Western Monthly
Magazine" or the "New York Evangelist," and maintained a constant
correspondence with her husband by means of a daily journal, which was
forwarded to him once a month. She also assisted her brother, Henry
Ward, who had accepted a temporary position as editor of the "Journal,"
a small daily paper published in the city.
At this time the question of slavery was an exciting one in Cincinnati,
and Lane Seminary had become a hotbed of abolition. The anti-slavery
movement among the students was headed by Theodore D. Weld, one
of their number, who had procured funds to complete his education
by lecturing through the South. While thus engaged he had been so
impressed with the evils and horrors of slavery that he had become
a radical abolitionist, and had succeeded in converting several
Southerners to his views of the subject. Among them was Mr. J. G.
Birney of Huntsville, Alabama, who not only liberated his slaves, but
in connection with Dr. Gamaliel Bailey of Cincinnati founded in that
city an anti-slavery paper called "The Philanthropist." This paper
was finally suppressed, and its office wrecked by a mob instigated by
Kentucky slaveholders, and it is of this event that Mrs. Stowe writes
to her husband as follows:--
"Yesterday evening I spent scribbling for Henry's newspaper (the
'Journal') in this wise: 'Birney's printing-press has been mobbed, and
many of the respectable citizens are disposed to wink at the outrage in
consideration of its moving in the line of their prejudices.'
"I wrote a conversational sketch, in which I rather satirized this
inconsistent spirit, and brought out the effects of patronizing _any_
violation of private rights. It was in a light, sketchy style, designed
to draw attention to a long editorial of Henry's in which he considers
the subject fully and seriously. His piece is, I think, a powerful
one; indeed, he does write very strongly. I am quite proud of his
editorials; they are well studied, earnest, and dignified. I think
he will make a first-rate writer. Both our pieces have gone to press
to-day, with Charles's article on music, and we have had not a little
diversion about our _family newspaper_.
"I thought, when I was writing last night, that I was, like a good
wife, defending one of your principles in your absence, and wanted you
to see how manfully I talked about it. Henry has also taken up and
examined the question of the Seminole Indians, and done it very nobly."
Again:--
"The excitement about Birney continues to increase. The keeper of the
Franklin Hotel was assailed by a document subscribed to by many of his
boarders demanding that Birney should be turned out of doors. He chose
to negative the demand, and twelve of his boarders immediately left,
Dr. F. among the number. A meeting has been convoked by means of a
handbill, in which some of the most respectable men of the city are
invited by name to come together and consider the question whether they
will allow Mr. Birney to continue his paper in the city. Mr. Greene
says that, to his utter surprise, many of the most respectable and
influential citizens gave out that they should go.
"He was one of the number they invited, but he told those who came to
him that he would have nothing to do with disorderly public meetings or
mobs in any shape, and that he was entirely opposed to the whole thing.
"I presume they will have a hot meeting, if they have any at all.
"I wish father were at home to preach a sermon to his church, for many
of its members do not frown on these things as they ought."
"Later: The meeting was held, and was headed by Morgan, Neville, Judge
Burke, and I know not who else. Judge Burnet was present and consented
to their acts. The mob madness is certainly upon this city when men of
sense and standing will pass resolutions approving in so many words of
things done contrary to law, as one of the resolutions of this meeting
did. It quoted the demolition of the tea in Boston harbor as being
authority and precedent.
"A large body, perhaps the majority of citizens, disapprove, but I fear
there will not be public disavowal. Even N. Wright but faintly opposes,
and Dr. Fore has been exceedingly violent. Mr. Hammond (editor of the
'Gazette') in a very dignified and judicious manner has condemned the
whole thing, and Henry has opposed, but otherwise the papers have
either been silent or in favor of mobs. We shall see what the result
will be in a few days.
"For my part, I can easily see how such proceedings may make converts
to abolitionism, for already my sympathies are strongly enlisted for
Mr. Birney, and I hope that he will stand his ground and assert his
rights. The office is fire-proof, and inclosed by high walls. I wish he
would man it with armed men and see what can be done. If I were a man
I would go, for one, and take good care of at least one window. Henry
sits opposite me writing a most valiant editorial, and tells me to tell
you he is waxing mighty in battle."
In another letter she writes:--
"I told you in my last that the mob broke into Birney's press, where,
however, the mischief done was but slight. The object appeared to be
principally to terrify. Immediately there followed a general excitement
in which even good men in their panic and prejudice about abolitionism
forgot that mobs were worse evils than these, talked against Birney,
and winked at the outrage; N. Wright and Judge Burnet, for example.
Meanwhile the turbulent spirits went beyond this and talked of
revolution and of righting things without law that could not be righted
by it. At the head of these were Morgan, Neville, Longworth, Joseph
Graham, and Judge Burke. A meeting was convoked at Lower Market Street
to decide whether they would permit the publishing of an abolition
paper, and to this meeting all the most respectable citizens were by
name summoned.
"There were four classes in the city then: Those who meant to go as
revolutionists and support the mob; those who meant to put down
Birney, but rather hoped to do it without a mob; those who felt ashamed
to go, foreseeing the probable consequence, and yet did not decidedly
frown upon it; and those who sternly and decidedly reprehended it.
"The first class was headed by Neville, Longworth, Graham, etc.; the
second class, though of some numbers, was less conspicuous; of the
third, Judge Burnet, Dr. Fore, and N. Wright were specimens; and in
the last such men as Hammond, Mansfield, S. P. Chase,[3] and Chester
were prominent. The meeting in so many words voted a mob, nevertheless
a committee was appointed to wait on Mr. Birney and ascertain what he
proposed to do; and, strange to tell, men as sensible as Uncle John and
Judge Burnet were so short-sighted as to act on that committee.
"All the newspapers in the city, except Hammond's ('Gazette') and
Henry's (the 'Journal'), were either silent or openly 'mobocratic.' As
might have been expected, Birney refused to leave, and that night the
mob tore down his press, scattered the types, dragged the whole to the
river, threw it in, and then came back to demolish the office.
"They then went to the houses of Dr. Bailey, Mr. Donaldson, and Mr.
Birney; but the persons they sought were not at home, having been
aware of what was intended. The mayor was a silent spectator of these
proceedings, and was heard to say, 'Well, lads, you have done well, so
far; go home now before you disgrace yourselves;' but the 'lads' spent
the rest of the night and a greater part of the next day (Sunday) in
pulling down the houses of inoffensive and respectable blacks. The
'Gazette' office was threatened, the 'Journal' office was to go next;
Lane Seminary and the water-works also were mentioned as probable
points to be attacked by the mob.
"By Tuesday morning the city was pretty well alarmed. A regular corps
of volunteers was organized, who for three nights patrolled the streets
with firearms and with legal warrant from the mayor, who by this time
was glad to give it, to put down the mob even by bloodshed.
"For a day or two we did not know but there would actually be war
to the knife, as was threatened by the mob, and we really saw Henry
depart with his pistols with daily alarm, only we were all too full of
patriotism not to have sent every brother we had rather than not have
had the principles of freedom and order defended.
"But here the tide turned. The mob, unsupported by a now frightened
community, slunk into their dens and were still; and then Hammond,
who, during the few days of its prevalence, had made no comments, but
published simply the Sermon on the Mount, the Constitution of Ohio,
and the Declaration of Independence, without any comment, now came
out and gave a simple, concise history of the mob, tracing it to the
market-house meeting, telling the whole history of the meeting, with
the names of those who got it up, throwing on them and on those who
had acted on the committee the whole responsibility of the following
mob. It makes a terrible sensation, but it 'cuts its way,' and all who
took other stand than that of steady opposition from the first are
beginning to feel the reaction of public sentiment, while newspapers
from abroad are pouring in their reprehensions of the disgraceful
conduct of Cincinnati. Another time, I suspect, such men as Judge
Burnet, Mr. Greene, and Uncle John will keep their fingers out of such
a trap, and people will all learn better than to wink at a mob that
happens to please them at the outset, or in any way to give it their
countenance. Mr. Greene and Uncle John were full of wrath against mobs,
and would not go to the meeting, and yet were cajoled into acting on
that committee in the vain hope of getting Birney to go away and thus
preventing the outrage.
"They are justly punished, I think, for what was very irresolute and
foolish conduct, to say the least."
The general tone of her letters at this time would seem to show that,
while Mrs. Stowe was anti-slavery in her sympathies, she was not a
declared abolitionist. This is still further borne out in a letter
written in 1837 from Putnam, Ohio, whither she had gone for a short
visit to her brother William. In it she says:--
"The good people here, you know, are about half abolitionists. A lady
who takes a leading part in the female society in this place yesterday
called and brought Catherine the proceedings of the Female Anti-Slavery
Convention.
"I should think them about as ultra as to measures as anything that has
been attempted, though I am glad to see a better spirit than marks such
proceedings generally.
"To-day I read some in Mr. Birney's 'Philanthropist.' Abolitionism
being the fashion here, it is natural to look at its papers.
"It does seem to me that there needs to be an _intermediate_ society.
If not, as light increases, all the excesses of the abolition party
will not prevent humane and conscientious men from joining it.
"Pray what is there in Cincinnati to satisfy one whose mind is awakened
on this subject? No one can have the system of slavery brought before
him without an irrepressible desire to _do_ something, and what is
there to be done?"
On September 29, 1836, while Professor Stowe was still absent in
Europe, his wife gave birth to twin daughters, Eliza and Isabella, as
she named them; but Eliza Tyler and Harriet Beecher, as her husband
insisted they should be called, when, upon reaching New York, he was
greeted by the joyful news. His trip from London in the ship Gladiator
had been unusually long, even for those days of sailing vessels, and
extended from November 19, 1836, to January 20, 1837.
During the summer of 1837 Mrs. Stowe suffered much from ill health, on
which account, and to relieve her from domestic cares, she was sent to
make a long visit at Putnam with her brother, Rev. William Beecher.
While here she received a letter from her husband, in which he says:--
"We all of course feel proper indignation at the doings of last General
Assembly, and shall treat them with merited contempt. This alliance
between the old school (Presbyterians) and slaveholders will make more
abolitionists than anything that has been done yet."
In December Professor Stowe went to Columbus with the extended
educational report that he had devoted the summer to preparing; and in
writing from there to his wife he says:--
"To-day I have been visiting the governor and legislators. They
received me with the utmost kindness, and are evidently anticipating
much from my report. The governor communicated it to the legislature
to-day, and it is concluded that I read it in Dr. Hodges' church on
two evenings, to-morrow and the day after, before both houses of the
legislature and the citizens. The governor (Vance) will preside at both
meetings. I like him (the governor) much. He is just such a plain,
simple-hearted, sturdy body as old Fritz (Kaiser Frederick), with more
of natural talent than his predecessor in the gubernatorial chair. For
my year's work in this matter I am to receive $500."
On January 14, 1838, Mrs. Stowe's third child, Henry Ellis, was born.
It was about this time that the famous reunion of the Beecher family
described in Lyman Beecher's "Autobiography" occurred. Edward made a
visit to the East, and when he returned he brought Mary (Mrs. Thomas
Perkins) from Hartford with him. William came down from Putnam, Ohio,
and George from Batavia, New York, while Catherine, Harriet, Henry,
Charles, Isabella, Thomas, and James were already at home. It was the
first time they had ever all met together. Mary had never seen James,
and had seen Thomas but once. The old doctor was almost transported
with joy as they all gathered about him, and his cup of happiness was
filled to overflowing when, the next day, which was Sunday, his pulpit
was filled by Edward in the morning, William in the afternoon, and
George in the evening.
Side by side with this charming picture we have another of domestic
life outlined by Mrs. Stowe's own hand. It is contained in the
following letter, written June 21, 1838, to Miss May, at New Haven,
Conn.:--
MY DEAR, DEAR GEORGIANA,--Only think how long it is
since I have written to you, and how changed I am since
then--the mother of three children! Well, if I have
not kept the reckoning of old times, let this last
circumstance prove my apology, for I have been hand,
heart, and head full since I saw you.
Now, to-day, for example, I'll tell you what I had
on my mind from dawn to dewy eve. In the first place
I waked about half after four and thought, "Bless
me, how light it is! I must get out of bed and rap
to wake up Mina, for breakfast must be had at six
o'clock this morning." So out of bed I jump and seize
the tongs and pound, pound, pound over poor Mina's
sleepy head, charitably allowing her about half an
hour to get waked up in,--that being the quantum of
time that it takes me,--or used to. Well, then baby
wakes--quâ, quâ, quâ, so I give him his breakfast,
dozing meanwhile and soliloquizing as follows: "Now I
must not forget to tell Mr. Stowe about the starch and
dried apples"--doze--"ah, um, dear me! why doesn't Mina
get up? I don't hear her,"--doze--"a, um,--I wonder if
Mina has soap enough! I think there were two bars left
on Saturday"--doze again--I wake again. "Dear me, broad
daylight! I must get up and go down and see if Mina is
getting breakfast." Up I jump and up wakes baby. "Now,
little boy, be good and let mother dress, because she
is in a hurry." I get my frock half on and baby by
that time has kicked himself down off his pillow, and
is crying and fisting the bed-clothes in great order. I
stop with one sleeve off and one on to settle matters
with him. Having planted him bolt upright and gone all
up and down the chamber barefoot to get pillows and
blankets to prop him up, I finish putting my frock on
and hurry down to satisfy myself by actual observation
that the breakfast is in progress. Then back I come
into the nursery, where, remembering that it is washing
day and that there is a great deal of work to be done,
I apply myself vigorously to sweeping, dusting, and the
setting to rights so necessary where there are three
little mischiefs always pulling down as fast as one can
put up.
Then there are Miss H---- and Miss E----, concerning
whom Mary will furnish you with all suitable
particulars, who are chattering, hallooing, or singing
at the tops of their voices, as may suit their various
states of mind, while the nurse is getting their
breakfast ready. This meal being cleared away, Mr.
Stowe dispatched to market with various memoranda
of provisions, etc., and the baby being washed and
dressed, I begin to think what next must be done.
I start to cut out some little dresses, have just
calculated the length and got one breadth torn off when
Master Henry makes a doleful lip and falls to crying
with might and main. I catch him up and turning round
see one of his sisters flourishing the things out of
my workbox in fine style. Moving it away and looking
the other side I see the second little mischief seated
by the hearth chewing coals and scraping up ashes with
great apparent relish. Grandmother lays hold upon her
and charitably offers to endeavor to quiet baby while
I go on with my work. I set at it again, pick up a
dozen pieces, measure them once more to see which is
the right one, and proceed to cut out some others, when
I see the twins on the point of quarreling with each
other. Number one pushes number two over. Number two
screams: that frightens the baby and he joins in. I
call number one a naughty girl, take the persecuted one
in my arms, and endeavor to comfort her by trotting to
the old lyric:--
"So ride the gentlefolk,
And so do we, so do we."
Meanwhile number one makes her way to the slop jar and
forthwith proceeds to wash her apron in it. Grandmother
catches her by one shoulder, drags her away, and sets
the jar up out of her reach. By and by the nurse comes
up from her sweeping. I commit the children to her, and
finish cutting out the frocks.
But let this suffice, for of such details as these are
all my days made up. Indeed, my dear, I am but a mere
drudge with few ideas beyond babies and housekeeping.
As for thoughts, reflections, and sentiments, good
lack! good lack!
I suppose I am a dolefully uninteresting person at
present, but I hope I shall grow young again one of
these days, for it seems to me that matters cannot
always stand exactly as they do now.
Well, Georgy, this marriage is--yes, I will speak well
of it, after all; for when I can stop and think long
enough to discriminate my head from my heels, I must
say that I think myself a fortunate woman both in
husband and children. My children I would not change
for all the ease, leisure, and pleasure that I could
have without them. They are money on interest whose
value will be constantly increasing.
In 1839 Mrs. Stowe received into her family as a servant a colored
girl from Kentucky. By the laws of Ohio she was free, having been
brought into the State and left there by her mistress. In spite of
this, Professor Stowe received word, after she had lived with them some
months, that the girl's master was in the city looking for her, and
that if she were not careful she would be seized and conveyed back into
slavery. Finding that this could be accomplished by boldness, perjury,
and the connivance of some unscrupulous justice, Professor Stowe
determined to remove the girl to some place of security where she might
remain until the search for her should be given up. Accordingly he and
his brother-in-law, Henry Ward Beecher, both armed, drove the fugitive,
in a covered wagon, at night, by unfrequented roads, twelve miles back
into the country, and left her in safety with the family of old John
Van Zandt, the fugitive's friend.
It is from this incident of real life and personal experience that Mrs.
Stowe conceived the thrilling episode of the fugitives' escape from Tom
Loker and Marks in "Uncle Tom's Cabin."
An amusing and at the same time most interesting account of her
struggles to accomplish literary work amid her distracting domestic
duties at this time is furnished by the letter of one of her intimate
friends, who writes:--
"It was my good fortune to number Mrs. Stowe among my friends, and
during a visit to her I had an opportunity one day of witnessing the
combined exercise of her literary and domestic genius in a style that
to me was quite amusing.
"'Come Harriet,' said I, as I found her tending one baby and watching
two others just able to walk, 'where is that piece for the "Souvenir"
which I promised the editor I would get from you and send on next week?
You have only this one day left to finish it, and have it I must.'
"'And how will you get it, friend of mine?' said Harriet. 'You will
at least have to wait till I get house-cleaning over and baby's teeth
through.'
"'As to house-cleaning, you can defer it one day longer; and as to
baby's teeth, there is to be no end to them, as I can see. No, no;
to-day that story must be ended. There Frederick has been sitting by
Ellen and saying all those pretty things for more than a month now, and
she has been turning and blushing till I am sure it is time to go to
her relief. Come, it would not take you three hours at the rate you can
write to finish the courtship, marriage, catastrophe, éclaircissement,
and all; and this three hours' labor of your brains will earn enough to
pay for all the sewing your fingers could do for a year to come. Two
dollars a page, my dear, and you can write a page in fifteen minutes!
Come, then, my lady housekeeper, economy is a cardinal virtue; consider
the economy of the thing.'
"'But, my dear, here is a baby in my arms and two little pussies by
my side, and there is a great baking down in the kitchen, and there
is a "new girl" for "help," besides preparations to be made for
house-cleaning next week. It is really out of the question, you see.'
"'I see no such thing. I do not know what genius is given for, if it
is not to help a woman out of a scrape. Come, set your wits to work,
let me have my way, and you shall have all the work done and finish the
story too.'
"'Well, but kitchen affairs?'
"'We can manage them too. You know you can write anywhere and anyhow.
Just take your seat at the kitchen table with your writing weapons, and
while you superintend Mina fill up the odd snatches of time with the
labors of your pen.'
"I carried my point. In ten minutes she was seated; a table with flour,
rolling-pin, ginger, and lard on one side, a dresser with eggs, pork,
and beans and various cooking utensils on the other, near her an oven
heating, and beside her a dark-skinned nymph, waiting orders.
"'Here, Harriet,' said I, 'you can write on this atlas in your lap; no
matter how the writing looks, I will copy it.'
"'Well, well,' said she, with a resigned sort of amused look. 'Mina,
you may do what I told you, while I write a few minutes, till it is
time to mould up the bread. Where is the inkstand?'
"'Here it is, close by, on the top of the tea-kettle,' said I.
"At this Mina giggled, and we both laughed to see her merriment at our
literary proceedings.
"I began to overhaul the portfolio to find the right sheet.
"'Here it is,' said I. 'Here is Frederick sitting by Ellen, glancing at
her brilliant face, and saying something about "guardian angel," and
all that--you remember?'
"'Yes, yes,' said she, falling into a muse, as she attempted to recover
the thread of her story.
"'Ma'am, shall I put the pork on the top of the beans?' asked Mina.
"'Come, come,' said Harriet, laughing. 'You see how it is. Mina is a
new hand and cannot do anything without me to direct her. We must give
up the writing for to-day.'
"'No, no; let us have another trial. You can dictate as easily as you
can write. Come, I can set the baby in this clothes-basket and give him
some mischief or other to keep him quiet; you shall dictate and I will
write. Now, this is the place where you left off: you were describing
the scene between Ellen and her lover; the last sentence was, "Borne
down by the tide of agony, she leaned her head on her hands, the tears
streamed through her fingers, and her whole frame shook with convulsive
sobs." What shall I write next?'
"'Mina, pour a little milk into this pearlash,' said Harriet.
"'Come,' said I. '"The tears streamed through her fingers and her whole
frame shook with convulsive sobs." What next?'
"Harriet paused and looked musingly out of the window, as she turned
her mind to her story. 'You may write now,' said she, and she dictated
as follows:
"'"Her lover wept with her, nor dared he again to touch the point so
sacredly guarded"--Mina, roll that crust a little thinner. "He spoke in
soothing tones"--Mina, poke the coals in the oven.'
"'Here,' said I, 'let me direct Mina about these matters, and write a
while yourself.'
"Harriet took the pen and patiently set herself to the work. For
a while my culinary knowledge and skill were proof to all Mina's
investigating inquiries, and they did not fail till I saw two pages
completed.
"'You have done bravely,' said I, as I read over the manuscript; 'now
you must direct Mina a while. Meanwhile dictate and I will write.'
"Never was there a more docile literary lady than my friend. Without a
word of objection she followed my request.
"'I am ready to write,' said I. 'The last sentence was: "What is this
life to one who has suffered as I have?" What next?'
"'Shall I put in the brown or the white bread first?' said Mina.
"'The brown first,' said Harriet.
"'"What is this life to one who has suffered as I have?"' said I.
"Harriet brushed the flour off her apron and sat down for a moment in a
muse. Then she dictated as follows:--
"'"Under the breaking of my heart I have borne up. I have borne up
under all that tries a woman,--but this thought,--oh, Henry!"'
"'Ma'am, shall I put ginger into this pumpkin?' queried Mina.
"'No, you may let that alone just now,' replied Harriet. She then
proceeded:--
"'"I know my duty to my children. I see the hour must come. You must
take them, Henry; they are my last earthly comfort."'
"'Ma'am, what shall I do with these egg-shells and all this truck
here?' interrupted Mina.
"'Put them in the pail by you,' answered Harriet.
"'"They are my last earthly comfort,"' said I. 'What next?'
"She continued to dictate,--
"'"You must take them away. It may be--perhaps it _must_ be--that I
shall soon follow, but the breaking heart of a wife still pleads, 'a
little longer, a little longer.'"'
"'How much longer must the gingerbread stay in?' inquired Mina.
"'Five minutes,' said Harriet.
"'"A little longer, a little longer,"' I repeated in a dolorous tone,
and we burst into a laugh.
"Thus we went on, cooking, writing, nursing, and laughing, till I
finally accomplished my object. The piece was finished, copied, and the
next day sent to the editor."
The widely scattered members of the Beecher family had a fashion of
communicating with each other by means of circular letters. These,
begun on great sheets of paper, at either end of the line, were passed
along from one to another, each one adding his or her budget of news
to the general stock. When the filled sheet reached the last person
for whom it was intended, it was finally remailed to its point of
departure. Except in the cases of Mrs. Stowe and Mrs. Perkins, the
simple address "Rev. Mr. Beecher" was sufficient to insure its safe
delivery in any town to which it was sent.
One of these great, closely-written sheets, bearing in faded ink the
names of all the Beechers, lies outspread before us as we write. It
is postmarked Hartford, Conn., Batavia, N. Y., Chillicothe, Ohio,
Zanesville, Ohio, Walnut Hills, Ohio, Indianapolis, Ind., Jacksonville,
Ill., and New Orleans, La. In it Mrs. Stowe occupies her allotted space
with--
WALNUT HILLS, _April 27, 1839._
DEAR FRIENDS,--I am going to Hartford myself, and
therefore shall not write, but hurry along the
preparations for my forward journey. Belle, father says
you may go to the White Mountains with Mr. Stowe and me
this summer. George, we may look in on you coming back.
Good-by.
Affectionately to all, H. E. STOWE.
FOOTNOTES:
[2] A ridiculous book from which Mr. Stowe derived endless amusement.
[3] Salmon P. Chase.
CHAPTER V.
POVERTY AND SICKNESS, 1840-1850.
FAMINE IN CINCINNATI.--SUMMER AT THE EAST.--PLANS
FOR LITERARY WORK.--EXPERIENCE ON A RAILROAD.--DEATH
OF HER BROTHER GEORGE.--SICKNESS AND DESPAIR.--A
JOURNEY IN SEARCH OF HEALTH.--GOES TO BRATTLEBORO'
WATERCURE.--TROUBLES AT LANE SEMINARY.--CHOLERA IN
CINCINNATI.--DEATH OF YOUNGEST CHILD.--DETERMINED TO
LEAVE THE WEST.
ON January 7, 1839, Professor Stowe wrote to his mother in Natick,
Mass.: "You left here, I believe, in the right time, for as there has
been no navigation on the Ohio River for a year, we are almost in a
state of famine as to many of the necessities of life. For example,
salt (coarse) has sold in Cincinnati this winter for three dollars a
bushel; rice eighteen cents a pound; coffee fifty cents a pound; white
sugar the same; brown sugar twenty cents; molasses a dollar a gallon;
potatoes a dollar a bushel. We do without such things mostly; as there
is yet plenty of bread and bacon (flour six and seven dollars a barrel,
and good pork from six to eight cents a pound) we get along very
comfortably.
"Our new house is pretty much as it was, but they say it will be
finished in July. I expect to visit you next summer, as I shall deliver
the Phi Beta Kappa oration at Dartmouth College; but whether wife and
children come with me or not is not yet decided."
Mrs. Stowe came on to the East with her husband and children during
the following summer, and before her return made a trip through the
White Mountains.
In May, 1840, her second son was born and named Frederick William,
after the sturdy Prussian king, for whom her husband cherished an
unbounded admiration.
Mrs. Stowe has said somewhere: "So we go, dear reader, so long as we
have a body and a soul. For worlds must mingle,--the great and the
little, the solemn and the trivial, wreathing in and out like the
grotesque carvings on a gothic shrine; only did we know it rightly,
nothing is trivial, since the human soul, with its awful shadow, makes
all things sacred." So in writing a biography it is impossible for us
to tell what did and what did not powerfully influence the character.
It is safer simply to tell the unvarnished truth. The lily builds up
its texture of delicate beauty from mould and decay. So how do we know
from what humble material a soul grows in strength and beauty!
In December, 1840, writing to Miss May, Mrs. Stowe says:--
"For a year I have held the pen only to write an occasional business
letter such as could not be neglected. This was primarily owing to a
severe neuralgic complaint that settled in my eyes, and for two months
not only made it impossible for me to use them in writing, but to fix
them with attention on anything. I could not even bear the least light
of day in my room. Then my dear little Frederick was born, and for two
months more I was confined to my bed. Besides all this, we have had an
unusual amount of sickness in our family....
"For all that my history of the past year records so many troubles, I
cannot on the whole regard it as a very troublous one. I have had so
many counterbalancing mercies that I must regard myself as a person
greatly blessed. It is true that about six months out of the twelve I
have been laid up with sickness, but then I have had every comfort and
the kindest of nurses in my faithful Anna. My children have thriven,
and on the whole 'come to more,' as the Yankees say, than the care of
them. Thus you see my troubles have been but enough to keep me from
loving earth too well."
In the spring of 1842 Mrs. Stowe again visited Hartford, taking her
six-year-old daughter Hatty with her. In writing from there to her
husband she confides some of her literary plans and aspirations to him,
and he answers:--
"My dear, you must be a literary woman. It is so written in the book
of fate. Make all your calculations accordingly. Get a good stock of
health and brush up your mind. Drop the E. out of your name. It only
incumbers it and interferes with the flow and euphony. Write yourself
fully and always Harriet Beecher Stowe, which is a name euphonious,
flowing, and full of meaning. Then my word for it, your husband will
lift up his head in the gate, and your children will rise up and call
you blessed.
"Our humble dwelling has to-day received a distinguished honor of which
I must give you an account. It was a visit from his excellency the
Baron de Roenne, ambassador of his majesty the King of Prussia to the
United States. He was pleased to assure me of the great satisfaction
my report on Prussian schools had afforded the king and members of
his court, with much more to the same effect. Of course having a real
live lord to exhibit, I was anxious for some one to exhibit him to; but
neither Aunt Esther nor Anna dared venture near the study, though they
both contrived to get a peep at his lordship from the little chamber
window as he was leaving.
"And now, my dear wife, I want you to come home as quick as you can.
The fact is I cannot live without you, and if we were not so prodigious
poor I would come for you at once. There is no woman like you in this
wide world. Who else has so much talent with so little self-conceit;
so much reputation with so little affectation; so much literature with
so little nonsense; so much enterprise with so little extravagance;
so much tongue with so little scold; so much sweetness with so little
softness; so much of so many things and so little of so many other
things?"
In answer to this letter Mrs. Stowe writes from Hartford:--
"I have seen Johnson of the 'Evangelist.' He is very liberally
disposed, and I may safely reckon on being paid for all I do there. Who
is that Hale, Jr., that sent me the 'Boston Miscellany,' and will he
keep his word with me? His offers are very liberal,--twenty dollars for
three pages, not very close print. Is he to be depended on? If so, it
is the best offer I have received yet. I shall get something from the
Harpers some time this winter or spring. Robertson, the publisher here,
says the book ('The Mayflower') will sell, and though the terms they
offer me are very low, that I shall make something on it. For a second
volume I shall be able to make better terms. On the whole, my dear, if
I choose to be a literary lady, I have, I think, as good a chance of
making profit by it as any one I know of. But with all this, I have my
doubts whether I shall be able to do so.
"Our children are just coming to the age when everything depends on my
efforts. They are delicate in health, and nervous and excitable, and
need a mother's whole attention. Can I lawfully divide my attention by
literary efforts?
"There is one thing I must suggest. If I am to write, I must have a
room to myself, which shall be _my_ room. I have in my own mind pitched
on Mrs. Whipple's room. I can put the stove in it. I have bought a
cheap carpet for it, and I have furniture enough at home to furnish it
comfortably, and I only beg in addition that you will let me change the
glass door from the nursery into that room and keep my plants there,
and then I shall be quite happy.
"All last winter I felt the need of some place where I could go and be
quiet and satisfied. I could not there, for there was all the setting
of tables, and clearing up of tables, and dressing and washing of
children, and everything else going on, and the constant falling of
soot and coal dust on everything in the room was a constant annoyance
to me, and I never felt comfortable there though I tried hard. Then if
I came into the parlor where you were I felt as if I were interrupting
you, and you know you sometimes thought so too.
"Now this winter let the cooking-stove be put into that room, and let
the pipe run up through the floor into the room above. We can eat by
our cooking-stove, and the children can be washed and dressed and keep
their playthings in the room above, and play there when we don't want
them below. You can study by the parlor fire, and I and my plants,
etc., will take the other room. I shall keep my work and all my things
there and feel settled and quiet. I intend to have a regular part of
each day devoted to the children, and then I shall take them in there."
In his reply to this letter Professor Stowe says:--
"The little magazine ('The Souvenir') goes ahead finely. Fisher sent
down to Fulton the other day and got sixty subscribers. He will make
the June number as handsome as possible, as a specimen number for the
students, several of whom will take agencies for it during the coming
vacation. You have it in your power by means of this little magazine
to form the mind of the West for the coming generation. It is just as
I told you in my last letter. God has written it in his book that you
must be a literary woman, and who are we that we should contend against
God? You must therefore make all your calculations to spend the rest of
your life with your pen.
"If you only could come home to-day how happy should I be. I am daily
finding out more and more (what I knew very well before) that you are
the most intelligent and agreeable woman in the whole circle of my
acquaintance."
That Professor Stowe's devoted admiration for his wife was
reciprocated, and that a most perfect sympathy of feeling existed
between the husband and wife, is shown by a line in one of Mrs.
Stowe's letters from Hartford in which she says: "I was telling
Belle yesterday that I did not know till I came away how much I was
dependent upon you for information. There are a thousand favorite
subjects on which I could talk with you better than with any one else.
If you were not already my dearly loved husband I should certainly fall
in love with you."
In this same letter she writes of herself:--
"One thing more in regard to myself. The absence and wandering of mind
and forgetfulness that so often vexes you is a physical infirmity
with me. It is the failing of a mind not calculated to endure a great
pressure of care, and so much do I feel the pressure I am under,
so much is my mind often darkened and troubled by care, that life
seriously considered holds out few allurements,--only my children.
"In returning to my family, from whom I have been so long separated,
I am impressed with a new and solemn feeling of responsibility. It
appears to me that I am not probably destined for long life; at all
events, the feeling is strongly impressed upon my mind that a work is
put into my hands which I must be earnest to finish shortly. It is
nothing great or brilliant in the world's eye; it lies in one small
family circle, of which I am called to be the central point."
On her way home from this Eastern visit Mrs. Stowe traveled for the
first time by rail, and of this novel experience she writes to Miss
Georgiana May:--
BATAVIA, _August 29, 1842._
Here I am at Brother William's, and our passage along
this railroad reminds me of the verse of the psalm:--
"Tho' lions roar and tempests blow,
And rocks and dangers fill the way."
Such confusion of tongues, such shouting and swearing,
such want of all sort of system and decency in
arrangements, I never desire to see again. I was
literally almost trodden down and torn to pieces in
the Rochester depot when I went to help my poor,
near-sighted spouse in sorting out the baggage. You
see there was an accident which happened to the cars
leaving Rochester that morning, which kept us two
hours and a half at the passing place this side of
Auburn, waiting for them to come up and go by us.
The consequence was that we got into this Rochester
depot aforesaid after dark, and the steamboat, the
canal-boat, and the Western train of cars had all been
kept waiting three hours beyond their usual time,
and they all broke loose upon us the moment we put
our heads out of the cars, and such a jerking, and
elbowing, and scuffling, and swearing, and protesting,
and scolding you never heard, while the great
locomotive sailed up and down in the midst thereof,
spitting fire and smoke like some great fiend monster
diverting himself with our commotions. I do think
these steam concerns border a little too much on the
supernatural to be agreeable, especially when you are
shut up in a great dark depot after sundown.
Well, after all, we had to ride till twelve o'clock at
night to get to Batavia, and I've been sick abed, so to
speak, ever since.
The winter of 1842 was one of peculiar trial to the family at Walnut
Hills; as Mrs. Stowe writes, "It was a season of sickness and gloom."
Typhoid fever raged among the students of the seminary, and the house
of the president was converted into a hospital, while the members of
his family were obliged to devote themselves to nursing the sick and
dying.
July 6, 1843, a few weeks before the birth of her third daughter,
Georgiana May, a most terrible and overwhelming sorrow came on Mrs.
Stowe, in common with all the family, in the sudden death of her
brother, the Rev. George Beecher.
He was a young man of unusual talent and ability, and much loved by his
church and congregation. The circumstances of his death are related
in a letter written by Mrs. Stowe, and are as follows: "Noticing the
birds destroying his fruit and injuring his plants, he went for a
double-barreled gun, which he scarcely ever had used, out of regard to
the timidity and anxiety of his wife in reference to it. Shortly after
he left the house, one of the elders of his church in passing saw him
discharge one barrel at the birds. Soon after he heard the fatal report
and saw the smoke, but the trees shut out the rest from sight.... In
about half an hour after, the family assembled at breakfast, and the
servant was sent out to call him.... In a few minutes she returned,
exclaiming, 'Oh, Mr. Beecher is dead! Mr. Beecher is dead!'... In a
short time a visitor in the family, assisted by a passing laborer,
raised him up and bore him to the house. His face was pale and but
slightly marred, his eyes were closed, and over his countenance rested
the sweet expression of peaceful slumber.... Then followed the hurried
preparations for the funeral and journey, until three o'clock, when,
all arrangements being made, he was borne from his newly finished
house, through his blooming garden, to the new church, planned and
just completed under his directing eye.... The sermon and the prayers
were finished, the choir he himself had trained sung their parting
hymn, and at about five the funeral train started for a journey of over
seventy miles. That night will stand alone in the memories of those who
witnessed its scenes!
"At ten in the evening heavy clouds gathered lowering behind, and
finally rose so as nearly to cover the hemisphere, sending forth
mutterings of thunder and constant flashes of lightning.
"The excessive heat of the weather, the darkness of the night, the
solitary road, the flaring of the lamps and lanterns, the flashes of
the lightning, the roll of approaching thunder, the fear of being
overtaken in an unfrequented place and the lights extinguished by the
rain, the sad events of the day, the cries of the infant boy sick with
the heat and bewailing the father who ever before had soothed his
griefs, all combined to awaken the deepest emotions of the sorrowful,
the awful, and the sublime....
"And so it is at last; there must come a time when all that the most
heart-broken, idolizing love can give us is a coffin and a grave! All
that could be done for our brother, with all his means and all the
affection of his people and friends, was just this, no more! After all,
the deepest and most powerful argument for the religion of Christ is
its power in times like this. Take from us Christ and what He taught,
and what have we here? What confusion, what agony, what dismay, what
wreck and waste! But give Him to us, even the most stricken heart can
rise under the blow; yea, even triumph!
"'Thy brother shall rise again,' said Jesus; and to us who weep
He speaks: 'Rejoice, inasmuch as ye are made partakers of Christ's
sufferings, that when his glory shall be revealed, ye also may be glad
with exceeding joy!'"
The advent of Mrs. Stowe's third daughter was followed by a protracted
illness and a struggle with great poverty, of which Mrs. Stowe writes
in October, 1843:--
"Our straits for money this year are unparalleled even in our annals.
Even our bright and cheery neighbor Allen begins to look blue, and
says $600 is the very most we can hope to collect of our salary,
once $1,200. We have a flock of entirely destitute young men in the
seminary, as poor in money as they are rich in mental and spiritual
resources. They promise to be as fine a band as those we have just sent
off. We have two from Iowa and Wisconsin who were actually crowded from
secular pursuits into the ministry by the wants of the people about
them. Revivals began, and the people came to them saying, 'We have no
minister, and you must preach to us, for you know more than we do.'"
In the spring of 1844 Professor Stowe visited the East to arouse
an interest in the struggling seminary and raise funds for its
maintenance. While he was there he received the following letter from
Mrs. Stowe:--
"I am already half sick with confinement to the house and overwork.
If I should sew every day for a month to come I should not be able to
accomplish a half of what is to be done, and should be only more unfit
for my other duties."
This struggle against ill-health and poverty was continued through
that year and well into the next, when, during her husband's absence to
attend a ministerial convention at Detroit, Mrs. Stowe writes to him:--
_June 16, 1845._
MY DEAR HUSBAND,--It is a dark, sloppy, rainy, muddy,
disagreeable day, and I have been working hard (for
me) all day in the kitchen, washing dishes, looking
into closets, and seeing a great deal of that dark
side of domestic life which a housekeeper may who will
investigate too curiously into minutiæ in warm, damp
weather, especially after a girl who keeps all clean
on the _outside_ of cup and platter, and is very apt
to make good the rest of the text in the _inside_ of
things.
I am sick of the smell of sour milk, and sour meat, and
sour everything, and then the clothes _will_ not dry,
and no wet thing does, and everything smells mouldy;
and altogether I feel as if I never wanted to eat again.
Your letter, which was neither sour nor mouldy, formed
a very agreeable contrast to all these things; the
more so for being unexpected. I am much obliged to
you for it. As to my health, it gives me very little
solicitude, although I am bad enough and daily growing
worse. I feel no life, no energy, no appetite, or
rather a growing distaste for food; in fact, I am
becoming quite ethereal. Upon reflection I perceive
that it pleases my Father to keep me in the fire,
for my whole situation is excessively harassing and
painful. I suffer with sensible distress in the brain,
as I have done more or less since my sickness last
winter, a distress which some days takes from me all
power of planning or executing anything; and you know
that, except this poor head, my unfortunate household
has no mainspring, for nobody feels any kind of
responsibility to do a thing in time, place, or manner,
except as I oversee it.
Georgiana is so excessively weak, nervous, cross, and
fretful, night and day, that she takes all Anna's
strength and time with her; and then the children are,
like other little sons and daughters of Adam, full of
all kinds of absurdity and folly.
When the brain gives out, as mine often does, and one
cannot think or remember anything, then what is to be
done? All common fatigue, sickness, and exhaustion is
nothing to this distress. Yet do I rejoice in my God
and know in whom I believe, and only pray that the
fire may consume the dross; as to the gold, that is
imperishable. No real evil can happen to me, so I fear
nothing for the future, and only suffer in the present
tense.
God, the mighty God, is mine, of that I am sure, and I
know He knows that though flesh and heart fail, I am
all the while desiring and trying for his will alone.
As to a journey, I need not ask a physician to see that
it is needful to me as far as health is concerned, that
is to say, all human appearances are that way, but I
feel no particular choice about it. If God wills I
go. He can easily find means. Money, I suppose, is as
plenty with Him now as it always has been, and if He
sees it is really best He will doubtless help me.
That the necessary funds were provided is evident from the fact that
the journey was undertaken and the invalid spent the summer of 1845 in
Hartford, in Natick, and in Boston. She was not, however, permanently
benefited by the change, and in the following spring it was deemed
necessary to take more radical measures to arrest the progress of her
increasing debility. After many consultations and much correspondence
it was finally decided that she should go to Dr. Wesselhoeft's
watercure establishment at Brattleboro', Vt.
At this time, under date of March, 1846, she writes:
"For all I have had trouble I can think of nothing but the greatness
and richness of God's mercy to me in giving me such friends, and in
always caring for us in every strait. There has been no day this winter
when I have not had abundant reason to see this. Some friend has always
stepped in to cheer and help, so that I have wanted for nothing. My
husband has developed wonderfully as house-father and nurse. You would
laugh to see him in his spectacles gravely marching the little troop in
their nightgowns up to bed, tagging after them, as he says, like an old
hen after a flock of ducks. The money for my journey has been sent in
from an unknown hand in a wonderful manner. All this shows the care of
our Father, and encourages me to rejoice and to hope in Him."
A few days after her departure Professor Stowe wrote to his wife:--
"I was greatly comforted by your brief letter from Pittsburgh. When
I returned from the steamer the morning you left I found in the
post-office a letter from Mrs. G. W. Bull of New York, inclosing $50 on
account of the sickness in my family. There was another inclosing $50
more from a Mrs. Devereaux of Raleigh, N. C., besides some smaller sums
from others. My heart went out to God in aspiration and gratitude.
None of the donors, so far as I know, have I ever seen or heard of
before.
"Henry and I have been living in a Robinson Crusoe and man Friday sort
of style, greatly to our satisfaction, ever since you went away."
Mrs. Stowe was accompanied to Brattleboro' by her sisters, Catherine
and Mary, who were also suffering from troubles that they felt might be
relieved by hydropathic treatment.
From May, 1846, until March, 1847, she remained at Brattleboro' without
seeing her husband or children. During these weary months her happiest
days were those upon which she received letters from home.
The following extracts, taken from letters written by her during this
period, are of value, as revealing what it is possible to know of her
habits of thought and mode of life at this time.
BRATTLEBORO', _September, 1846._
MY DEAR HUSBAND,--I have been thinking of all your
trials, and I really pity you in having such a wife. I
feel as if I had been only a hindrance to you instead
of a help, and most earnestly and daily do I pray to
God to restore my health that I may do something for
you and my family. I think if I were only at home I
could at least sweep and dust, and wash potatoes, and
cook a little, and talk some to my children, and should
be doing something for my family. But the hope of
getting better buoys me up. I go through these tedious
and wearisome baths and bear that terrible douche
thinking of my children. They never will know how I
love them....
There is great truth and good sense in your analysis
of the cause of our past failures. We have now come
to a sort of crisis. If you and I do as we should for
_five years_ to come the character of our three oldest
children will be established. This is why I am willing
to spend so much time and make such efforts to have
health. Oh, that God would give me these five years in
full possession of mind and body, that I may train my
children as they should be trained. I am fully aware
of the importance of system and order in a family. I
know that nothing can be done without it; it is the
keystone, the _sine quâ non_, and in regard to my
children I place it next to piety. At the same time it
is true that both Anna[4] and I labor under serious
natural disadvantages on this subject. It is not all
that is necessary to feel the importance of order and
system, but it requires a particular kind of talent to
carry it through a family. Very much the same kind of
talent, as Uncle Samuel said, which is necessary to
make a good prime minister....
I think you might make an excellent sermon to
Christians on the care of health, in consideration
of the various infirmities and impediments to the
developing the results of religion, that result from
bodily ill health, and I wish you would make one that
your own mind may be more vividly impressed with it.
The world is too much in a hurry. Ministers think there
is no way to serve Christ but to overdraw on their
physical capital for four or five years for Christ and
then have nothing to give, but become a mere burden on
his hands for the next five....
_November 18._ "The daily course I go through
presupposes a degree of vigor beyond anything I ever
had before. For this week, I have gone before breakfast
to the wave-bath and let all the waves and billows roll
over me till every limb ached with cold and my hands
would scarcely have feeling enough to dress me. After
that I have walked till I was warm, and come home to
breakfast with such an appetite! Brown bread and milk
are luxuries indeed, and the only fear is that I may
eat too much. At eleven comes my douche, to which I
have walked in a driving rain for the last two days,
and after it walked in the rain again till I was warm.
(The umbrella you gave me at Natick answers finely, as
well as if it were a silk one.) After dinner I roll
ninepins or walk till four, then sitz-bath, and another
walk till six.
"I am anxious for your health; do be persuaded to
try a long walk before breakfast. You don't know how
much good it will do you. Don't sit in your hot study
without any ventilation, a stove burning up all the
vitality of the air and weakening your nerves, and
above all, do _amuse_ yourself. Go to Dr. Mussey's
and spend an evening, and to father's and Professor
Allen's. When you feel worried go off somewhere and
forget and throw it off. I should really rejoice to
hear that you and father and mother, with Professor
and Mrs. Allen, Mrs. K., and a few others of the same
calibre would agree to meet together for dancing
cotillons. It would do you all good, and if you took
Mr. K.'s wife and poor Miss Much-Afraid, her daughter,
into the alliance it would do them good. Bless me!
what a profane set everybody would think you were,
and yet you are the people of all the world most
solemnly in need of it. I wish you could be with me in
Brattleboro' and coast down hill on a sled, go sliding
and snowballing by moonlight! I would snowball every
bit of the _hypo_ out of you! Now, my dear, if you are
going to get sick, I am going to come home. There is no
use in my trying to get well if you, in the mean time,
are going to run yourself down."
_January, 1847._
My dear Soul,--I received your most melancholy
effusion, and I am sorry to find it's just so. I
entirely agree and sympathize. Why didn't you engage
the two tombstones--one for you and one for me?
[Illustration: Ding, dong! Dead and gone!]
I shall have to copy for your edification a "poem
on tombstones" which Kate put at Christmas into the
stocking of one of our most hypochondriac gentlemen,
who had pished and pshawed at his wife and us for
trying to get up a little fun. This poem was fronted
with the above vignette and embellished with sundry
similar ones, and tied with a long black ribbon. There
were only two cantos in very concise style, so I shall
send you them entire.
CANTO I.
In the kingdom of _Mortin_
I had the good fortin'
To find these verses
On tombs and on hearses,
Which I, being jinglish
Have done into English.
[Illustration]
CANTO II.
The man what's so colickish
When his friends are all frolickish
As to turn up his noses
And turn on his toses
Shall have only verses
On tombstones and hearses.
But, seriously, my dear husband, you must try and be
patient, for this cannot last forever. Be patient and
bear it like the toothache, or a driving rain, or
anything else that you cannot escape. To see things as
through a glass darkly is your infirmity, you know;
but the Lord will yet deliver you from this trial. I
know how to pity you, for the last three weeks I have
suffered from an overwhelming mental depression, a
perfect heartsickness. All I wanted was to get home and
die. Die I was very sure I should at any rate, but I
suppose I was never less prepared to do so.
The long exile was ended in the spring of 1847, and in May Mrs. Stowe
returned to her Cincinnati home, where she was welcomed with sincere
demonstrations of joy by her husband and children.
Her sixth child, Samuel Charles, was born in January of 1848, and
about this time her husband's health became so seriously impaired that
it was thought desirable for him in turn to spend a season at the
Brattleboro' water-cure. He went in June, 1848, and was compelled by
the very precarious state of his health to remain until September,
1849. During this period of more than a year Mrs. Stowe remained in
Cincinnati caring for her six children, eking out her slender income by
taking boarders and writing when she found time, confronting a terrible
epidemic of cholera that carried off one of her little flock, and in
every way showing herself to be a brave woman, possessed of a spirit
that could rise superior to all adversity. Concerning this time she
writes in January, 1849, to her dearest friend:--
MY BELOVED GEORGY,--For six months after my return from
Brattleboro' my eyes were so affected that I wrote
scarce any, and my health was in so strange a state
that I felt no disposition to write. After the birth of
little Charley my health improved, but my husband was
sick and I have been so loaded and burdened with cares
as to drain me dry of all capacity of thought, feeling,
memory, or emotion.
Well, Georgy, I am thirty-seven years old! I am glad
of it. I like to grow old and have six children and
cares endless. I wish you could see me with my flock
all around me. They sum up my cares, and were they gone
I should ask myself, What now remains to be done? They
are my work, over which I fear and tremble.
In the early summer of 1849 cholera broke out in Cincinnati, and soon
became epidemic. Professor Stowe, absent in Brattleboro', and filled
with anxiety for the safety of his family, was most anxious, in spite
of his feeble health, to return and share the danger with them, but
this his wife would not consent to, as is shown by her letters to him,
written at this time. In one of them, dated June 29, 1849, she says:--
MY DEAR HUSBAND,--This week has been unusually fatal.
The disease in the city has been malignant and
virulent. Hearse drivers have scarce been allowed to
unharness their horses, while furniture carts and
common vehicles are often employed for the removal of
the dead. The sable trains which pass our windows, the
frequent indications of crowding haste, and the absence
of reverent decency have, in many cases, been most
painful. Of course all these things, whether we will or
no, bring very doleful images to the mind.
On Tuesday one hundred and sixteen deaths from cholera
were reported, and that night the air was of that
peculiarly oppressive, deathly kind that seems to lie
like lead on the brain and soul.
As regards your coming home, I am decidedly opposed
to it. First, because the chance of your being taken
ill is just as great as the chance of your being able
to render us any help. To exchange the salubrious air
of Brattleboro' for the pestilent atmosphere of this
place with your system rendered sensitive by water-cure
treatment would be extremely dangerous. It is a source
of constant gratitude to me that neither you nor father
are exposed to the dangers here.
Second, none of us are sick, and it is very uncertain
whether we shall be.
Third, if we were sick there are so many of us that it
is not at all likely we shall all be taken at once.
_July 1._ Yesterday Mr. Stagg went to the city and
found all gloomy and discouraged, while a universal
panic seemed to be drawing nearer than ever before.
Large piles of coal were burning on the cross walks
and in the public squares, while those who had talked
confidently of the cholera being confined to the lower
classes and those who were imprudent began to feel as
did the magicians of old, "This is the finger of God."
Yesterday, upon the recommendation of all the clergymen
of the city, the mayor issued a proclamation for a day
of general fasting, humiliation, and prayer, to be
observed on Tuesday next.
_July 3._ We are all in good health and try to maintain
a calm and cheerful frame of mind. The doctors are
nearly used up. Dr. Bowen and Dr. Peck are sick in bed.
Dr. Potter and Dr. Pulte ought, I suppose, to be there
also. The younger physicians have no rest night or day.
Mr. Fisher is laid up from his incessant visitations
with the sick and dying. Our own Dr. Brown is likewise
prostrated, but we are all resolute to stand by each
other, and there are so many of us that it is not
likely we can all be taken sick together.
_July 4._ All well. The meeting yesterday was very
solemn and interesting. There is more or less sickness
about us, but no very dangerous cases. One hundred
and twenty burials from cholera alone yesterday, yet
to-day we see parties bent on pleasure or senseless
carousing, while to-morrow and next day will witness
a fresh harvest of death from them. How we can become
accustomed to anything! Awhile ago ten a day dying of
cholera struck terror to all hearts; but now the tide
has surged up gradually until the deaths average over
a hundred daily, and everybody is getting accustomed
to it. Gentlemen make themselves agreeable to ladies
by reciting the number of deaths in this house or
that. This together with talk of funerals, cholera
medicines, cholera dietetics, and chloride of lime form
the ordinary staple of conversation. Serious persons of
course throw in moral reflections to their taste.
_July 10._ Yesterday little Charley was taken ill, not
seriously, and at any other season I should not be
alarmed. Now, however, a slight illness seems like a
death sentence, and I will not dissemble that I feel
from the outset very little hope. I still think it best
that you should not return. By so doing you might lose
all you have gained. You might expose yourself to a
fatal incursion of disease. It is decidedly not your
duty to do so.
_July 12._ Yesterday I carried Charley to Dr. Pulte,
who spoke in such a manner as discouraged and
frightened me. He mentioned dropsy on the brain as
a possible result. I came home with a heavy heart,
sorrowing, desolate, and wishing my husband and father
were here.
About one o'clock this morning Miss Stewart suddenly
opened my door crying, "Mrs. Stowe, Henry is vomiting."
I was on my feet in an instant, and lifted up my heart
for help. He was, however, in a few minutes relieved.
Then I turned my attention to Charley, who was also
suffering, put him into a wet sheet, and kept him there
until he was in a profuse perspiration. He is evidently
getting better, and is auspiciously cross. Never was
crossness in a baby more admired. Anna and I have said
to each other exultingly a score of times, "How cross
the little fellow is! How he does scold!"
_July 15._ Since I last wrote our house has been a
perfect hospital. Charley apparently recovering, but
still weak and feeble, unable to walk or play, and
so miserably fretful and unhappy. Sunday Anna and
I were fairly stricken down, as many others are,
with no particular illness, but with such miserable
prostration. I lay on the bed all day reading my
hymn-book and thinking over passages of Scripture.
_July 17._ To-day we have been attending poor old Aunt
Frankie's[5] funeral. She died yesterday morning,
taken sick the day before while washing. Good, honest,
trustful old soul! She was truly one who hungered and
thirsted for righteousness.
Yesterday morning our poor little dog, Daisy, who had
been ailing the day before, was suddenly seized with
frightful spasms and died in half an hour. Poor little
affectionate thing! If I were half as good for my
nature as she for hers I should be much better than I
am. While we were all mourning over her the news came
that Aunt Frankie was breathing her last. Hatty, Eliza,
Anna, and I made her shroud yesterday, and this morning
I made her cap. We have just come from her grave.
_July 23._ At last, my dear, the hand of the Lord hath
touched us. We have been watching all day by the dying
bed of little Charley, who is gradually sinking. After
a partial recovery from the attack I described in my
last letter he continued for some days very feeble, but
still we hoped for recovery. About four days ago he was
taken with decided cholera, and now there is no hope of
his surviving this night.
Every kindness is shown us by the neighbors. Do not
return. All will be over before you could possibly get
here, and the epidemic is now said by the physicians
to prove fatal to every new case. Bear up. Let us not
faint when we are rebuked of Him. I dare not trust
myself to say more but shall write again soon.
_July 26._
MY DEAR HUSBAND,--At last it is over and our dear
little one is gone from us. He is now among the
blessed. My Charley--my beautiful, loving, gladsome
baby, so loving, so sweet, so full of life and hope
and strength--now lies shrouded, pale and cold, in the
room below. Never was he anything to me but a comfort.
He has been my pride and joy. Many a heartache has he
cured for me. Many an anxious night have I held him to
my bosom and felt the sorrow and loneliness pass out
of me with the touch of his little warm hands. Yet I
have just seen him in his death agony, looked on his
imploring face when I could not help nor soothe nor do
one thing, not one, to mitigate his cruel suffering,
do nothing but pray in my anguish that he might die
soon. I write as though there were no sorrow like my
sorrow, yet there has been in this city, as in the
land of Egypt, scarce a house without its dead. This
heart-break, this anguish, has been everywhere, and
when it will end God alone knows.
With this severest blow of all, the long years of trial and suffering
in the West practically end; for in September, 1849, Professor Stowe
returned from Brattleboro', and at the same time received a call to the
Collins Professorship at Bowdoin College, in Brunswick, Maine, that he
decided to accept.
FOOTNOTES:
[4] The governess, Miss Anna Smith.
[5] An old colored woman.
CHAPTER VI.
REMOVAL TO BRUNSWICK, 1850-1852.
MRS. STOWE'S REMARKS ON WRITING AND UNDERSTANDING
BIOGRAPHY.--THEIR APPROPRIATENESS TO HER OWN
BIOGRAPHY.--REASONS FOR PROFESSOR STOWE'S LEAVING
CINCINNATI.--MRS. STOWE'S JOURNEY TO BROOKLYN.--HER
BROTHER'S SUCCESS AS A MINISTER.--LETTERS FROM HARTFORD
AND BOSTON.--ARRIVES IN BRUNSWICK.--HISTORY OF THE
SLAVERY AGITATION.--PRACTICAL WORKING OF THE FUGITIVE
SLAVE LAW.--MRS. EDWARD BEECHER'S LETTER TO MRS. STOWE
AND ITS EFFECT.--DOMESTIC TRIALS.--BEGINS TO WRITE
"UNCLE TOM'S CABIN" AS A SERIAL FOR THE "NATIONAL
ERA."--LETTER TO FREDERICK DOUGLASS.--"UNCLE TOM'S
CABIN" A WORK OF RELIGIOUS EMOTION.
EARLY in the winter of 1849 Mrs. Stowe wrote in a private journal in
which she recorded thought and feeling concerning religious themes:
"It has been said that it takes a man to write the life of a man; that
is, there must be similarity of mind in the person who undertakes to
present the character of another. This is true, also, of reading and
understanding biography. A statesman and general would read the life of
Napoleon with the spirit and the understanding, while the commonplace
man plods through it as a task. The difference is that the one, being
of like mind and spirit with the subject of the biography, is able to
sympathize with him in all his thoughts and experiences, and the other
is not. The life of Henry Martyn would be tedious and unintelligible to
a mind like that of a Richelieu or a Mazarin. They never experienced
or saw or heard anything like it, and would be quite at a loss where
to place such a man in their mental categories. It is not strange,
therefore, that of all biography in the world that of Jesus Christ
should be least understood. It is an exception to all the world has
ever seen. 'The world knew Him not.' There is, to be sure, a simple
grandeur about the life of Jesus which awes almost every mind. The most
hardened scoffer, after he has jested and jeered at everything in the
temple of Christianity, stands for a moment uncovered and breathless
when he comes to the object of its adoration and feels how awful
goodness is, and Virtue in her shape how lovely. Yet, after all, the
character of the Christ has been looked at and not sympathized with.
Men have turned aside to see this great sight. Christians have fallen
in adoration, but very few have tried to enter into his sympathies and
to feel as He felt."
How little she dreamed that these words were to become profoundly
appropriate as a description of her own life in its relation to
mankind! How little the countless thousands who read, have read, and
will read, "Uncle Tom's Cabin" enter into or sympathize with the
feelings out of which it was written! A delicate, sensitive woman
struggling with poverty, with weary step and aching head attending
to the innumerable demands of a large family of growing children; a
devoted Christian seeking with strong crying and tears a kingdom not
of this world,--is this the popular conception of the author of "Uncle
Tom's Cabin"? Nevertheless it is the reality. When, amid the burning
ruins of a besieged city, a mother's voice is heard uttering a cry
of anguish over a child killed in her arms by a bursting shell, the
attention is arrested, the heart is touched. So "Uncle Tom's Cabin" was
a cry of anguish from a mother's heart, and uttered in sad sincerity.
It was the bursting forth of deep feeling, with all the intense anguish
of wounded love. It will be the purpose of this chapter to show this,
and to cause to pass before the reader's mind the time, the household,
and the heart from which this cry was heard.
After struggling for seventeen years with ill health and every possible
vexation and hindrance in his work, Professor Stowe became convinced
that it was his duty to himself and his family to seek some other field
of labor.
February 6, 1850, he writes to his mother, in Natick, Mass.: "My health
has not been good this winter, and I do not suppose that I should live
long were I to stay here. I have done a great deal of hard work here,
and practiced no little self-denial. I have seen the seminary carried
through a most vexatious series of lawsuits, ecclesiastical and civil,
and raised from the depths of poverty to comparative affluence, and I
feel at liberty now to leave. During the three months of June, July,
and August last, more than nine thousand persons died of cholera within
three miles of my house, and this winter, in the same territory, there
have been more than ten thousand cases of small-pox, many of them of
the very worst kind. Several have died on the hill, and the Jesuits'
college near us has been quite broken up by it. There have been,
however, no cases in our families or in the seminary.
"I have received many letters from friends in the East expressing
great gratification at the offer from Bowdoin College, and the hope
that I would accept it. I am quite inclined to do so, but the matter
is not yet finally settled, and there are difficulties in the way.
They can offer me only $1,000 a year, and I must, out of it, hire my
own house, at an expense of $75 to $100 a year. Here the trustees
offer me $1,500 a year if I will stay, and a good house besides, which
would make the whole salary equivalent to $1,800; and to-day I have
had another offer from New York city of $2,300.... On the whole, I
have written to Bowdoin College, proposing to them if they will give
me $500 free and clear in addition to the salary, I will accept their
proposition, and I suppose that there is no doubt that they will do it.
In that case I should come on next spring, in May or June."
This offer from Bowdoin College was additionally attractive to
Professor Stowe from the fact that it was the college from which he
graduated, and where some of the happiest years of his life had been
passed.
The professorship was one just established through the gift of Mrs.
Collins, a member of Bowdoin Street Church in Boston, and named in her
honor, the "Collins Professorship of Natural and Revealed Religion."
It was impossible for Professor Stowe to leave Lane Seminary till some
one could be found to take his place; so it was determined that Mrs.
Stowe, with three of the children, should start for the East in April,
and having established the family in Brunswick, Professor Stowe was to
come on with the remaining children when his engagements would permit.
The following extracts from a letter written by Mrs. Stowe at her
brother Henry's, at Brooklyn, April 29, 1850, show us that the journey
was accomplished without special incident.
[Illustration: Henry Ward Beecher]
"The boat got into Pittsburgh between four and five on Wednesday.
The agent for the Pennsylvania Canal came on board and soon filled
out our tickets, calling my three chicks one and a half. We had a
quiet and agreeable passage, and crossed the slides at five o'clock
in the morning, amid exclamations of unbounded delight from all the
children, to whom the mountain scenery was a new and amazing thing.
We reached Hollidaysburg about eleven o'clock, and at two o'clock in
the night were called up to get into the cars at Jacktown. Arriving at
Philadelphia about three o'clock in the afternoon, we took the boat and
railroad line for New York.
"At Lancaster we telegraphed to Brooklyn, and when we arrived in New
York, between ten and eleven at night, Cousin Augustus met us and
took us over to Brooklyn. We had ridden three hundred miles since two
o'clock that morning, and were very tired.... I am glad we came that
way, for the children have seen some of the finest scenery in our
country.... Henry's people are more than ever in love with him, and
have raised his salary to $3,300, and given him a beautiful horse and
carriage worth $600.... My health is already improved by the journey,
and I was able to walk a good deal between the locks on the canal. As
to furniture, I think that we may safely afford an outlay of $150, and
that will purchase all that may be necessary to set us up, and then we
can get more as we have means and opportunity.... If I got anything
for those pieces I wrote before coming away, I would like to be advised
thereof by you.... My plan is to spend this week in Brooklyn, the next
in Hartford, the next in Boston, and go on to Brunswick some time in
May or June."
May 18, 1850, we find her writing from Boston, where she is staying
with her brother, Rev. Edward Beecher:--
MY DEAR HUSBAND,--I came here from Hartford on Monday,
and have since then been busily engaged in the business
of buying and packing furniture.
I expect to go to Brunswick next Tuesday night by the
Bath steamer, which way I take as the cheaper. My
traveling expenses, when I get to Brunswick, including
everything, will have been seventy-six dollars....
And now, lastly, my dear husband, you have never been
wanting ... in kindness, consideration, and justice,
and I want you to reflect calmly how great a work
has been imposed upon me at a time when my situation
particularly calls for rest, repose, and quiet.
To come alone such a distance with the whole charge
of children, accounts, and baggage; to push my way
through hurrying crowds, looking out for trunks, and
bargaining with hackmen, has been a very severe trial
of my strength, to say nothing of the usual fatigues of
traveling.
It was at this time, and as a result of the experiences of this trying
period, that Mrs. Stowe wrote that little tract dear to so many
Christian hearts, "Earthly Care a Heavenly Discipline."
On the eve of sailing for Brunswick, Mrs. Stowe writes to Mrs. Sykes
(Miss May): "I am wearied and worn out with seeing to bedsteads,
tables, chairs, mattresses, with thinking about shipping my goods and
making out accounts, and I have my trunk yet to pack, as I go on board
the Bath steamer this evening. I beg you to look up Brunswick on the
map; it is about half a day's ride in the cars from Boston. I expect to
reach there by the way of Bath by to-morrow forenoon. There I have a
house engaged and kind friends who offer every hospitable assistance.
Come, therefore, to see me, and we will have a long talk in the pine
woods, and knit up the whole history from the place where we left it."
Before leaving Boston she had written to her husband in Cincinnati:
"You are not able just now to bear anything, my dear husband, therefore
trust all to me; I never doubt or despair. I am already making
arrangements with editors to raise money.
"I have sent some overtures to Wright. If he accepts my pieces and pays
you for them, take the money and use it as you see necessary; if not,
be sure and bring the pieces back to me. I am strong in spirit, and
God who has been with me in so many straits will not forsake me now. I
know Him well; He is my Father, and though I may be a blind and erring
child, He will help me for all that. My trust through all errors and
sins is in Him. He who helped poor timid Jacob through all his fears
and apprehensions, who helped Abraham even when he sinned, who was with
David in his wanderings, and who held up the too confident Peter when
he began to sink,--He will help us, and his arms are about us, so that
we shall not sink, my dear husband."
May 29, 1850, she writes from Brunswick: "After a week of most
incessant northeast storm, most discouraging and forlorn to the
children, the sun has at length come out.... There is a fair wind
blowing, and every prospect, therefore, that our goods will arrive
promptly from Boston, and that we shall be in our own house by next
week. Mrs. Upham[6] has done everything for me, giving up time and
strength and taking charge of my affairs in a way without which we
could not have got along at all in a strange place and in my present
helpless condition. This family is delightful, there is such a perfect
sweetness and quietude in all its movements. Not a harsh word or hasty
expression is ever heard. It is a beautiful pattern of a Christian
family, a beautiful exemplification of religion...."
The events of the first summer in Brunswick are graphically described
by Mrs. Stowe in a letter written to her sister-in-law, Mrs. George
Beecher, December 17, 1850.
MY DEAR SISTER,--Is it really true that snow is on the
ground and Christmas coming, and I have not written
unto thee, most dear sister? No, I don't believe it!
I haven't been so naughty--it's all a mistake--yes,
written I must have--and written I have, too--in the
night-watches as I lay on my bed--such beautiful
letters--I wish you had only gotten them; but by day it
has been hurry, hurry, hurry, and drive, drive, drive!
or else the calm of a sick-room, ever since last spring.
I put off writing when your letter first came because I
meant to write you a long letter--a full and complete
one, and so days slid by,--and became weeks,--and my
little Charlie came ... etc. and etc.!!! Sarah, when
I look back, I wonder at myself, not that I forget
any one thing that I should remember, but that I
have remembered anything. From the time that I left
Cincinnati with my children to come forth to a country
that I knew not of almost to the present time, it has
seemed as if I could scarcely breathe, I was so pressed
with care. My head dizzy with the whirl of railroads
and steamboats; then ten days' sojourn in Boston, and
a constant toil and hurry in buying my furniture and
equipments; and then landing in Brunswick in the midst
of a drizzly, inexorable northeast storm, and beginning
the work of getting in order a deserted, dreary, damp
old house. All day long running from one thing to
another, as for example, thus:--
Mrs. Stowe, how shall I make this lounge, and what
shall I cover the back with first?
_Mrs. Stowe._ With the coarse cotton in the closet.
_Woman._ Mrs. Stowe, there isn't any more soap to clean
the windows.
_Mrs. Stowe._ Where shall I get soap?
Here H., run up to the store and get two bars.
There is a man below wants to see Mrs. Stowe about the
cistern. Before you go down, Mrs. Stowe, just show me
how to cover this round end of the lounge.
There's a man up from the depot, and he says that a
box has come for Mrs. Stowe, and it's coming up to the
house; will you come down and see about it?
Mrs. Stowe, don't go till you have shown the man how
to nail that carpet in the corner. He's nailed it all
crooked; what shall he do? The black thread is all used
up, and what shall I do about putting gimp on the back
of that sofa? Mrs. Stowe, there is a man come with a
lot of pails and tinware from Furbish; will you settle
the bill now?
Mrs. Stowe, here is a letter just come from Boston
inclosing that bill of lading; the man wants to know
what he shall do with the goods. If you will tell me
what to say I will answer the letter for you.
Mrs. Stowe, the meat-man is at the door. Hadn't we
better get a little beefsteak, or something, for dinner?
Shall Hatty go to Boardman's for some more black thread?
Mrs. Stowe, this cushion is an inch too wide for the
frame. What shall we do now?
Mrs. Stowe, where are the screws of the black walnut
bedstead?
Here's a man has brought in these bills for freight.
Will you settle them now?
Mrs. Stowe, I don't understand using this great needle.
I can't make it go through the cushion; it sticks in
the cotton.
Then comes a letter from my husband saying he is sick
abed, and all but dead; don't ever expect to see his
family again; wants to know how I shall manage, in
case I am left a widow; knows we shall get in debt
and never get out; wonders at my courage; thinks I am
very sanguine; warns me to be prudent, as there won't
be much to live on in case of his death, etc., etc.,
etc. I read the letter and poke it into the stove, and
proceed....
Some of my adventures were quite funny; as for example:
I had in my kitchen elect no sink, cistern, or any
other water privileges, so I bought at the cotton
factory two of the great hogsheads they bring oil in,
which here in Brunswick are often used for cisterns,
and had them brought up in triumph to my yard, and
was congratulating myself on my energy, when lo and
behold! it was discovered that there was no cellar door
except one in the kitchen, which was truly a strait
and narrow way, down a long pair of stairs. Hereupon,
as saith John Bunyan, I fell into a muse,--how to get
my cisterns into my cellar. In days of chivalry I
might have got a knight to make me a breach through
the foundation walls, but that was not to be thought
of now, and my oil hogsheads standing disconsolately
in the yard seemed to reflect no great credit on my
foresight. In this strait I fell upon a real honest
Yankee cooper, whom I besought, for the reputation of
his craft and mine, to take my hogsheads to pieces,
carry them down in staves, and set them up again, which
the worthy man actually accomplished one fair summer
forenoon, to the great astonishment of "us Yankees."
When my man came to put up the pump, he stared very
hard to see my hogsheads thus translated and standing
as innocent and quiet as could be in the cellar, and
then I told him, in a very mild, quiet way, that I
got 'em taken to pieces and put together--just as if
I had been always in the habit of doing such things.
Professor Smith came down and looked very hard at
them and then said, "Well, nothing can beat a willful
woman." Then followed divers negotiations with a very
clever, but (with reverence) somewhat lazy gentleman
of jobs, who occupieth a carpenter's shop opposite to
mine. This same John Titcomb, my very good friend, is
a character peculiar to Yankeedom. He is part owner
and landlord of the house I rent, and connected by
birth with all the best families in town; a man of
real intelligence, and good education, a great reader,
and quite a thinker. Being of an ingenious turn he
does painting, gilding, staining, upholstery jobs,
varnishing, all in addition to his primary trade of
carpentry. But he is a man studious of ease, and fully
possessed with the idea that man wants but little here
below; so he boards himself in his workshop on crackers
and herring, washed down with cold water, and spends
his time working, musing, reading new publications,
and taking his comfort. In his shop you shall see
a joiner's bench, hammers, planes, saws, gimlets,
varnish, paint, picture frames, fence posts, rare old
china, one or two fine portraits of his ancestry, a
bookcase full of books, the tooth of a whale, an old
spinning-wheel and spindle, a lady's parasol frame,
a church lamp to be mended, in short, Henry says Mr.
Titcomb's shop is like the ocean; there is no end to
the curiosities in it.
In all my moving and fussing Mr. Titcomb has been my
right-hand man. Whenever a screw was loose, a nail to
be driven, a lock mended, a pane of glass set, and
these cases were manifold, he was always on hand.
But my sink was no fancy job, and I believe nothing
but a very particular friendship would have moved
him to undertake it. So this same sink lingered in
a precarious state for some weeks, and when I had
_nothing else to do_, I used to call and do what
I could in the way of enlisting the good man's
sympathies in its behalf.
How many times I have been in and seated myself in one
of the old rocking-chairs, and talked first of the
news of the day, the railroad, the last proceedings
in Congress, the probabilities about the millennium,
and thus brought the conversation by little and little
round to my sink!... because, till the sink was done,
the pump could not be put up, and we couldn't have any
rain-water. Sometimes my courage would quite fail me to
introduce the subject, and I would talk of everything
else, turn and get out of the shop, and then turn back
as if a thought had just struck my mind, and say:--
"Oh, Mr. Titcomb! about that sink?"
"Yes, ma'am, I was thinking about going down street
this afternoon to look out stuff for it."
"Yes, sir, if you would be good enough to get it done
as soon as possible; we are in great need of it."
"I think there's no hurry. I believe we are going to
have a dry time now, so that you could not catch any
water, and you won't need a pump at present."
These negotiations extended from the first of June to
the first of July, and at last my sink was completed,
and so also was a new house spout, concerning which
I had had divers communings with Deacon Dunning of
the Baptist church. Also during this time good Mrs.
Mitchell and myself made two sofas, or lounges, a
barrel chair, divers bedspreads, pillow cases, pillows,
bolsters, mattresses; we painted rooms; we revarnished
furniture; we--what _didn't_ we do?
Then came on Mr. Stowe; and then came the eighth
of July and my little Charley. I was really glad
for an excuse to lie in bed, for I was full tired,
I can assure you. Well, I was what folks call very
comfortable for two weeks, when my nurse had to leave
me....
During this time I have employed my leisure hours in
making up my engagements with newspaper editors. I have
written more than anybody, or I myself, would have
thought. I have taught an hour a day in our school, and
I have read two hours every evening to the children.
The children study English history in school, and I
am reading Scott's historic novels in their order.
To-night I finish the "Abbot;" shall begin "Kenilworth"
next week; yet I am constantly pursued and haunted by
the idea that I don't do anything. Since I began this
note I have been called off at least a dozen times;
once for the fish-man, to buy a codfish; once to see
a man who had brought me some barrels of apples; once
to see a book-man; then to Mrs. Upham, to see about
a drawing I promised to make for her; then to nurse
the baby; then into the kitchen to make a chowder for
dinner; and now I am at it again, for nothing but
deadly determination enables me ever to write; it is
rowing against wind and tide.
I suppose you think now I have begun, I am never going
to stop, and in truth it looks like it; but the spirit
moves now and I must obey.
Christmas is coming, and our little household is all
alive with preparations; every one collecting their
little gifts with wonderful mystery and secrecy....
To tell the truth, dear, I am getting tired; my neck
and back ache, and I must come to a close.
Your ready kindness to me in the spring I felt very
much; and _why_ I did not have the sense to have sent
you one line just by way of acknowledgment, I'm sure
I don't know; I felt just as if I had, till I awoke,
and behold! I had not. But, my dear, if my wits are
somewhat wool-gathering and unsettled, my heart is as
true as a star. I love you, and have thought of you
often.
This fall I have felt often _sad_, lonesome, both very
unusual feelings with me in these busy days; but the
breaking away from my old home, and leaving father
and mother, and coming to a strange place affected me
naturally. In those sad hours my thoughts have often
turned to George; I have thought with encouragement
of his blessed state, and hoped that I should soon
be there too. I have many warm and kind friends
here, and have been treated with great attention and
kindness. Brunswick is a delightful residence, and
if you come East next summer you must come to my new
home. George[7] would delight to go a-fishing with the
children, and see the ships, and sail in the sailboats,
and all that.
Give Aunt Harriet's love to him, and tell him when he
gets to be a painter to send me a picture.
Affectionately yours, H. STOWE.
The year 1850 is one memorable in the history of our nation as well as
in the quiet household that we have followed in its pilgrimage from
Cincinnati to Brunswick.
The signers of the Declaration of Independence and the statesmen and
soldiers of the Revolution were no friends of negro slavery. In fact,
the very principles of the Declaration of Independence sounded the
death-knell of slavery forever. No stronger utterances against this
national sin are to be found anywhere than in the letters and published
writings of Jefferson, Washington, Hamilton, and Patrick Henry.
"Jefferson encountered difficulties greater than he could overcome, and
after vain wrestlings the words that broke from him, 'I tremble for my
country when I reflect that God is just and that his justice cannot
sleep forever,' were the words of despair.
"It was the desire of Washington's heart that Virginia should remove
slavery by a public act; and as the prospects of a general emancipation
grew more and more dim ... he did all that he could by bequeathing
freedom to his own slaves."[8]
Hamilton was one of the founders of the Manumission Society, the object
of which was the abolition of slaves in the State of New York. Patrick
Henry, speaking of slavery, said: "A serious view of this subject gives
a gloomy prospect to future times." Slavery was thought by the founders
of our Republic to be a dying institution, and all the provisions of
the Constitution touching slavery looked towards gradual emancipation
as an inevitable result of the growth of the democracy.
From an economic standpoint slave labor had ceased to be profitable.
"The whole interior of the Southern States was languishing, and its
inhabitants emigrating, for want of some object to engage their
attention and employ their industry." The cultivation of cotton was
not profitable for the reason that there was no machine for separating
the seed from the fibre.
This was the state of affairs in 1793, when Eli Whitney, a New England
mechanic, at this time residing in Savannah, Georgia, invented his
cotton-gin, or a machine to separate seed and fibre. "The invention
of this machine at once set the whole country in active motion."[9]
The effect of this invention may to some extent be appreciated when
we consider that whereas in 1793 the Southern States produced only
about five or ten thousand bales, in 1859 they produced over five
millions. But with this increase of the cotton culture the value
of slave property was augmented. Slavery grew and spread. In 1818
to 1821 it first became a factor in politics during the Missouri
compromise. By this compromise slavery was not to extend north of
latitude 36° 30´. From the time of this compromise till the year
1833 the slavery agitation slumbered. This was the year that the
British set the slaves free in their West Indian dependencies. This
act caused great uneasiness among the slaveholders of the South. The
National Anti-Slavery Society met in Philadelphia and pronounced
slavery a national sin, which could be atoned for only by immediate
emancipation. Such men as Garrison and Lundy began a work of agitation
that was soon to set the whole nation in a ferment. From this time on
slavery became the central problem of American history, and the line
of cleavage in American politics. The invasion of Florida when it was
yet the territory of a nation at peace with the United States, and its
subsequent purchase from Spain, the annexation of Texas and the war
with Mexico, were the direct results of the policy of the pro-slavery
party to increase its influence and its territory. In 1849 the State
of California knocked at the door of the Union for admission as a free
State. This was bitterly opposed by the slaveholders of the South,
who saw in it a menace to the slave-power from the fact that no slave
State was seeking admission at the same time. Both North and South the
feeling ran so high as to threaten the dismemberment of the Union, and
the scenes of violence and bloodshed which were to come eleven years
afterwards. It was to preserve the Union and avert the danger of the
hour that Henry Clay brought forward his celebrated compromise measures
in the winter of 1850. To conciliate the North, California was to be
admitted as a free State. To pacify the slaveholders of the South, more
stringent laws were to be enacted "concerning persons bound to service
in one State and escaping into another."
The 7th of March, 1850, Daniel Webster made his celebrated speech, in
which he defended this compromise, and the abolitionists of the North
were filled with indignation, which found its most fitting expression
in Whittier's "Ichabod:" "So fallen, so lost, the glory from his gray
hairs gone." ... "When honor dies the man is dead."
It was in the midst of this excitement that Mrs. Stowe, with her
children and her modest hopes for the future, arrived at the house of
her brother, Dr. Edward Beecher.
Dr. Beecher had been the intimate friend and supporter of Lovejoy,
who had been murdered by the slaveholders at Alton for publishing an
anti-slavery paper. His soul was stirred to its very depths by the
iniquitous law which was at this time being debated in Congress,--a
law which not only gave the slaveholder of the South the right to seek
out and bring back into slavery any colored person whom he claimed
as a slave, but commanded the people of the free States to assist in
this revolting business. The most frequent theme of conversation while
Mrs. Stowe was in Boston was this proposed law, and when she arrived
in Brunswick her soul was all on fire with indignation at this new
indignity and wrong about to be inflicted by the slave-power on the
innocent and defenseless.
After the passage of the Fugitive Slave Act, letter after letter was
received by Mrs. Stowe in Brunswick from Mrs. Edward Beecher and
other friends, describing the heart-rending scenes which were the
inevitable results of the enforcement of this terrible law. Cities were
more available for the capturing of escaped slaves than the country,
and Boston, which claimed to have the cradle of liberty, opened her
doors to the slave-hunters. The sorrow and anguish caused thereby no
pen could describe. Families were broken up. Some hid in garrets and
cellars. Some fled to the wharves and embarked in ships and sailed
for Europe. Others went to Canada. One poor fellow who was doing good
business as a crockery merchant, and supporting his family well, when
he got notice that his master, whom he had left many years before, was
after him, set out for Canada in midwinter on foot, as he did not dare
to take a public conveyance. He froze both of his feet on the journey,
and they had to be amputated. Mrs. Edward Beecher, in a letter to Mrs.
Stowe's son, writing of this period, says:--
"I had been nourishing an anti-slavery spirit since Lovejoy was
murdered for publishing in his paper articles against slavery and
intemperance, when our home was in Illinois. These terrible things
which were going on in Boston were well calculated to rouse up this
spirit. What can I do? I thought. Not much myself, but I know one who
can. So I wrote several letters to your mother, telling her of various
heart-rending events caused by the enforcement of the Fugitive Slave
Law. I remember distinctly saying in one of them, 'Now, Hattie, if I
could use a pen as you can, I would write something that would make
this whole nation feel what an accursed thing slavery is.'... When we
lived in Boston your mother often visited us.... Several numbers of
'Uncle Tom's Cabin' were written in your Uncle Edward's study at these
times, and read to us from the manuscripts."
A member of Mrs. Stowe's family well remembers the scene in the little
parlor in Brunswick when the letter alluded to was received. Mrs. Stowe
herself read it aloud to the assembled family, and when she came to the
passage, "I would write something that would make this whole nation
feel what an accursed thing slavery is," Mrs. Stowe rose up from her
chair, crushing the letter in her hand, and with an expression on her
face that stamped itself on the mind of her child, said: "I will write
something. I will if I live."
This was the origin of "Uncle Tom's Cabin," and Professor Cairnes has
well said in his admirable work, "The Slave Power," "The Fugitive
Slave Law has been to the slave power a questionable gain. Among its
first-fruits was 'Uncle Tom's Cabin.'"
The purpose of writing a story that should make the whole nation feel
that slavery was an accursed thing was not immediately carried out.
In December, 1850, Mrs. Stowe writes: "Tell sister Katy I thank her
for her letter and will answer it. As long as the baby sleeps with me
nights I can't do much at anything, but I will do it at last. I will
write that thing if I live.
"What are folks in general saying about the slave law, and the stand
taken by Boston ministers universally, except Edward?
"To me it is incredible, amazing, mournful!! I feel as if I should
be willing to sink with it, were all this sin and misery to sink in
the sea.... I wish father would come on to Boston, and preach on the
Fugitive Slave Law, as he once preached on the slave-trade, when I was
a little girl in Litchfield. I sobbed aloud in one pew and Mrs. Judge
Reeves in another. I wish some Martin Luther would arise to set this
community right."
December 22, 1850, she writes to her husband in Cincinnati: "Christmas
has passed, not without many thoughts of our absent one. If you want
a description of the scenes in our family preceding it, _vide_ a 'New
Year's Story,' which I have sent to the 'New York Evangelist.' I am
sorry that in the hurry of getting off this piece and one for the 'Era'
you were neglected." The piece for the "Era" was a humorous article
called "A Scholar's Adventures in the Country," being, in fact, a
picture drawn from life and embodying Professor Stowe's efforts in the
department of agriculture while in Cincinnati.
_December 29, 1850._ "We have had terrible weather here. I remember
such a storm when I was a child in Litchfield. Father and mother went
to Warren, and were almost lost in the snowdrifts.
"Sunday night I rather watched than slept. The wind howled, and the
house rocked just as our old Litchfield house used to. The cold has
been so intense that the children have kept begging to get up from
table at meal-times to warm feet and fingers. Our air-tight stoves
warm all but the floor,--heat your head and keep your feet freezing.
If I sit by the open fire in the parlor my back freezes, if I sit in
my bedroom and try to write my head aches and my feet are cold. I am
projecting a sketch for the 'Era' on the capabilities of liberated
blacks to take care of themselves. Can't you find out for me how much
Willie Watson has paid for the redemption of his friends, and get any
items in figures of that kind that you can pick up in Cincinnati?...
When I have a headache and feel sick, as I do to-day, there is
actually not a place in the house where I can lie down and take a nap
without being disturbed. Overhead is the school-room, next door is the
dining-room, and the girls practice there two hours a day. If I lock
my door and lie down some one is sure to be rattling the latch before
fifteen minutes have passed.... There is no doubt in my mind that
our expenses this year will come two hundred dollars, if not three,
beyond our salary. We shall be able to come through, notwithstanding;
but I don't want to feel obliged to work as hard every year as I have
this. I can earn four hundred dollars a year by writing, but I don't
want to feel that I must, and when weary with teaching the children,
and tending the baby, and buying provisions, and mending dresses, and
darning stockings, sit down and write a piece for some paper."
January 12, 1851, Mrs. Stowe again writes to Professor Stowe at
Cincinnati: "Ever since we left Cincinnati to come here the good hand
of God has been visibly guiding our way. Through what difficulties
have we been brought! Though we knew not where means were to come
from, yet means have been furnished every step of the way, and in
every time of need. I was just in some discouragement with regard to
my writing; thinking that the editor of the 'Era' was overstocked with
contributors, and would not want my services another year, and lo! he
sends me one hundred dollars, and ever so many good words with it. Our
income this year will be seventeen hundred dollars in all, and I hope
to bring our expenses within thirteen hundred."
It was in the month of February after these words were written that
Mrs. Stowe was seated at communion service in the college church at
Brunswick. Suddenly, like the unrolling of a picture, the scene of
the death of Uncle Tom passed before her mind. So strongly was she
affected that it was with difficulty she could keep from weeping aloud.
Immediately on returning home she took pen and paper and wrote out the
vision which had been as it were blown into her mind as by the rushing
of a mighty wind. Gathering her family about her she read what she
had written. Her two little ones of ten and twelve years of age broke
into convulsions of weeping, one of them saying through his sobs, "Oh,
mamma! slavery is the most cruel thing in the world." Thus Uncle Tom
was ushered into the world, and it was, as we said at the beginning,
a cry, an immediate, an involuntary expression of deep, impassioned
feeling.
Twenty-five years afterwards Mrs. Stowe wrote in a letter to one of
her children, of this period of her life: "I well remember the winter
you were a baby and I was writing 'Uncle Tom's Cabin.' My heart was
bursting with the anguish excited by the cruelty and injustice our
nation was showing to the slave, and praying God to let me do a little
and to cause my cry for them to be heard. I remember many a night
weeping over you as you lay sleeping beside me, and I thought of the
slave mothers whose babes were torn from them."
It was not till the following April that the first chapter of the story
was finished and sent on to the "National Era" at Washington.
In July Mrs. Stowe wrote to Frederick Douglass the following letter,
which is given entire as the best possible introduction to the history
of the career of that memorable work, "Uncle Tom's Cabin."
BRUNSWICK, _July 9, 1851._
FREDERICK DOUGLASS, ESQ.:
_Sir_,--You may perhaps have noticed in your editorial
readings a series of articles that I am furnishing for
the "Era" under the title of "Uncle Tom's Cabin, or
Life among the Lowly."
In the course of my story the scene will fall upon
a cotton plantation. I am very desirous, therefore,
to gain information from one who has been an actual
laborer on one, and it occurred to me that in the
circle of your acquaintance there might be one
who would be able to communicate to me some such
information as I desire. I have before me an able paper
written by a Southern planter, in which the details and
_modus operandi_ are given from his point of sight.
I am anxious to have something more from another
standpoint. I wish to be able to make a picture that
shall be graphic and true to nature in its details.
Such a person as Henry Bibb, if in the country, might
give me just the kind of information I desire. You may
possibly know of some other person. I will subjoin to
this letter a list of questions, which in that case you
will do me a favor by inclosing to the individual, with
the request that he will at earliest convenience answer
them.
For some few weeks past I have received your paper
through the mail, and have read it with great interest,
and desire to return my acknowledgments for it. It will
be a pleasure to me at some time when less occupied to
contribute something to its columns. I have noticed
with regret your sentiments on two subjects--the church
and African colonization, ... with the more regret
because I think you have a considerable share of reason
for your feelings on both these subjects; but I would
willingly, if I could, modify your views on both points.
In the first place you say the church is "pro-slavery."
There is a sense in which this may be true. The
American church of all denominations, taken as a body,
comprises the best and most conscientious people
in the country. I do not say it comprises none but
these, or that none such are found out of it, but only
if a census were taken of the purest and most high
principled men and women of the country, the majority
of them would be found to be professors of religion
in some of the various Christian denominations.
This fact has given to the church great weight in
this country--the general and predominant spirit of
intelligence and probity and piety of its majority
has given it that degree of weight that it has the
power to decide the great moral questions of the
day. Whatever it unitedly and decidedly sets itself
against as moral evil it can put down. In this sense
the church is responsible for the sin of slavery. Dr.
Barnes has beautifully and briefly expressed this on
the last page of his work on slavery, when he says:
"Not all the force out of the church could sustain
slavery an hour if it were not sustained in it." It
then appears that the church has the power to put an
end to this evil and does not do it. In this sense she
may be said to be pro-slavery. But the church has the
same power over intemperance, and Sabbath-breaking,
and sin of all kinds. There is not a doubt that if
the moral power of the church were brought up to the
New Testament standpoint it is sufficient to put an
end to all these as well as to slavery. But I would
ask you, Would you consider it a fair representation
of the Christian church in this country to say that
it is pro-intemperance, pro-Sabbath-breaking, and
pro everything that it might put down if it were in
a higher state of moral feeling? If you should make
a list of all the abolitionists of the country, I
think that you would find a majority of them in the
church--certainly some of the most influential and
efficient ones are ministers.
I am a minister's daughter, and a minister's wife, and
I have had six brothers in the ministry (one is in
heaven); I certainly ought to know something of the
feelings of ministers on this subject. I was a child in
1820 when the Missouri question was agitated, and one
of the strongest and deepest impressions on my mind was
that made by my father's sermons and prayers, and the
anguish of his soul for the poor slave at that time. I
remember his preaching drawing tears down the hardest
faces of the old farmers in his congregation.
I well remember his prayers morning and evening in the
family for "poor, oppressed, bleeding Africa," that the
time of her deliverance might come; prayers offered
with strong crying and tears, and which indelibly
impressed my heart and made me what I am from my very
soul, the enemy of all slavery. Every brother I have
has been in his sphere a leading anti-slavery man. One
of them was to the last the bosom friend and counselor
of Lovejoy. As for myself and husband, we have for the
last seventeen years lived on the border of a slave
State, and we have never shrunk from the fugitives, and
we have helped them with all we had to give. I have
received the children of liberated slaves into a family
school, and taught them with my own children, and it
has been the influence that we found in the church
and by the altar that has made us do all this. Gather
up all the sermons that have been published on this
offensive and unchristian Fugitive Slave Law, and you
will find that those against it are numerically more
than those in its favor, and yet some of the strongest
opponents have not published their sermons. Out of
thirteen ministers who meet with my husband weekly for
discussion of moral subjects, only three are found who
will acknowledge or obey this law in any shape.
After all, my brother, the strength and hope of your
oppressed race does lie in the church--in hearts united
to Him of whom it is said, "He shall spare the souls
of the needy, and precious shall their blood be in his
sight." Everything is against you, but Jesus Christ is
for you, and He has not forgotten his church, misguided
and erring though it be. I have looked all the field
over with despairing eyes; I see no hope but in Him.
This movement must and will become a purely religious
one. The light will spread in churches, the tone of
feeling will rise, Christians North and South will give
up all connection with, and take up their testimony
against, slavery, and thus the work will be done.
This letter gives us a conception of the state of moral and religious
exaltation of the heart and mind out of which flowed chapter after
chapter of that wonderful story. It all goes to prove the correctness
of the position from which we started, that "Uncle Tom's Cabin" came
from the heart rather than the head. It was an outburst of deep
feeling, a cry in the darkness. The writer no more thought of style
or literary excellence than the mother who rushes into the street and
cries for help to save her children from a burning house thinks of the
teachings of the rhetorician or the elocutionist.
A few years afterwards Mrs. Stowe, writing of this story, said, "This
story is to show how Jesus Christ, who liveth and was dead, and now
is alive and forevermore, has still a mother's love for the poor and
lowly, and that no man can sink so low but that Jesus Christ will
stoop to take his hand. Who so low, who so poor, who so despised as
the American slave? The law almost denies his existence as a person,
and regards him for the most part as less than a man--a mere thing,
the property of another. The law forbids him to read or write, to hold
property, to make a contract, or even to form a legal marriage. It
takes from him all legal right to the wife of his bosom, the children
of his body. He can do nothing, possess nothing, acquire nothing, but
what must belong to his master. Yet even to this slave Jesus Christ
stoops, from where he sits at the right hand of the Father, and says,
'Fear not, thou whom man despiseth, for I am thy brother. Fear not, for
I have redeemed thee, I have called thee by thy name, thou art mine.'"
"Uncle Tom's Cabin" is a work of religion; the fundamental principles
of the gospel applied to the burning question of negro slavery. It sets
forth those principles of the Declaration of Independence that made
Jefferson, Hamilton, Washington, and Patrick Henry anti-slavery men;
not in the language of the philosopher, but in a series of pictures.
Mrs. Stowe spoke to the understanding and moral sense through the
imagination.
"Uncle Tom's Cabin" made the enforcement of the Fugitive Slave Law
an impossibility. It aroused the public sentiment of the world by
presenting in the concrete that which had been a mere series of
abstract propositions. It was, as we have already said, an appeal to
the imagination through a series of pictures. People are like children,
and understand pictures better than words. Some one rushes into your
dining-room while you are at breakfast and cries out, "Terrible
railroad accident, forty killed and wounded, six were burned alive."
"Oh, shocking! dreadful!" you exclaim, and yet go quietly on with
your rolls and coffee. But suppose you stood at that instant by the
wreck, and saw the mangled dead, and heard the piercing shrieks of the
wounded, you would be faint and dizzy with the intolerable spectacle.
So "Uncle Tom's Cabin" made the crack of the slavedriver's whip, and
the cries of the tortured blacks ring in every household in the land,
till human hearts could endure it no longer.
FOOTNOTES:
[6] Wife of Professor Upham of Bowdoin College.
[7] Her brother George's only child.
[8] Bancroft's funeral oration on Lincoln.
[9] Greeley's _American Conflict_, vol. i. p. 65.
CHAPTER VII.
UNCLE TOM'S CABIN, 1852.
"UNCLE TOM'S CABIN" AS A SERIAL IN THE "NATIONAL
ERA."--AN OFFER FOR ITS PUBLICATION IN BOOK
FORM.--WILL IT BE A SUCCESS?--AN UNPRECEDENTED
CIRCULATION.--CONGRATULATORY MESSAGES.--KIND WORDS FROM
ABROAD.--MRS. STOWE TO THE EARL OF CARLISLE.--LETTERS
FROM AND TO LORD SHAFTESBURY.--CORRESPONDENCE WITH
ARTHUR HELPS.
THE wonderful story that was begun in the "National Era," June 5, 1851,
and was announced to run for about three months, was not completed in
that paper until April 1, 1852. It had been contemplated as a mere
magazine tale of perhaps a dozen chapters, but once begun it could no
more be controlled than the waters of the swollen Mississippi, bursting
through a crevasse in its levees. The intense interest excited by the
story, the demands made upon the author for more facts, the unmeasured
words of encouragement to keep on in her good work that poured in
from all sides, and above all the ever-growing conviction that she
had been intrusted with a great and holy mission, compelled her to
keep on until the humble tale had assumed the proportions of a volume
prepared to stand among the most notable books in the world. As Mrs.
Stowe has since repeatedly said, "I could not control the story; it
wrote itself;" or "I the author of 'Uncle Tom's Cabin'? No, indeed. The
Lord himself wrote it, and I was but the humblest of instruments in his
hand. To Him alone should be given all the praise."
Although the publication of the "National Era" has been long since
suspended, the journal was in those days one of decided literary merit
and importance. On its title-page, with the name of Dr. Gamaliel Bailey
as editor, appeared that of John Greenleaf Whittier as corresponding
editor. In its columns Mrs. Southworth made her first literary venture,
while Alice and Phoebe Cary, Grace Greenwood, and a host of other
well-known names were published with that of Mrs. Stowe, which appeared
last of all in its prospectus for 1851.
Before the conclusion of "Uncle Tom's Cabin" Mrs. Stowe had so far
outstripped her contemporaries that her work was pronounced by
competent judges to be the most powerful production ever contributed to
the magazine literature of this country, and she stood in the foremost
rank of American writers.
After finishing her story Mrs. Stowe penned the following appeal to its
more youthful readers, and its serial publication was concluded:--
"The author of 'Uncle Tom's Cabin' must now take leave of a wide circle
of friends whose faces she has never seen, but whose sympathies coming
to her from afar have stimulated and cheered her in her work.
"The thought of the pleasant family circles that she has been meeting
in spirit week after week has been a constant refreshment to her, and
she cannot leave them without a farewell.
"In particular the dear children who have followed her story have her
warmest love. Dear children, you will soon be men and women, and I hope
that you will learn from this story always to remember and pity the
poor and oppressed. When you grow up, show your pity by doing all you
can for them. Never, if you can help it, let a colored child be shut
out from school or treated with neglect and contempt on account of his
color. Remember the sweet example of little Eva, and try to feel the
same regard for all that she did. Then, when you grow up, I hope the
foolish and unchristian prejudice against people merely on account of
their complexion will be done away with.
"Farewell, dear children, until we meet again."
With the completion of the story the editor of the "Era" wrote:
"Mrs. Stowe has at last brought her great work to a close. We do not
recollect any production of an American writer that has excited more
general and profound interest."
For the story as a serial the author received $300. In the mean time,
however, it had attracted the attention of Mr. John P. Jewett, a
Boston publisher, who promptly made overtures for its publication in
book form. He offered Mr. and Mrs. Stowe a half share in the profits,
provided they would share with him the expense of publication. This
was refused by Professor Stowe, who said he was altogether too poor
to assume any such risk; and the agreement finally made was that the
author should receive a ten per cent. royalty upon all sales.
Mrs. Stowe had no reason to hope for any large pecuniary gain from
this publication, for it was practically her first book. To be sure,
she had, in 1832, prepared a small school geography for a Western
publisher, and ten years later the Harpers had brought out her
"Mayflower." Still, neither of these had been sufficiently remunerative
to cause her to regard literary work as a money-making business, and
in regard to this new contract she writes: "I did not know until a week
afterward precisely what terms Mr. Stowe had made, and I did not care.
I had the most perfect indifference to the bargain."
The agreement was signed March 13, 1852, and, as by arrangement with
the "National Era" the book publication of the story was authorized
before its completion as a serial, the first edition of five thousand
copies was issued on the twentieth of the same month.
In looking over the first semi-annual statement presented by her
publishers we find Mrs. Stowe charged, a few days before the date of
publication of her book, with "one copy U. T. C. cloth $.56," and this
was the first copy of "Uncle Tom's Cabin" ever sold in book form.
Five days earlier we find her charged with one copy of Horace Mann's
speeches. In writing of this critical period of her life Mrs. Stowe
says:--
"After sending the last proof-sheet to the office I sat alone reading
Horace Mann's eloquent plea for these young men and women, then about
to be consigned to the slave warehouse of Bruin & Hill in Alexandria,
Va.,--a plea impassioned, eloquent, but vain, as all other pleas on
that side had ever proved in all courts hitherto. It seemed that there
was no hope, that nobody would hear, nobody would read, nobody pity;
that this frightful system, that had already pursued its victims into
the free States, might at last even threaten them in Canada."[10]
Filled with this fear, she determined to do all that one woman might
to enlist the sympathies of England for the cause, and to avert, even
as a remote contingency, the closing of Canada as a haven of refuge for
the oppressed. To this end she at once wrote letters to Prince Albert,
to the Duke of Argyll, to the Earls of Carlisle and Shaftesbury, to
Macaulay, Dickens, and others whom she knew to be interested in the
cause of anti-slavery. These she ordered to be sent to their several
addresses, accompanied by the very earliest copies of her book that
should be printed.
Then, having done what she could, and committed the result to God, she
calmly turned her attention to other affairs.
In the mean time the fears of the author as to whether or not her book
would be read were quickly dispelled. Three thousand copies were sold
the very first day, a second edition was issued the following week, a
third on the 1st of April, and within a year one hundred and twenty
editions, or over three hundred thousand copies of the book, had been
issued and sold in this country. Almost in a day the poor professor's
wife had become the most talked-of woman in the world, her influence
for good was spreading to its remotest corners, and henceforth she
was to be a public character, whose every movement would be watched
with interest, and whose every word would be quoted. The long, weary
struggle with poverty was to be hers no longer; for, in seeking to aid
the oppressed, she had also so aided herself that within four months
from the time her book was published it had yielded her $10,000 in
royalties.
Now letters regarding the wonderful book, and expressing all shades
of opinion concerning it, began to pour in upon the author. Her
lifelong friend, whose words we have already so often quoted, wrote:--
"I sat up last night until long after one o'clock reading and finishing
'Uncle Tom's Cabin.' I could not leave it any more than I could have
left a dying child, nor could I restrain an almost hysterical sobbing
for an hour after I laid my head upon my pillow. I thought I was a
thorough-going abolitionist before, but your book has awakened so
strong a feeling of indignation and of compassion that I never seem to
have had any feeling on this subject until now."
The poet Longfellow wrote:--
I congratulate you most cordially upon the immense
success and influence of "Uncle Tom's Cabin." It is one
of the greatest triumphs recorded in literary history,
to say nothing of the higher triumph of its moral
effect.
With great regard, and friendly remembrance to Mr.
Stowe, I remain,
Yours most truly,
HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.
Whittier wrote to Garrison:--
"What a glorious work Harriet Beecher Stowe has wrought. Thanks for
the Fugitive Slave Law! Better would it be for slavery if that law had
never been enacted; for it gave occasion for 'Uncle Tom's Cabin.'"
Garrison wrote to Mrs. Stowe:--
"I estimate the value of anti-slavery writing by the abuse it brings.
Now all the defenders of slavery have let me alone and are abusing
you."
To Mrs. Stowe, Whittier wrote:--
Ten thousand thanks for thy immortal book. My young
friend Mary Irving (of the "Era") writes me that she
has been reading it to some twenty young ladies,
daughters of Louisiana slaveholders, near New Orleans,
and amid the scenes described in it, and that they,
with one accord, pronounce it true.
Truly thy friend,
JOHN G. WHITTIER.
From Thomas Wentworth Higginson came the following:--
To have written at once the most powerful of
contemporary fictions and the most efficient of
anti-slavery tracts is a double triumph in literature
and philanthropy, to which this country has heretofore
seen no parallel.
Yours respectfully and gratefully,
T. W. HIGGINSON.
A few days after the publication of the book, Mrs. Stowe, writing
from Boston to her husband in Brunswick, says: "I have been in such a
whirl ever since I have been here. I found business prosperous. Jewett
animated. He has been to Washington and conversed with all the leading
senators, Northern and Southern. Seward told him it was the greatest
book of the times, or something of that sort, and he and Sumner went
around with him to recommend it to Southern men and get them to read
it."
It is true that with these congratulatory and commendatory letters came
hosts of others, threatening and insulting, from the Haleys and Legrees
of the country.
Of them Mrs. Stowe said: "They were so curiously compounded of
blasphemy, cruelty, and obscenity, that their like could only be
expressed by John Bunyan's account of the speech of Apollyon: 'He spake
as a dragon.'"
A correspondent of the "National Era" wrote: "'Uncle Tom's Cabin' is
denounced by time-serving preachers as a meretricious work. Will you
not come out in defense of it and roll back the tide of vituperation?"
To this the editor answered: "We should as soon think of coming out in
defense of Shakespeare."
Several attempts were made in the South to write books controverting
"Uncle Tom's Cabin," and showing a much brighter side of the slavery
question, but they all fell flat and were left unread. Of one of them,
a clergyman of Charleston, S. C., wrote in a private letter:--
"I have read two columns in the 'Southern Press' of Mrs. Eastman's
'Aunt Phillis' Cabin, or Southern Life as it is,' with the remarks of
the editor. I have no comment to make on it, as that is done by itself.
The editor might have saved himself being writ down an ass by the
public if he had withheld his nonsense. If the two columns are a fair
specimen of Mrs. Eastman's book, I pity her attempt and her name as an
author."
In due time Mrs. Stowe began to receive answers to the letters she had
forwarded with copies of her book to prominent men in England, and
these were without exception flattering and encouraging. Through his
private secretary Prince Albert acknowledged with thanks the receipt
of his copy, and promised to read it. Succeeding mails brought scores
of letters from English men of letters and statesmen. Lord Carlisle
wrote:--
"I return my deep and solemn thanks to Almighty God who has led and
enabled you to write such a book. I do feel indeed the most thorough
assurance that in his good Providence such a book cannot have been
written in vain. I have long felt that slavery is by far the _topping_
question of the world and age we live in, including all that is most
thrilling in heroism and most touching in distress; in short, the real
epic of the universe. The self-interest of the parties most nearly
concerned on the one hand, the apathy and ignorance of unconcerned
observers on the other, have left these august pretensions to drop
very much out of sight. Hence my rejoicing that a writer has appeared
who will be read and must be felt, and that happen what may to the
transactions of slavery they will no longer be suppressed."
To this letter, of which but an extract has been given, Mrs. Stowe sent
the following reply:--
MY LORD,--It is not with the common pleasure of
gratified authorship that I say how much I am gratified
by the receipt of your very kind communication
with regard to my humble efforts in the cause of
humanity. The subject is one so grave, so awful--the
success of what I have written has been so singular
and so unexpected--that I can scarce retain a
self-consciousness and am constrained to look upon
it all as the work of a Higher Power, who, when He
pleases, can accomplish his results by the feeblest
instruments. I am glad of anything which gives
notoriety to the book, because it is a plea for the
dumb and the helpless! I am glad particularly of
notoriety in England because I see with what daily
increasing power England's opinion is to act on this
country. No one can tell but a _native_ born here
by what an infinite complexity of ties, nerves, and
ligaments this terrible evil is bound in one body
politic; how the slightest touch upon it causes
even the free States to thrill and shiver, what a
terribly corrupting and tempting power it has upon
the conscience and moral sentiment even of a free
community. Nobody can tell the thousand ways in
which by trade, by family affinity, or by political
expediency, the free part of our country is constantly
tempted to complicity with the slaveholding part. It
is a terrible thing to become used to hearing the
enormities of slavery, to hear of things day after
day that one would think the sun should hide his face
from, and yet, to _get used to them_, to discuss them
coolly, to dismiss them coolly. For example, the sale
of intelligent, handsome colored females for vile
purposes, facts of the most public nature, have made
this a perfectly understood matter in our Northern
States. I have now, myself, under charge and educating,
two girls of whose character any mother might be proud,
who have actually been rescued from this sale in the
New Orleans market.
I desire to inclose a tract[11] in which I sketched down
a few incidents in the history of the family to which
these girls belong; it will show more than words can
the kind of incident to which I allude. The tract is
not a published document, only _printed_ to assist me
in raising money, and it would not, at present, be for
the good of the parties to have it published even in
England.
But though these things are known in the free States,
and other things, if possible, worse, yet there is
a terrible deadness of moral sense. They are known
by clergymen who yet would not on any account so far
commit themselves as to preach on the evils of slavery,
or pray for the slaves in their pulpits. They are known
by politicians who yet give their votes for slavery
extension and perpetuation.
This year both our great leading parties voted to
suppress all agitation of the subject, and in both
those parties were men who knew personally facts of
slavery and the internal slave-trade that one would
think no man could ever forget. Men _united_ in
pledging themselves to the Fugitive Slave Law, who yet
would tell you in private conversation that it was an
abomination, and who do not hesitate to say, that as
a matter of practice they always help the fugitive
because they _can't_ do otherwise.
The moral effect of this constant insincerity, the
moral effect of witnessing and becoming accustomed to
the most appalling forms of crime and oppression, is to
me the most awful and distressing part of the subject.
Nothing makes me feel it so painfully as to see with
how much more keenness the English feel the disclosures
of my book than the Americans. I myself am blunted by
use--by seeing, touching, handling the details. In
dealing even for the ransom of slaves, in learning
market prices of men, women, and children, I feel that
I acquire a horrible familiarity with evil.
Here, then, the great, wise, and powerful mind of
England, if she will but fully master the subject,
may greatly help us. Hers is the same kind of mind
as our own, but disembarrassed from our temptations
and unnerved by the thousands of influences that
blind and deaden us. There is a healthful vivacity
of moral feeling on this subject that must electrify
our paralyzed vitality. For this reason, therefore, I
rejoice when I see minds like your lordship's turning
to this subject; and I feel an intensity of emotion, as
if I could say, Do not for Christ's sake let go; you
know not what you may do.
Your lordship will permit me to send you two of the
most characteristic documents of the present struggle,
written by two men who are, in their way, as eloquent
for the slave as Chatham was for us in our hour of need.
I am now preparing some additional notes to my book, in
which I shall further confirm what I have said by facts
and statistics, and in particular by extracts from
the _codes of slaveholding States_, and the _records
of their courts_. These are documents that cannot be
disputed, and I pray your lordship to give them your
attention. No disconnected facts can be so terrible as
these legal decisions. They will soon appear in England.
It is so far from being irrelevant for England to
notice slavery that I already see indications that this
subject, on _both sides_, is yet to be presented there,
and the battle fought on _English ground_. I see that
my friend the South Carolinian gentleman has sent to
"Fraser's Magazine" an article; before published in
this country, on "Uncle Tom's Cabin." The article
in the London "Times" was eagerly reprinted in this
country, was issued as a tract and sold by the hundred,
headed, "What they think of 'Uncle Tom' in England."
If I mistake not, a strong effort will be made to
pervert the public mind of England, and to do away the
impression which the book has left.
For a time after it was issued it seemed to go by
acclamation. From quarters the most unexpected, from
all political parties, came an almost unbroken chorus
of approbation. I was very much surprised, knowing
the explosive nature of the subject. It was not till
the sale had run to over a hundred thousand copies
that reaction began, and the reaction was led off by
the London "Times." Instantly, as by a preconcerted
signal, all papers of a certain class began to abuse;
and some who had at first issued articles entirely
commendatory, now issued others equally depreciatory.
Religious papers, notably the "New York Observer,"
came out and denounced the book as _anti-Christian_,
anti-evangelical, resorting even to personal slander on
the author as a means of diverting attention from the
work.
All this has a meaning, but I think it comes too late.
I can think of no reason why it was not tried sooner,
excepting that God had intended that the cause should
have a hearing. It is strange that they should have
waited so long for the political effect of a book which
they might have foreseen at first; but not strange
that they should, now they _do_ see what it is doing,
attempt to root it up.
The effects of the book so far have been, I think,
these: 1st. To soften and moderate the bitterness of
feeling in _extreme abolitionists_. 2d. To convert to
abolitionist views many whom this same bitterness had
repelled. 3d. To inspire the free colored people with
self-respect, hope, and confidence. 4th. To inspire
universally through the country a kindlier feeling
toward the negro race.
It was unfortunate for the cause of freedom that
the first agitators of this subject were of that
class which your lordship describes in your note as
"well-meaning men." I speak sadly of their faults,
for they were men of _noble_ hearts. "But oppression
maketh a wise man _mad_," and they spoke and did
many things in the frenzy of outraged humanity that
repelled sympathy and threw multitudes off to a
hopeless distance. It is mournful to think of all the
absurdities that have been said and done in the name
and for the sake of this holy cause, that have so long
and so fatally retarded it.
I confess that I expected for myself nothing but abuse
from extreme abolitionists, especially as I dared to
name a forbidden shibboleth, "Liberia," and the fact
that the wildest and extremest abolitionists united
with the coldest conservatives, at first, to welcome
and advance the book is a thing that I have never
ceased to wonder at.
I have written this long letter because I am extremely
desirous that some leading minds in England should know
how _we_ stand. The subject is now on trial at the bar
of a civilized world--a Christian world! and I feel
sure that God has not ordered this without a design.
Yours for the cause,
HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.
In December the Earl of Shaftesbury wrote to Mrs. Stowe:--
MADAM,--It is very possible that the writer of this
letter may be wholly unknown to you. But whether my
name be familiar to your ears, or whether you now read
it for the first time, I cannot refrain from expressing
to you the deep gratitude that I feel to Almighty God
who has inspired both your heart and your head in
the composition of "Uncle Tom's Cabin." None but a
Christian believer could have produced such a book as
yours, which has absolutely startled the whole world,
and impressed many thousands by revelations of cruelty
and sin that give us an idea of what would be the
uncontrolled dominion of Satan on this fallen earth.
To this letter Mrs. Stowe replied as follows:--
ANDOVER, _January 6, 1853._
TO THE EARL OF SHAFTESBURY:
_My Lord_,--The few lines I have received from you are
a comfort and an encouragement to me, feeble as I now
am in health, and pressed oftentimes with sorrowful
thoughts.
It is a comfort to know that in other lands there are
those who feel as we feel, and who are looking with
simplicity to the gospel of Jesus, and prayerfully
hoping his final coming.
My lord, before you wrote me I read with deep emotion
your letter to the ladies of England, and subsequently
the noble address of the Duchess of Sutherland, and I
could not but feel that such movements, originating
in such a quarter, prompted by a spirit so devout and
benevolent, were truly of God, and must result in a
blessing to the world.
I grieve to see that both in England and this country
there are those who are entirely incapable of
appreciating the Christian and truly friendly feeling
that prompted this movement, and that there are even
those who meet it with coarse personalities such as
I had not thought possible in an English or American
paper.
When I wrote my work it was in simplicity and in the
love of Christ, and if I felt anything that seemed to
me like a call to undertake it, it was this, that I had
a true heart of love for the Southern people, a feeling
appreciation of their trials, and a sincere admiration
of their many excellent traits, and that I thus felt,
I think, must appear to every impartial reader of the
work.
It was my hope that a book so kindly intended, so
favorable in many respects, might be permitted free
circulation among them, and that the gentle voice of
Eva and the manly generosity of St. Clare might be
allowed to say those things of the system which would
be invidious in any other form.
At first the book seemed to go by acclamation; the
South did not condemn, and the North was loud and
unanimous in praise; not a dissenting voice was raised;
to my astonishment everybody praised. But when the
book circulated so widely and began to penetrate the
Southern States, when it began to be perceived how
powerfully it affected every mind that read it, there
came on a reaction.
Answers, pamphlets, newspaper attacks came thick and
fast, and certain Northern papers, religious,--so
called,--turned and began to denounce the work as
unchristian, heretical, etc. The reason of all this
is that it has been seen that the book has a direct
tendency to do what it was written for,--to awaken
conscience in the slaveholding States and lead to
emancipation.
Now there is nothing that Southern political leaders
and capitalists so dread as anti-slavery feeling among
themselves. All the force of lynch law is employed
to smother discussion and blind conscience on this
question. The question is not allowed to be discussed,
and he who sells a book or publishes a tract makes
himself liable to fine and imprisonment.
My book is, therefore, as much under an interdict in
some parts of the South as the Bible is in Italy. It
is not allowed in the bookstores, and the greater part
of the people hear of it and me only through grossly
caricatured representations in the papers, with garbled
extracts from the book.
A cousin residing in Georgia this winter says that the
prejudice against my name is so strong that she dares
not have it appear on the outside of her letters, and
that very amiable and excellent people have asked her
if such as I could be received into reputable society
at the North.
Under these circumstances, it is a matter of particular
regret that the "New York Observer," an old and
long-established religious paper in the United States,
extensively read at the South, should have come out in
such a bitter and unscrupulous style of attack as even
to induce some Southern papers, with a generosity one
often finds at the South, to protest against it.
That they should use their Christian character and
the sacred name of Christ still further to blind the
minds and strengthen the prejudices of their Southern
brethren is to me a matter of deepest sorrow. All
those things, of course, cannot touch me in my private
capacity, sheltered as I am by a happy home and very
warm friends. I only grieve for it as a dishonor to
Christ and a real injustice to many noble-minded people
at the South, who, if they were allowed quietly and
dispassionately to hear and judge, might be led to the
best results.
But, my lord, all this only shows us how strong is the
interest we touch. _All the wealth of America_ may be
said to be interested in it. And, if I may judge from
the furious and bitter tone of some English papers,
they also have some sensitive connection with the evil.
I trust that those noble and gentle ladies of England
who have in so good a spirit expressed their views of
the question will not be discouraged by the strong
abuse that will follow. England is doing us good. We
need the vitality of a disinterested country to warm
our torpid and benumbed public sentiment.
Nay, the storm of feeling which the book raises in
Italy, Germany, and France is all good, though truly
'tis painful for us Americans to bear. The fact is, we
have become used to this frightful evil, and we need
the public sentiment of the world to help us.
I am now writing a work to be called "Key to Uncle
Tom's Cabin." It contains, in an undeniable form,
the facts which corroborate all that I have said.
One third of it is taken up with judicial records of
trials and decisions, and with statute law. It is a
most fearful story, my lord,--I can truly say that I
write with life-blood, but as called of God. I give in
my evidence, and I hope that England may so fix the
attention of the world on the facts of which I am the
unwilling publisher, that the Southern States may be
compelled to notice what hitherto they have denied and
ignored. If they call the fiction dreadful, what will
they say of the fact, where I cannot deny, suppress, or
color? But it is God's will that it must be told, and I
am the unwilling agent.
This coming month of April, my husband and myself
expect to sail for England on the invitation of the
Anti-Slavery Society of the Ladies and Gentlemen of
Glasgow, to confer with friends there.
There are points where English people can do much good;
there are also points where what they seek to do may be
made more efficient by a little communion with those
who know the feelings and habits of our countrymen: but
I am persuaded that England can do much for us.
My lord, they greatly mistake who see, in this movement
of English Christians for the abolition of slavery,
signs of disunion between the nations. It is the purest
and best proof of friendship England has ever shown us,
and will, I am confident, be so received. I earnestly
trust that all who have begun to take in hand the cause
will be in nothing daunted, but persevere to the end;
for though everything else be against us, _Christ_ is
certainly on our side and He _must at last prevail_,
and it will be done, "not by might, nor by power, but
by His Spirit."
Yours in Christian sincerity,
H. B. STOWE.
Mrs. Stowe also received a letter from Arthur Helps[12] accompanying
a review of her work written by himself and published in "Fraser's
Magazine." In his letter Mr. Helps took exception to the comparison
instituted in "Uncle Tom's Cabin" between the working-classes of
England and the slaves of America. In her answer to this criticism and
complaint Mrs. Stowe says:--
MR. ARTHUR HELPS:
_My dear Sir_,--I cannot but say I am greatly obliged
to you for the kind opinions expressed in your letter.
On one point, however, it appears that my book has not
faithfully represented to you the feelings of my heart.
I mean in relation to the English nation as a nation.
You will notice that the remarks on that subject occur
in the _dramatic_ part of the book, in the mouth of an
intelligent Southerner. As a fair-minded person, bound
to state for both sides all that could be said in the
person of St. Clare, the best that could be said on
that point, and what I know _is_ in fact constantly
reiterated, namely, that the laboring class of the
South are in many respects, as to physical comfort, in
a better condition than the poor of England.
This is the slaveholder's stereotyped apology,--a
defense it cannot be, unless two wrongs make one right.
It is generally supposed among us that this estimate
of the relative condition of the slaves and the poor
of England is correct, and we base our ideas on
reports made in Parliament and various documentary
evidence; also such sketches as "London Labor and
London Poor," which have been widely circulated among
us. The inference, however, which _we_ of the freedom
party draw from it, is _not_ that the slave is, on
the whole, in the best condition because of this
striking difference; that in America the slave has not
a recognized _human_ character _in law, has not even
an existence_, whereas in England the law recognizes
and protects the meanest subject, in theory _always_,
and in _fact_ to a certain extent. A prince of the
blood could not strike the meanest laborer without a
liability to prosecution, in _theory_ at least, and
that is something. In America any man may strike any
slave he meets, and if the master does not choose to
notice it, he has no redress.
I do not suppose _human nature_ to be widely different
in England and America. In both countries, when any
class holds power and wealth by institutions which
in the long run bring misery on lower classes, they
are very unwilling still to part with that wealth and
power. They are unwilling to be convinced that it is
their duty, and unwilling to do it if they are. It
is always so everywhere; it is not English nature or
American nature, but human nature. We have seen in
England the battle for popular rights fought step by
step with as determined a resistance from parties in
possession as the slaveholder offers in America.
There was the same kind of resistance in certain
quarters there to the laws restricting the employing of
young children eighteen hours a day in factories, as
there is here to the anti-slavery effort.
Again, in England as in America, there are, in those
very classes whose interests are most invaded by what
are called popular rights, some of the most determined
supporters of them, and here I think that the balance
preponderates in favor of England. I think there are
more of the high nobility of England who are friends
of the common people and willing to help the cause of
human progress, irrespective of its influence on their
own interests, than there are those of a similar class
among slaveholding aristocracy, though even that class
is not without such men. But I am far from having any
of that senseless prejudice against the English nation
as a nation which, greatly to my regret, I observe
sometimes in America. It is a relic of barbarism for
two such nations as England and America to cherish any
such unworthy prejudice.
For my own part, I am proud to be of English blood;
and though I do not think England's national course
faultless, and though I think many of her institutions
and arrangements capable of much revision and
improvement, yet my heart warms to her as, _on the
whole_, the strongest, greatest, and best nation on
earth. Have not England and America one blood, one
language, one literature, and a glorious literature
it is! Are not Milton and Shakespeare, and all the
wise and brave and good of old, common to us both,
and should there be anything but cordiality between
countries that have so glorious an inheritance in
common? If there is, it will be elsewhere than in
hearts like mine.
Sincerely yours,
H. B. STOWE.
FOOTNOTES:
[10] Introduction to Illustrated Edition of _Uncle Tom_, p. xiii.
(Houghton, Osgood & Co., 1879.)
[11] Afterwards embodied in the _Key to Uncle Tom's Cabin_.
[12] Author of _Spanish Conquest in America_.--ED.
CHAPTER VIII.
FIRST TRIP TO EUROPE, 1853.
THE EDMONDSONS.--BUYING SLAVES TO SET THEM FREE.--JENNY
LIND.--PROFESSOR STOWE IS CALLED TO ANDOVER.--FITTING
UP THE NEW HOME.--THE "KEY TO UNCLE TOM'S
CABIN."--"UNCLE TOM" ABROAD.--HOW IT WAS PUBLISHED
IN ENGLAND.--PREFACE TO THE EUROPEAN EDITION.--THE
BOOK IN FRANCE.--IN GERMANY.--A GREETING FROM CHARLES
KINGSLEY.--PREPARING TO VISIT SCOTLAND.--LETTER TO MRS.
FOLLEN.
VERY soon after the publication of "Uncle Tom's Cabin" Mrs. Stowe
visited her brother Henry in Brooklyn, and while there became intensely
interested in the case of the Edmondsons, a slave family of Washington,
D. C. Emily and Mary two of the daughters of Paul (a free colored man)
and Milly (a slave) Edmondson, had, for trying to escape from bondage,
been sold to a trader for the New Orleans market. While they were
lying in jail in Alexandria awaiting the making up of a gang for the
South, their heartbroken father determined to visit the North and try
to beg from a freedom-loving people the money with which to purchase
his daughters' liberty. The sum asked by the trader was $2,250, but its
magnitude did not appall the brave old man, and he set forth upon his
quest full of faith that in some way he would secure it.
Reaching New York, he went to the anti-slavery bureau and related
his pitiful story. The sum demanded was such a large one and seemed
so exorbitant that even those who took the greatest interest in the
case were disheartened over the prospect of raising it. The old man
was finally advised to go to Henry Ward Beecher and ask his aid. He
made his way to the door of the great Brooklyn preacher's house, but,
overcome by many disappointments and fearing to meet with another
rebuff, hesitated to ring the bell, and sat down on the steps with
tears streaming from his eyes.
There Mr. Beecher found him, learned his story, and promised to do what
he could. There was a great meeting in Plymouth Church that evening,
and, taking the old colored man with him to it, Mrs. Stowe's brother
made such an eloquent and touching appeal on behalf of the slave girls
as to rouse his audience to profound indignation and pity. The entire
sum of $2,250 was raised then and there, and the old man, hardly able
to realize his great joy, was sent back to his despairing children with
their freedom money in his hand.
All this had happened in the latter part of 1848, and Mrs. Stowe had
first known of the liberated girls in 1851, when she had been appealed
to for aid in educating them. From that time forward she became
personally responsible for all their expenses while they remained in
school, and until the death of one of them in 1853.
Now during her visit to New York in the spring of 1852 she met their
old mother, Milly Edmondson, who had come North in the hope of saving
her two remaining slave children, a girl and a young man, from falling
into the trader's clutches. Twelve hundred dollars was the sum to be
raised, and by hard work the father had laid by one hundred of it when
a severe illness put an end to his efforts. After many prayers and much
consideration of the matter, his feeble old wife said to him one day,
"Paul, I'm a gwine up to New York myself to see if I can't get that
money."
Her husband objected that she was too feeble, that she would be unable
to find her way, and that Northern people had got tired of buying
slaves to set them free, but the resolute old woman clung to her
purpose and finally set forth. Reaching New York she made her way to
Mr. Beecher's house, where she was so fortunate as to find Mrs. Stowe.
Now her troubles were at an end, for this champion of the oppressed
at once made the slave woman's cause her own and promised that her
children should be redeemed. She at once set herself to the task of
raising the purchase-money, not only for Milly's children, but for
giving freedom to the old slave woman herself. On May 29, she writes to
her husband in Brunswick:--
"The mother of the Edmondson girls, now aged and feeble, is in the
city. I did not actually know when I wrote 'Uncle Tom' of a living
example in which Christianity had reached its fullest development under
the crushing wrongs of slavery, but in this woman I see it. I never
knew before what I could feel till, with her sorrowful, patient eyes
upon me, she told me her history and begged my aid. The expression of
her face as she spoke, and the depth of patient sorrow in her eyes, was
beyond anything I ever saw.
"'Well,' said I, when she had finished, 'set your heart at rest;
you and your children shall be redeemed. If I can't raise the money
otherwise, I will pay it myself.' You should have seen the wonderfully
sweet, solemn look she gave me as she said, 'The Lord bless you, my
child!'
"Well, I have received a sweet note from Jenny Lind, with her name
and her husband's with which to head my subscription list. They give
a hundred dollars. Another hundred is subscribed by Mr. Bowen in his
wife's name, and I have put my own name down for an equal amount. A
lady has given me twenty-five dollars, and Mr. Storrs has pledged me
fifty dollars. Milly and I are to meet the ladies of Henry's and Dr.
Cox's churches to-morrow, and she is to tell them her story. I have
written to Drs. Bacon and Dutton in New Haven to secure a similar
meeting of ladies there. I mean to have one in Boston, and another in
Portland. It will do good to the givers as well as to the receivers.
"But all this time I have been so longing to get your letter from
New Haven, for I heard it was there. It is not fame nor praise that
contents me. I seem never to have needed love so much as now. I long
to hear you say how much you love me. Dear one, if this effort impedes
my journey home, and wastes some of my strength, you will not murmur.
When I see this Christlike soul standing so patiently bleeding, yet
forgiving, I feel a sacred call to be the helper of the helpless, and
it is better that my own family do without me for a while longer than
that this mother lose all. _I must redeem her._
"_New Haven, June 2._ My old woman's case progresses gloriously. I
am to see the ladies of this place to-morrow. Four hundred dollars
were contributed by individuals in Brooklyn, and the ladies who took
subscription papers at the meeting will undoubtedly raise two hundred
dollars more."
Before leaving New York, Mrs. Stowe gave Milly Edmondson her check for
the entire sum necessary to purchase her own freedom and that of her
children, and sent her home rejoicing. That this sum was made up to her
by the generous contributions of those to whom she appealed is shown by
a note written to her husband and dated July, 1852, in which she says:--
"Had a very kind note from A. Lawrence inclosing a twenty-dollar
gold-piece for the Edmondsons. Isabella's ladies gave me twenty-five
dollars, so you see our check is more than paid already."
Although during her visit in New York Mrs. Stowe made many new friends,
and was overwhelmed with congratulations and praise of her book, the
most pleasing incident of this time seems to have been an epistolatory
interview with Jenny Lind (Goldschmidt). In writing of it to her
husband she says:--
"Well, we have heard Jenny Lind, and the affair was a bewildering dream
of sweetness and beauty. Her face and movements are full of poetry and
feeling. She has the artless grace of a little child, the poetic effect
of a wood-nymph, is airy, light, and graceful.
"We had first-rate seats, and how do you think we got them? When Mr.
Howard went early in the morning for tickets, Mr. Goldschmidt told
him it was impossible to get any good ones, as they were all sold.
Mr. Howard said he regretted that, on Mrs. Stowe's account, as she
was very desirous of hearing Jenny Lind. 'Mrs. Stowe!' exclaimed Mr.
Goldschmidt, 'the author of "Uncle Tom's Cabin"? Indeed, she shall
have a seat whatever happens!'
"Thereupon he took his hat and went out, returning shortly with tickets
for two of the best seats in the house, inclosed in an envelope
directed to me in his wife's handwriting. Mr. Howard said he could have
sold those tickets at any time during the day for ten dollars each.
"To-day I sent a note of acknowledgment with a copy of my book. I am
most happy to have seen her, for she is a noble creature."
To this note the great singer wrote in answer:--
MY DEAR MADAM,--Allow me to express my sincere thanks
for your very kind letter, which I was very happy to
receive.
You must feel and know what a deep impression "Uncle
Tom's Cabin" has made upon every heart that can feel
for the dignity of human existence: so I with my
miserable English would not even try to say a word
about the great excellency of that most beautiful book,
but I must thank you for the great joy I have felt over
that book.
Forgive me, my dear madam: it is a great liberty I take
in thus addressing you, I know, but I have so wished to
find an opportunity to pour out my thankfulness in a
few words to you that I cannot help this intruding. I
have the feeling about "Uncle Tom's Cabin" that great
changes will take place by and by, from the impression
people receive out of it, and that the writer of that
book can fall asleep to-day or to-morrow with the
bright, sweet conscience of having been a strong means
in the Creator's hand of operating essential good in
one of the most important questions for the welfare
of our black brethren. God bless and protect you and
yours, dear madam, and certainly God's hand will remain
with a blessing over your head.
Once more forgive my bad English and the liberty I have
taken, and believe me to be, dear madam,
Yours most truly,
JENNY GOLDSCHMIDT, _née_ LIND.
In answer to Mrs. Stowe's appeal on behalf of the Edmonsons, Jenny Lind
wrote:--
MY DEAR MRS. STOWE,--I have with great interest read
your statement of the black family at Washington. It is
with pleasure also that I and my husband are placing
our humble names on the list you sent.
The time is short. I am very, very sorry that I shall
not be able to _see_ you. I must say farewell to you
in this way. Hoping that in the length of time you may
live to witness the progression of the good sake for
which you so nobly have fought, my best wishes go with
you.
Yours in friendship,
JENNY GOLDSCHMIDT.
While Mrs. Stowe was thus absent from home, her husband received and
accepted a most urgent call to the Professorship of Sacred Literature
in the Theological Seminary at Andover, Mass.
In regard to leaving Brunswick and her many friends there, Mrs. Stowe
wrote: "For my part, if I _must_ leave Brunswick, I would rather leave
at once. I can tear away with a sudden pull more easily than to linger
there knowing that I am to leave at last. I shall never find people
whom I shall like better than those of Brunswick."
As Professor Stowe's engagements necessitated his spending much of
the summer in Brunswick, and also making a journey to Cincinnati,
it devolved upon his wife to remain in Andover, and superintend the
preparation of the house they were to occupy. This was known as the
old stone workshop, on the west side of the Common, and it had a year
or two before been fitted up by Charles Munroe and Jonathan Edwards[13]
as the Seminary gymnasium. Beneath Mrs. Stowe's watchful care and by
the judicious expenditure of money, it was transformed by the first of
November into the charming abode which under the name of "The Cabin"
became noted as one of the pleasantest literary centres of the country.
Here for many years were received, and entertained in a modest way,
many of the most distinguished people of this and other lands, and here
were planned innumerable philanthropic undertakings in which Mrs. Stowe
and her scholarly husband were the prime movers.
The summer spent in preparing this home was one of great pleasure as
well as literary activity. In July Mrs. Stowe writes to her husband: "I
had no idea this place was so beautiful. Our family circle is charming.
All the young men are so gentlemanly and so agreeable, as well as
Christian in spirit. Mr. Dexter, his wife, and sister are delightful.
Last evening a party of us went to ride on horseback down to Pomp's
Pond. What a beautiful place it is! There is everything here that
there is at Brunswick except the sea,--a great exception. Yesterday I
was out all the forenoon sketching elms. There is no end to the beauty
of these trees. I shall fill my book with them before I get through. We
had a levee at Professor Park's last week,--quite a brilliant affair.
To-day there is to be a fishing party to go to Salem beach and have a
chowder.
[Illustration: THE ANDOVER HOME]
"It seems almost too good to be true that we are going to have such
a house in such a beautiful place, and to live here among all these
agreeable people, where everybody seems to love you so much and to
think so much of you. I am almost afraid to accept it, and should not,
did I not see the Hand that gives it all and know that it is both firm
and true. He knows if it is best for us, and His blessing addeth no
sorrow therewith. I cannot describe to you the constant undercurrent of
love and joy and peace ever flowing through my soul. I am so happy--so
blessed!"
The literary work of this summer was directed toward preparing articles
on many subjects for the "New York Independent" and the "National
Era," as well as collecting material for future books. That the
"Pearl of Orr's Island," which afterward appeared as a serial in the
"Independent," was already contemplated, is shown by a letter written
July 29th, in which Mrs. Stowe says: "What a lovely place Andover is!
So many beautiful walks! Last evening a number of us climbed Prospect
Hill, and had a most charming walk. Since I came here we have taken up
hymn-singing to quite an extent, and while we were all up on the hill
we sang 'When I can read my title clear.' It went finely.
"I seem to have so much to fill my time, and yet there is my Maine
story waiting. However, I am composing it every day, only I greatly
need living studies for the filling in of my sketches. There is 'old
Jonas,' my 'fish father,' a sturdy, independent fisherman farmer, who
in his youth sailed all over the world and made up his mind about
everything. In his old age he attends prayer-meetings and reads the
'Missionary Herald.' He also has plenty of money in an old brown
sea-chest. He is a great heart with an inflexible will and iron
muscles. I must go to Orr's Island and see him again. I am now writing
an article for the 'Era' on Maine and its scenery, which I think is
even better than the 'Independent' letter. In it I took up Longfellow.
Next I shall write one on Hawthorne and his surroundings.
"To-day Mrs. Jewett sent out a most solemnly savage attack upon me
from the 'Alabama Planter.' Among other things it says: 'The plan for
assaulting the best institutions in the world may be made just as
rational as it is by the wicked (perhaps unconsciously so) authoress
of this book. The woman who wrote it must be either a very bad or a
very fanatical person. For her own domestic peace we trust no enemy
will ever penetrate into her household to pervert the scenes he may
find there with as little logic or kindness as she has used in her
"Uncle Tom's Cabin."' There's for you! Can you wonder now that such a
wicked woman should be gone from you a full month instead of the week I
intended? Ah, welladay!"
At last the house was finished, the removal from Brunswick effected,
and the reunited family was comfortably settled in its Andover home.
The plans for the winter's literary work were, however, altered by
force of circumstances. Instead of proceeding quietly and happily with
her charming Maine story, Mrs. Stowe found it necessary to take notice
in some manner of the cruel and incessant attacks made upon her as the
author of "Uncle Tom's Cabin," and to fortify herself against them by
a published statement of incontrovertible facts. It was claimed on all
sides that she had in her famous book made such ignorant or malicious
misrepresentations that it was nothing short of a tissue of falsehoods,
and to refute this she was compelled to write a "Key to Uncle Tom's
Cabin," in which should appear the sources from which she had obtained
her knowledge. Late in the winter Mrs. Stowe wrote:--
"I am now very much driven. I am preparing a Key to unlock 'Uncle
Tom's Cabin.' It will contain all the original facts, anecdotes, and
documents on which the story is founded, with some very interesting and
affecting stories parallel to those told of Uncle Tom. Now I want you
to write for me just what you heard that slave-buyer say, exactly as he
said it, that people may compare it with what I have written. My Key
will be stronger than the Cabin."
In regard to this "Key" Mrs. Stowe also wrote to the Duchess of
Sutherland upon hearing that she had headed an address from the women
of England to those of America:--
It is made up of the facts, the documents, the things
which my own eyes have looked upon and my hands have
handled, that attest this awful indictment upon my
country. I write it in the anguish of my soul, with
tears and prayer, with sleepless nights and weary days.
I bear my testimony with a heavy heart, as one who in
court is forced by an awful oath to disclose the sins
of those dearest.
So I am called to draw up this fearful witness against
my country and send it into all countries, that the
general voice of humanity may quicken our paralyzed
vitality, that all Christians may pray for us, and that
shame, honor, love of country, and love of Christ may
be roused to give us strength to cast out this mighty
evil.
Yours for the oppressed,
H. B. STOWE.
This harassing, brain-wearying, and heart-sickening labor was
continued until the first of April, 1853, when, upon invitation of the
Anti-Slavery Society of Glasgow, Scotland, Mrs. Stowe, accompanied by
her husband and her brother, Charles Beecher, sailed for Europe.
In the mean time the success of "Uncle Tom's Cabin" abroad was already
phenomenal and unprecedented. From the pen of Mr. Sampson Low, the
well-known London publisher, we have the following interesting
statement regarding it:--
"The first edition printed in London was in April, 1852, by Henry
Vizetelly, in a neat volume at ten and sixpence, of which he issued
7,000 copies. He received the first copy imported, through a friend
who had bought it in Boston the day the steamer sailed, for his own
reading. He gave it to Mr. V., who took it to the late Mr. David Bogue,
well known for his general shrewdness and enterprise. He had the book
to read and consider over night, and in the morning returned it,
declining to take it at the very moderate price of five pounds.
"Vizetelly at once put the volume into the hands of a friendly printer
and brought it out on his own account, through the nominal agency of
Clarke & Co. The 7,000 copies sold, other editions followed, and Mr.
Vizetelly disposed of his interest in the book to the printer and
agent, who joined with Mr. Beeton and at once began to issue monster
editions. The demand called for fresh supplies, and these created an
increased demand. The discovery was soon made that any one was at
liberty to reprint the book, and the initiative was thus given to a
new era in cheap literature, founded on American reprints. A shilling
edition followed the one-and-sixpence, and this in turn became the
precursor of one 'complete for sixpence.' From April to December, 1852,
twelve different editions (not reissues) were published, and within
the twelve months of its first appearance eighteen different London
publishing houses were engaged in supplying the great demand that had
set in, the total number of editions being forty, varying from fine
art-illustrated editions at 15s., 10s., and 7s. 6d., to the cheap
popular editions of 1s., 9d., and 6d.
"After carefully analyzing these editions and weighing probabilities
with ascertained facts, I am able pretty confidently to say that the
aggregate number of copies circulated in Great Britain and the colonies
exceeds one and a half millions."
A similar statement made by Clarke & Co. in October, 1852, reveals the
following facts. It says: "An early copy was sent from America the
latter end of April to Mr. Bogue, the publisher, and was offered by
him to Mr. Gilpin, late of Bishopsgate Street. Being declined by Mr.
Gilpin, Mr. Bogue offered it to Mr. Henry Vizetelly, and by the latter
gentleman it was eventually purchased for us. Before printing it,
however, as there was one night allowed for decision, one volume was
taken home to be read by Mr. Vizetelly, and the other by Mr. Salisbury,
the printer, of Bouverie Street. The report of the latter gentleman the
following morning, to quote his own words, was: 'I sat up till four in
the morning reading the book, and the interest I felt was expressed one
moment by laughter, another by tears. Thinking it might be weakness and
not the power of the author that affected me, I resolved to try the
effect upon my wife (a rather strong-minded woman). I accordingly woke
her and read a few chapters to her. Finding that the interest in the
story kept her awake, and that she, too, laughed and cried, I settled
in my mind that it was a book that ought to, and might with safety, be
printed.'
"Mr. Vizetelly's opinion coincided with that of Mr. Salisbury, and to
the latter gentleman it was confided to be brought out immediately. The
week following the book was produced and one edition of 7,000 copies
worked off. It made no stir until the middle of June, although we
advertised it very extensively. From June it began to make its way, and
it sold at the rate of 1,000 per week during July. In August the demand
became very great, and went on increasing to the 20th, by which time
it was perfectly overwhelming. We have now about 400 people employed
in getting out the book, and seventeen printing machines besides hand
presses. Already about 150,000 copies of the book are in the hands of
the people, and still the returns of sales show no decline."
The story was dramatized in the United States in August, 1852,
without the consent or knowledge of the author, who had neglected
to reserve her rights for this purpose. In September of the same
year we find it announced as the attraction at two London theatres,
namely, the Royal Victoria and the Great National Standard. In 1853
Professor Stowe writes: "The drama of 'Uncle Tom' has been going on
in the National Theatre of New York all summer with most unparalleled
success. Everybody goes night after night, and nothing can stop it. The
enthusiasm beats that of the run in the Boston Museum out and out. The
'Tribune' is full of it. The 'Observer,' the 'Journal of Commerce,' and
all that sort of fellows, are astonished and nonplussed. They do not
know what to say or do about it."
While the English editions of the story were rapidly multiplying, and
being issued with illustrations by Cruikshank, introductions by Elihu
Burritt, Lord Carlisle, etc., it was also making its way over the
Continent. For the authorized French edition, translated by Madame
Belloc, and published by Charpentier of Paris, Mrs. Stowe wrote the
following:--
PREFACE TO THE EUROPEAN EDITION.
In authorizing the circulation of this work on the
Continent of Europe, the author has only this apology,
that the love of _man_ is higher than the love of
country.
The great mystery which all Christian nations hold in
common, the union of God with man through the humanity
of Jesus Christ, invests human existence with an awful
sacredness; and in the eye of the true believer in
Jesus, he who tramples on the rights of his meanest
fellow-man is not only inhuman but sacrilegious, and
the worst form of this sacrilege is the institution of
_slavery_.
It has been said that the representations of this book
are exaggerations! and oh, _would_ that this were true!
Would that this book were indeed a fiction, and not a
close mosaic of facts! But that it is not a fiction the
proofs lie bleeding in thousands of hearts; they have
been attested by surrounding voices from almost every
slave State, and from slave-owners themselves. Since so
it must be, thanks be to God that this mighty cry, this
wail of an unutterable anguish, has at last been heard!
It has been said, and not in utter despair but in
solemn hope and assurance may we regard the struggle
that now convulses America,--the outcry of the demon
of slavery, which has heard the voice of Jesus of
Nazareth, and is rending and convulsing the noble
nation from which at last it must depart.
It cannot be that so monstrous a solecism can long
exist in the bosom of a nation which in all respects is
the best exponent of the great principle of universal
brotherhood. In America the Frenchman, the German,
the Italian, the Swede, and the Irish all mingle on
terms of equal right; all nations there display their
characteristic excellences and are admitted by her
liberal laws to equal privileges: everything is tending
to liberalize, humanize, and elevate, and for that very
reason it is that the contest with slavery there grows
every year more terrible.
The stream of human progress, widening, deepening,
strengthening from the confluent forces of all nations,
meets this barrier, behind which is concentrated all
the ignorance, cruelty, and oppression of the dark
ages, and it roars and foams and shakes the barrier,
and anon it must bear it down.
In its commencement slavery overspread every State in
the Union: the progress of society has now emancipated
the North from its yoke. In Kentucky, Tennessee,
Virginia, and Maryland, at different times, strong
movements have been made for emancipation,--movements
enforced by a comparison of the progressive march
of the adjoining free States with the poverty and
sterility and ignorance produced by a system which in a
few years wastes and exhausts all the resources of the
soil without the power of renewal.
The time cannot be distant when these States will
emancipate for self-preservation; and if no new slave
territory be added, the increase of slave population in
the remainder will enforce measures of emancipation.
Here, then, is the point of the battle. Unless more
slave territory is gained, slavery dies; if it is
gained, it lives. Around this point political parties
fight and manoeuvre, and every year the battle wages
hotter.
The internal struggles of no other nation in the world
are so interesting to Europeans as those of America;
for America is fast filling up from Europe, and every
European has almost immediately his vote in her
councils.
If, therefore, the oppressed of other nations desire
to find in America an asylum of permanent freedom, let
them come prepared, heart and hand, and vote against
the institution of slavery; for they who enslave man
cannot themselves remain free.
True are the great words of Kossuth: "No nation can
remain free with whom freedom is a _privilege_ and not
a principle."
This preface was more or less widely copied in the twenty translations
of the book that quickly followed its first appearance. These, arranged
in the alphabetical order of their languages, are as follows: Armenian,
Bohemian, Danish, Dutch, Finnish, Flemish, French, German, Hungarian,
Illyrian, Italian, Polish, Portuguese, Romaic or modern Greek, Russian,
Servian, Spanish, Wallachian, and Welsh.
In Germany it received the following flattering notice from one of the
leading literary journals: "The abolitionists in the United States
should vote the author of 'Uncle Tom's Cabin' a civic crown, for a more
powerful ally than Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe and her romance they
could not have. We confess that in the whole modern romance literature
of Germany, England, and France, we know of no novel to be called equal
to this. In comparison with its glowing eloquence that never fails
of its purpose, its wonderful truth to nature, the largeness of its
ideas, and the artistic faultlessness of the machinery in this book,
George Sand, with her Spiridion and Claudie, appears to us untrue
and artificial; Dickens, with his but too faithful pictures from the
popular life of London, petty; Bulwer, hectic and self-conscious. It is
like a sign of warning from the New World to the Old."
Madame George Sand reviewed the book, and spoke of Mrs. Stowe herself
in words at once appreciative and discriminating: "Mrs. Stowe is all
instinct; it is the very reason she appears to some not to have talent.
Has she not talent? What is talent? Nothing, doubtless, compared to
genius; but has she genius? She has genius as humanity feels the need
of genius,--the genius of goodness, not that of the man of letters, but
that of the saint."
Charles Sumner wrote from the senate chamber at Washington to Professor
Stowe: "All that I hear and read bears testimony to the good Mrs. Stowe
has done. The article of George Sand is a most remarkable tribute,
such as was hardly ever offered by such a genius to any living mortal.
Should Mrs. Stowe conclude to visit Europe she will have a triumph."
From Eversley parsonage Charles Kingsley wrote to Mrs. Stowe:--
A thousand thanks for your delightful letter. As for
your progress and ovation here in England, I have no
fear for you. You will be flattered and worshiped.
You deserve it and you must bear it. I am sure that
you have seen and suffered too much and too long to
be injured by the foolish yet honest and heartfelt
lionizing which you must go through.
I have many a story to tell you when we meet about the
effects of the great book upon the most unexpected
people.
Yours ever faithfully,
C. KINGSLEY.
March 28, 1853, Professor Stowe sent the following communication to the
Committee of Examination of the Theological Seminary at Andover: "As I
shall not be present at the examinations this term, I think it proper
to make to you a statement of the reasons of my absence. During the
last winter I have not enjoyed my usual health. Mrs. Stowe also became
sick and very much exhausted. At this time we had the offer of a voyage
to Great Britain and back free of expense."
This offer, coming as it did from the friends of the cause of
emancipation in the United Kingdom, was gladly accepted by Mr. and Mrs.
Stowe, and they sailed immediately.
The preceding month Mrs. Stowe had received a letter from Mrs. Follen
in London, asking for information with regard to herself, her family,
and the circumstances of her writing "Uncle Tom's Cabin."
In reply Mrs. Stowe sent the following very characteristic letter,
which may be safely given at the risk of some repetition:--
ANDOVER, _February 16, 1853._
MY DEAR MADAM,--I hasten to reply to your letter, to me
the more interesting that I have long been acquainted
with you, and during all the nursery part of my life
made daily use of your poems for children.
I used to think sometimes in those days that I would
write to you, and tell you how much I was obliged to
you for the pleasure which they gave us all.
So you want to know something about what sort of a
woman I am! Well, if this is any object, you shall
have statistics free of charge. To begin, then, I am
a little bit of a woman,--somewhat more than forty,
about as thin and dry as a pinch of snuff; never very
much to look at in my best days, and looking like a
used-up article now.
I was married when I was twenty-five years old to a man
rich in Greek and Hebrew, Latin and Arabic, and, alas!
rich in nothing else. When I went to housekeeping,
my entire stock of china for parlor and kitchen was
bought for eleven dollars. That lasted very well for
two years, till my brother was married and brought
his bride to visit me. I then found, on review, that
I had neither plates nor teacups to set a table for
my father's family; wherefore I thought it best to
reinforce the establishment by getting me a tea-set
that cost ten dollars more, and this, I believe, formed
my whole stock in trade for some years.
But then I was abundantly enriched with wealth of
another sort.
I had two little, curly-headed twin daughters to
begin with, and my stock in this line has gradually
increased, till I have been the mother of seven
children, the most beautiful and the most loved of
whom lies buried near my Cincinnati residence. It was
at his dying bed and at his grave that I learned what
a poor slave mother may feel when her child is torn
away from her. In those depths of sorrow which seemed
to me immeasurable, it was my only prayer to God that
such anguish might not be suffered in vain. There
were circumstances about his death of such peculiar
bitterness, of what seemed almost cruel suffering, that
I felt that I could never be consoled for it, unless
this crushing of my own heart might enable me to work
out some great good to others....
I allude to this here because I have often felt that
much that is in that book ("Uncle Tom") had its root
in the awful scenes and bitter sorrows of that summer.
It has left now, I trust, no trace on my mind, except
a deep compassion for the sorrowful, especially for
mothers who are separated from their children.
During long years of struggling with poverty and
sickness, and a hot, debilitating climate, my children
grew up around me. The nursery and the kitchen were my
principal fields of labor. Some of my friends, pitying
my trials, copied and sent a number of little sketches
from my pen to certain liberally paying "Annuals" with
my name. With the first money that I earned in this
way I bought a feather-bed! for as I had married into
poverty and without a dowry, and as my husband had only
a large library of books and a great deal of learning,
the bed and pillows were thought the most profitable
investment. After this I thought that I had discovered
the philosopher's stone. So when a new carpet or
mattress was going to be needed, or when, at the close
of the year, it began to be evident that my family
accounts, like poor Dora's, "wouldn't add up," then I
used to say to my faithful friend and factotum Anna,
who shared all my joys and sorrows, "Now, if you will
keep the babies and attend to the things in the house
for one day, I'll write a piece, and then we shall
be out of the scrape." So I became an author,--very
modest at first, I do assure you, and remonstrating
very seriously with the friends who had thought it best
to put my name to the pieces by way of getting up a
reputation; and if you ever see a woodcut of me, with
an immoderately long nose, on the cover of all the U.
S. Almanacs, I wish you to take notice, that I have
been forced into it contrary to my natural modesty by
the imperative solicitations of my dear five thousand
friends and the public generally. One thing I must say
with regard to my life at the West, which you will
understand better than many English women could.
I lived two miles from the city of Cincinnati, in the
country, and domestic service, not always you know to
be found in the city, is next to an impossibility to
obtain in the country, even by those who are willing to
give the highest wages; so what was to be expected for
poor me, who had very little of this world's goods to
offer?
Had it not been for my inseparable friend Anna, a
noble-hearted English girl, who landed on our shores
in destitution and sorrow, and clave to me as Ruth to
Naomi, I had never lived through all the trials which
this uncertainty and want of domestic service imposed
on both: you may imagine, therefore, how glad I was
when, our seminary property being divided out into
small lots which were rented at a low price, a number
of poor families settled in our vicinity, from whom
we could occasionally obtain domestic service. About
a dozen families of liberated slaves were among the
number, and they became my favorite resort in cases
of emergency. If anybody wishes to have a black face
look handsome, let them be left, as I have been, in
feeble health in oppressive hot weather, with a sick
baby in arms, and two or three other little ones in
the nursery, and not a servant in the whole house to
do a single turn. Then, if they could see my good old
Aunt Frankie coming with her honest, bluff, black face,
her long, strong arms, her chest as big and stout as
a barrel, and her hilarious, hearty laugh, perfectly
delighted to take one's washing and do it at a fair
price, they would appreciate the beauty of black people.
My cook, poor Eliza Buck,--how she would stare to think
of her name going to England!--was a regular epitome
of slave life in herself; fat, gentle, easy, loving
and lovable, always calling my very modest house and
door-yard "The Place," as if it had been a plantation
with seven hundred hands on it. She had lived through
the whole sad story of a Virginia-raised slave's life.
In her youth she must have been a very handsome mulatto
girl. Her voice was sweet, and her manners refined and
agreeable. She was raised in a good family as a nurse
and seamstress. When the family became embarrassed, she
was suddenly sold on to a plantation in Louisiana. She
has often told me how, without any warning, she was
suddenly forced into a carriage, and saw her little
mistress screaming and stretching her arms from the
window towards her as she was driven away. She has told
me of scenes on the Louisiana plantation, and she has
often been out at night by stealth ministering to poor
slaves who had been mangled and lacerated by the lash.
Hence she was sold into Kentucky, and her last master
was the father of all her children. On this point she
ever maintained a delicacy and reserve that always
appeared to me remarkable. She always called him her
husband; and it was not till after she had lived with
me some years that I discovered the real nature of
the connection. I shall never forget how sorry I felt
for her, nor my feelings at her humble apology, "You
know, Mrs. Stowe, slave women cannot help themselves."
She had two very pretty quadroon daughters, with her
beautiful hair and eyes, interesting children, whom I
had instructed in the family school with my children.
Time would fail to tell you all that I learned
incidentally of the slave system in the history of
various slaves who came into my family, and of the
underground railroad which, I may say, ran through our
house. But the letter is already too long.
You ask with regard to the remuneration which I have
received for my work here in America. Having been poor
all my life and expecting to be poor the rest of it,
the idea of making money by a book which I wrote just
because I could not help it, never occurred to me. It
was therefore an agreeable surprise to receive ten
thousand dollars as the first-fruits of three months'
sale. I presume as much more is now due. Mr. Bosworth
in England, the firm of Clarke & Co., and Mr. Bentley,
have all offered me an interest in the sales of their
editions in London. I am very glad of it, both on
account of the value of what they offer, and the value
of the example they set in this matter, wherein I think
that justice has been too little regarded.
I have been invited to visit Scotland, and shall
probably spend the summer there and in England.
I have very much at heart a design to erect in some of
the Northern States a normal school, for the education
of colored teachers in the United States and in Canada.
I have very much wished that some permanent memorial
of good to the colored race might be created out of
the proceeds of a work which promises to have so
unprecedented a sale. My own share of the profits will
be less than that of the publishers', either English
or American; but I am willing to give largely for this
purpose, and I have no doubt that the publishers, both
American and English, will unite with me; for nothing
tends more immediately to the emancipation of the slave
than the education and elevation of the free.
I am now writing a work which will contain, perhaps,
an equal amount of matter with "Uncle Tom's Cabin."
It will contain all the facts and documents on which
that story was founded, and an immense body of facts,
reports of trials, legal documents, and testimony of
people now living South, which will more than confirm
every statement in "Uncle Tom's Cabin."
I must confess that till I began the examination of
facts in order to write this book, much as I thought
I knew before, I had not begun to measure the depth
of the abyss. The law records of courts and judicial
proceedings are so incredible as to fill me with
amazement whenever I think of them. It seems to me
that the book cannot but be felt, and, coming upon the
sensibility awaked by the other, do something.
I suffer exquisitely in writing these things. It may
be truly said that I write with my heart's blood. Many
times in writing "Uncle Tom's Cabin" I thought my
health would fail utterly; but I prayed earnestly that
God would help me till I got through, and still I am
pressed beyond measure and above strength.
This horror, this nightmare abomination! can it be in
my country! It lies like lead on my heart, it shadows
my life with sorrow; the more so that I feel, as for my
own brothers, for the South, and am pained by every
horror I am obliged to write, as one who is forced
by some awful oath to disclose in court some family
disgrace. Many times I have thought that I must die,
and yet I pray God that I may live to see something
done. I shall in all probability be in London in May:
shall I see you?
It seems to me so odd and dream-like that so many
persons desire to see me, and now I cannot help
thinking that they will think, when they do, that God
hath chosen "the weak things of this world."
If I live till spring I shall hope to see Shakespeare's
grave, and Milton's mulberry-tree, and the good land of
my fathers,--old, old England! May that day come!
Yours affectionately,
H. B. STOWE.
FOOTNOTE:
[13] Students in the Seminary.
CHAPTER IX.
SUNNY MEMORIES, 1853.
CROSSING THE ATLANTIC.--ARRIVAL IN ENGLAND.--RECEPTION
IN LIVERPOOL.--WELCOME TO SCOTLAND.--A GLASGOW
TEA-PARTY.--EDINBURGH HOSPITALITY.--ABERDEEN.--DUNDEE
AND BIRMINGHAM.--JOSEPH STURGE.--ELIHU
BURRITT.--LONDON.--THE LORD MAYOR'S DINNER.--CHARLES
DICKENS AND HIS WIFE.
THE journey undertaken by Mrs. Stowe with her husband and brother
through England and Scotland, and afterwards with her brother alone
over much of the Continent, was one of unusual interest. No one was
more surprised than Mrs. Stowe herself by the demonstrations of respect
and affection that everywhere greeted her.
Fortunately an unbroken record of this memorable journey, in Mrs.
Stowe's own words, has been preserved, and we are thus able to
receive her own impressions of what she saw, heard, and did, under
circumstances that were at once pleasant, novel, and embarrassing.
Beginning with her voyage, she writes as follows:--
LIVERPOOL, _April 11, 1853._
MY DEAR CHILDREN,--You wish, first of all, to hear of
the voyage. Let me assure you, my dears, in the very
commencement of the matter, that going to sea is not at
all the thing that we have taken it to be.
Let me warn you, if you ever go to sea, to omit all
preparations for amusement on shipboard. Don't leave
so much as the unlocking of a trunk to be done after
sailing. In the few precious minutes when the ship
stands still, before she weighs her anchor, set your
house, that is to say your stateroom, as much in order
as if you were going to be hanged; place everything
in the most convenient position to be seized without
trouble at a moment's notice; for be sure that in half
an hour after sailing, an infinite desperation will
seize you, in which the grasshopper will be a burden.
If anything is in your trunk, it might almost as well
be in the sea, for any practical probability of your
getting to it.
Our voyage out was called "a good run." It was voted
unanimously to be "an extraordinary good passage," "a
pleasant voyage;" yet the ship rocked the whole time
from side to side with a steady, dizzy, continuous
motion, like a great cradle. I had a new sympathy for
babies, poor little things, who are rocked hours at a
time without so much as a "by your leave" in the case.
No wonder there are so many stupid people in the world!
We arrived on Sunday morning: the custom-house
officers, very gentlemanly men, came on board; our
luggage was all set out, and passed through a rapid
examination, which in many cases amounted only to
opening the trunk and shutting it, and all was over.
The whole ceremony did not occupy two hours.
We were inquiring of some friends for the most
convenient hotel, when we found the son of Mr. Cropper,
of Dingle Bank, waiting in the cabin to take us with
him to their hospitable abode. In a few moments after
the baggage had been examined, we all bade adieu to the
old ship, and went on board the little steam tender
which carries passengers up to the city.
This Mersey River would be a very beautiful one, if
it were not so dingy and muddy. As we are sailing
up in the tender towards Liverpool, I deplore the
circumstance feelingly.
"What does make this river so muddy?"
"Oh," says a by-stander, "don't you know that
"'The quality of mercy is not strained'?"
I had an early opportunity of making acquaintance with
my English brethren; for, much to my astonishment, I
found quite a crowd on the wharf, and we walked up to
our carriage through a long lane of people, bowing, and
looking very glad to see us.
When I came to get into the hack it was surrounded by
more faces than I could count. They stood very quietly,
and looked very kindly, though evidently very much
determined to look. Something prevented the hack from
moving on; so the interview was prolonged for some time.
Our carriage at last drove on, taking us through
Liverpool and a mile or two out, and at length wound
its way along the gravel paths of a beautiful little
retreat, on the banks of the Mersey, called the
"Dingle." It opened to my eyes like a paradise, all
wearied as I was with the tossing of the sea. I have
since become familiar with these beautiful little
spots, which are so common in England; but now all was
entirely new to me.
After a short season allotted to changing our ship
garments and for rest, we found ourselves seated at
the dinner table. While dining, the sister-in-law of
our friends came in from the next door, to exchange a
word or two of welcome, and invite us to breakfast with
them the following morning.
The next morning we slept late and hurried to dress,
remembering our engagement to breakfast with the
brother of our host, whose cottage stands on the same
ground, within a few steps of our own. I had not the
slightest idea of what the English mean by a breakfast,
and therefore went in all innocence, supposing I should
see nobody but the family circle of my acquaintances.
Quite to my astonishment, I found a party of between
thirty and forty people; ladies sitting with their
bonnets on, as in a morning call. It was impossible,
however, to feel more than a momentary embarrassment
in the friendly warmth and cordiality of the circle by
whom we were surrounded.
In the evening I went into Liverpool to attend a party
of friends of the anti-slavery cause. When I was going
away, the lady of the house said that the servants were
anxious to see me; so I came into the dressing-room to
give them an opportunity.
The next day was appointed to leave Liverpool. A
great number of friends accompanied us to the cars,
and a beautiful bouquet of flowers was sent with a
very affecting message from a sick gentleman, who,
from the retirement of his chamber, felt a desire to
testify his sympathy. We left Liverpool with hearts a
little tremulous and excited by the vibration of an
atmosphere of universal sympathy and kindness, and
found ourselves, at length, shut from the warm adieu of
our friends, in a snug compartment of the railroad car.
"Dear me!" said Mr. S.; "six Yankees shut up in a car
together! Not one Englishman to tell us anything about
the country! Just like the six old ladies that made
their living by taking tea at each other's houses!"
What a bright lookout we kept for ruins and old houses!
Mr. S., whose eyes are always in every place, allowed
none of us to slumber, but looking out, first on his
own side and then on ours, called our attention to
every visible thing. If he had been appointed on a
mission of inquiry, he could not have been more zealous
and faithful, and I began to think that our desire for
an English cicerone was quite superfluous.
Well, we are in Scotland at last, and now our pulse
rises as the sun declines in the west. We catch
glimpses of Solway Firth and talk about Redgauntlet.
The sun went down and night drew on; still we were in
Scotland. Scotch ballads, Scotch tunes, and Scotch
literature were in the ascendant. We sang "Auld Lang
Syne," "Scots wha hae," and "Bonnie Doon," and then,
changing the key, sang "Dundee," "Elgin," and "Martyr."
"Take care," said Mr. S.; "don't get too much excited."
"Ah," said I, "this is a thing that comes only once in
a lifetime; do let us have the comfort of it. We shall
never come into Scotland for the _first time_ again."
While we were thus at the fusion point of enthusiasm,
the cars stopped at Lockerbie. All was dim and dark
outside, but we soon became conscious that there was
quite a number of people collected, peering into the
window; and with a strange kind of thrill, I heard my
name inquired for in the Scottish accent. I went to the
window; there were men, women, and children gathered,
and hand after hand was presented, with the words,
"Ye're welcome to Scotland!"
Then they inquired for and shook hands with all the
party, having in some mysterious manner got the
knowledge of who they were, even down to little G.,
whom they took to be my son. Was it not pleasant, when
I had a heart so warm for this old country? I shall
never forget the thrill of those words, "Ye're welcome
to Scotland," nor the "Gude night."
After that we found similar welcomes in many succeeding
stopping-places; and though I did wave a towel out
of the window, instead of a pocket handkerchief, and
commit other awkwardnesses, from not knowing how to
play my part, yet I fancied, after all, that Scotland
and we were coming on well together. Who the good souls
were that were thus watching for us through the night,
I am sure I do not know; but that they were of the "one
blood" which unites all the families of the earth, I
felt.
At Glasgow, friends were waiting in the station-house.
Earnest, eager, friendly faces, ever so many. Warm
greetings, kindly words. A crowd parting in the middle,
through which we were conducted into a carriage, and
loud cheers of welcome, sent a throb, as the voice of
living Scotland.
I looked out of the carriage, as we drove on, and saw,
by the light of a lantern, Argyll Street. It was past
twelve o'clock when I found myself in a warm, cosy
parlor, with friends whom I have ever since been glad
to remember. In a little time we were all safely
housed in our hospitable apartments, and sleep fell on
me for the first time in Scotland.
The next morning I awoke worn and weary, and scarce
could the charms of the social Scotch breakfast restore
me.
Our friend and host was Mr. Bailie Paton. I believe
that it is to his suggestion in a public meeting that
we owe the invitation which brought us to Scotland.
After breakfast the visiting began. First, a friend of
the family, with three beautiful children, the youngest
of whom was the bearer of a handsomely bound album,
containing a pressed collection of the sea-mosses of
the Scottish coast, very vivid and beautiful.
All this day is a confused dream to me of a dizzy
and overwhelming kind. So many letters that it took
brother Charles from nine in the morning till two in
the afternoon to read and answer them in the shortest
manner; letters from all classes of people, high
and low, rich and poor, in all shades and styles of
composition, poetry and prose; some mere outbursts of
feeling; some invitations; some advice and suggestions;
some requests and inquiries; some presenting books, or
flowers, or fruit.
Then came, in their turn, deputations from Paisley,
Greenock, Dundee, Aberdeen, Edinburgh, and Belfast
in Ireland; calls of friendship, invitations of all
descriptions to go everywhere, and to see everything,
and to stay in so many places. One kind, venerable
minister, with his lovely daughter, offered me a
retreat in his quiet manse on the beautiful shores of
the Clyde.
For all these kindnesses, what could I give in return?
There was scarce time for even a grateful thought
on each. People have often said to me that it must
have been an exceeding bore. For my part, I could not
think of regarding it so. It only oppressed me with an
unutterable sadness.
In the afternoon I rode out with the lord provost to
see the cathedral. The lord provost answers to the
lord mayor in England. His title and office in both
countries continue only a year, except in case of
re-election.
As I saw the way to the cathedral blocked up by a
throng of people who had come out to see me, I could
not help saying, "What went ye out for to see? a reed
shaken with the wind?" In fact I was so worn out that
I could hardly walk through the building. The next
morning I was so ill as to need a physician, unable to
see any one that called, or to hear any of the letters.
I passed most of the day in bed, but in the evening
I had to get up, as I had engaged to drink tea with
two thousand people. Our kind friends, Dr. and Mrs.
Wardlaw, came after us, and Mr. S. and I went in the
carriage with them. Our carriage stopped at last at the
place. I have a dim remembrance of a way being made for
us through a great crowd all round the house, and of
going with Mrs. Wardlaw up into a dressing-room where
I met and shook hands with many friendly people. Then
we passed into a gallery, where a seat was reserved
for our party, directly in front of the audience. Our
friend Bailie Paton presided. Mrs. Wardlaw and I sat
together, and around us many friends, chiefly ministers
of the different churches, the ladies and gentlemen of
the Glasgow Anti-Slavery Society and others. I told
you it was a tea-party; but the arrangements were
altogether different from any I had ever seen. There
were narrow tables stretched up and down the whole
extent of the great hall, and every person had an
appointed seat. These tables were set out with cups
and saucers, cakes, biscuit, etc., and when the proper
time came, attendants passed along serving tea. The
arrangements were so accurate and methodical that the
whole multitude actually took tea together, without the
least apparent inconvenience or disturbance.
There was a gentle, subdued murmur of conversation
all over the house, the sociable clinking of teacups
and teaspoons, while the entertainment was going on.
It seemed to me such an odd idea, I could not help
wondering what sort of a teapot that must be in which
all this tea for two thousand people was made. Truly,
as Hadji Baba says, I think they must have had the
"father of all the tea-kettles" to boil it in. I could
not help wondering if old mother Scotland had put two
thousand teaspoonfuls of tea for the company, and one
for the teapot, as is our good Yankee custom.
We had quite a sociable time up in our gallery. Our
tea-table stretched quite across, and we drank tea
in sight of all the people. By _we_, I mean a great
number of ministers and their wives, and ladies of
the Anti-Slavery Society, besides our party, and the
friends whom I have mentioned before. All seemed to be
enjoying themselves.
After tea they sang a few verses of the seventy-second
psalm in the old Scotch version.
_April 17._ To-day a large party of us started on a
small steamer to go down the Clyde. It was a trip
full of pleasure and incident. Now we were shown
the remains of old Cardross Castle, where it was
said Robert Bruce breathed his last. And now we came
near the beautiful grounds of Roseneath, a green,
velvet-like peninsula, stretching out into the widening
waters.
Somewhere about here I was presented, by his own
request, to a broad-shouldered Scotch farmer, who stood
some six feet two, and who paid me the compliment to
say that he had read my book, and that he would walk
six miles to see me any day. Such a flattering evidence
of discriminating taste, of course, disposed my heart
towards him; but when I went up and put my hand into
his great prairie of a palm, I was as a grasshopper
in my own eyes. I inquired who he was and was told he
was one of the Duke of Argyll's farmers. I thought to
myself if all the duke's farmers were of this pattern,
that he might be able to speak to the enemy in the
gates to some purpose.
It was concluded after we left Roseneath that, instead
of returning by the boat, we should take carriage and
ride home along the banks of the river. In our carriage
were Mr. S. and myself, Dr. Robson, and Lady Anderson.
About this time I commenced my first essay towards
giving titles, and made, as you may suppose, rather an
odd piece of work of it, generally saying "Mrs." first,
and "Lady" afterwards, and then begging pardon. Lady
Anderson laughed and said she would give me a general
absolution. She is a truly genial, hearty Scotchwoman,
and seemed to enter happily into the spirit of the hour.
As we rode on, we found that the news of our coming had
spread through the village. People came and stood in
their doors, beckoning, bowing, smiling, and waving
their handkerchiefs, and the carriage was several
times stopped by persons who came to offer flowers.
I remember, in particular, a group of young girls
bringing to the carriage two of the most beautiful
children I ever saw, whose little hands literally
deluged us with flowers.
At the village of Helensburgh we stopped a little
while to call upon Mrs. Bell, the wife of Mr. Bell,
the inventor of the steamboat. His invention in this
country was at about the same time as that of Fulton
in America. Mrs. Bell came to the carriage to speak to
us. She is a venerable woman, far advanced in years.
They had prepared a lunch for us, and quite a number of
people had come together to meet us, but our friends
said there was not time for us to stop.
We rode through several villages after this, and met
everywhere a warm welcome. What pleased me was, that
it was not mainly from the literary, nor the rich, nor
the great, but the plain, common people. The butcher
came out of his stall and the baker from his shop, the
miller dusty with flour, the blooming, comely young
mother, with her baby in her arms, all smiling and
bowing, with that hearty, intelligent, friendly look,
as if they knew we should be glad to see them.
Once, while we stopped to change horses, I, for the
sake of seeing something more of the country, walked
on. It seems the honest landlord and his wife were
greatly disappointed at this; however, they got into
the carriage and rode on to see me, and I shook hands
with them with a right good will.
We saw several of the clergymen, who came out to meet
us; and I remember stopping just to be introduced,
one by one, to a most delightful family, a gray-headed
father and mother, with comely brothers and fair
sisters, all looking so kindly and homelike, that I
should have been glad to accept the invitation they
gave me to their dwelling.
This day has been a strange phenomenon to me. In the
first place, I have seen in all these villages how
universally the people read. I have seen how capable
they are of a generous excitement and enthusiasm, and
how much may be done by a work of fiction so written
as to enlist those sympathies which are common to all
classes. Certainly a great deal may be effected in this
way, if God gives to any one the power, as I hope he
will to many. The power of fictitious writing, for good
as well as evil, is a thing which ought most seriously
to be reflected on. No one can fail to see that in our
day it is becoming a very great agency.
We came home quite tired, as you may well suppose. You
will not be surprised that the next day I found myself
more disposed to keep my bed than go out.
Two days later: We bade farewell to Glasgow,
overwhelmed with kindness to the last, and only
oppressed by the thought of how little that was
satisfactory we were able to give in return. Again
we were in the railroad car on our way to Edinburgh.
A pleasant two hours' trip is this from Glasgow to
Edinburgh. When the cars stopped at Linlithgow station,
the name started us as out of a dream.
In Edinburgh the cars stopped amid a crowd of people
who had assembled to meet us. The lord provost met
us at the door of the car, and presented us to the
magistracy of the city and the committees of the
Edinburgh Anti-Slavery Societies. The drab dresses and
pure white bonnets of many Friends were conspicuous
among the dense moving crowd, as white doves seen
against a dark cloud. Mr. S. and myself, and our future
hostess, Mrs. Wigham, entered the carriage with the
lord provost, and away we drove, the crowd following
with their shouts and cheers. I was inexpressibly
touched and affected by this. While we were passing the
monument of Scott, I felt an oppressive melancholy.
What a moment life seems in the presence of the noble
dead! What a momentary thing is art, in all its beauty!
Where are all those great souls that have created such
an atmosphere of light about Edinburgh? and how little
a space was given them to live and enjoy!
We drove all over Edinburgh, up to the castle, to the
university, to Holyrood, to the hospitals, and through
many of the principal streets, amid shouts, and smiles,
and greetings. Some boys amused me very much by their
pertinacious attempts to keep up with the carriage.
"Heck," says one of them, "that's her; see the
_courls_!"
The various engravers who have amused themselves
by diversifying my face for the public having all,
with great unanimity, agreed in giving prominence to
this point, I suppose the urchins thought they were
on safe ground there. I certainly think I answered
one good purpose that day, and that is of giving the
much-oppressed and calumniated class called boys an
opportunity to develop all the noise that was in
them,--a thing for which I think they must bless me in
their remembrances.
At last the carriage drove into a deep-graveled yard,
and we alighted at a porch covered with green ivy, and
found ourselves once more at home.
You may spare your anxieties about me, for I do assure
you that if I were an old Sèvres china jar I could not
have more careful handling than I do. Everybody is
considerate; a great deal to say when there appears to
be so much excitement. Everybody seems to understand
how good-for-nothing I am; and yet, with all this
consideration, I have been obliged to keep my room and
bed for a good part of the time. Of the multitudes who
have called, I have seen scarcely any.
To-morrow evening is to be the great tea-party here.
How in the world I am ever to live through it I don't
know.
The amount of letters we found waiting for us here in
Edinburgh was, if possible, more appalling than in
Glasgow. Among those from persons whom you would be
interested in hearing of, I may mention a very kind
and beautiful one from the Duchess of Sutherland, and
one also from the Earl of Carlisle, both desiring to
make appointments for meeting us as soon as we come to
London. Also a very kind and interesting note from the
Rev. Mr. Kingsley and lady. I look forward with a great
deal of interest to passing a little time with them in
their rectory.
As to all engagements, I am in a state of happy
acquiescence, having resigned myself, as a very tame
lion, into the hands of my keepers. Whenever the time
comes for me to do anything, I try to behave as well as
I can, which, as Dr. Young says, is all that an angel
could do under the same circumstances.
_April 26._ Last night came off the _soirée_. The hall
was handsomely decorated with flags in front. We went
with the lord provost in his carriage. We went up as
before into a dressing-room, where I was presented
to many gentlemen and ladies. When we go in, the
cheering, clapping, and stamping at first strikes one
with a strange sensation; but then everybody looks so
heartily pleased and delighted, and there is such an
all-pervading atmosphere of geniality and sympathy, as
makes me in a few moments feel quite at home. After
all, I consider that these cheers and applauses are
Scotland's voice to America, a recognition of the
brotherhood of the countries.
The national penny offering, consisting of a thousand
golden sovereigns on a magnificent silver salver, stood
conspicuously in view of the audience. It has been an
unsolicited offering, given in the smallest sums, often
from the extreme poverty of the giver. The committee
who collected it in Edinburgh and Glasgow bore witness
to the willingness with which the very poorest
contributed the offering of their sympathy. In one
cottage they found a blind woman, and said, "Here, at
least, is one who will feel no interest, as she cannot
have read the book."
"Indeed," said the old lady, "if I cannot read, my son
has read it to me, and I've got my penny saved to give."
It is to my mind extremely touching to see how the
poor, in their poverty, can be moved to a generosity
surpassing that of the rich. Nor do I mourn that they
took it from their slender store, because I know that a
penny given from a kindly impulse is a greater comfort
and blessing to the poorest giver than even a penny
received.
As in the case of the other meeting, we came out long
before the speeches were ended. Well, of course I did
not sleep all night, and the next day I felt quite
miserable.
From Edinburgh we took cars for Aberdeen. I enjoyed
this ride more than anything we had seen yet, the
country was so wild and singular. In the afternoon we
came in sight of the German Ocean. The free, bracing
air from the sea, and the thought that it actually
_was_ the German Ocean, and that over the other side
was Norway, within a day's sail of us, gave it a
strange, romantic charm. It was towards the close of
the afternoon that we found ourselves crossing the
Dee, in view of Aberdeen. My spirits were wonderfully
elated: the grand scenery and fine, bracing air; the
noble, distant view of the city, rising with its
harbor and shipping,--all filled me with delight.
In this propitious state, disposed to be pleased
with everything, our hearts responded warmly to the
greetings of the many friends who were waiting for us
at the station-house.
The lord provost received us into his carriage, and
as we drove along pointed out to us the various
objects of interest in the beautiful town. Among other
things, a fine old bridge across the Dee attracted our
particular attention. We were conducted to the house
of Mr. Cruikshank, a Friend, and found waiting for us
there the thoughtful hospitality which we had ever
experienced in all our stopping-places. A snug little
quiet supper was laid out upon the table, of which we
partook in haste, as we were informed that the assembly
at the hall were waiting to receive us.
There arrived, we found the hall crowded, and with
difficulty made our way to the platform. Whether owing
to the stimulating effect of the air from the ocean,
or to the comparatively social aspect of the scene,
or perhaps to both, certain it is that we enjoyed the
meeting with great zest. I was surrounded on the stage
with blooming young ladies, one of whom put into my
hands a beautiful bouquet, some flowers of which I have
now, dried, in my album. The refreshment tables were
adorned with some exquisite wax flowers, the work, as
I was afterwards told, of a young lady in the place.
One of these designs especially interested me. It was a
group of water-lilies resting on a mirror, which gave
them the appearance of growing in the water.
We had some very animated speaking, in which the
speakers contrived to blend enthusiastic admiration and
love for America with detestation of slavery.
They presented an offering in a beautiful embroidered
purse, and after much shaking of hands we went home,
and sat down to the supper-table for a little more chat
before going to bed. The next morning--as we had only
till noon to stay in Aberdeen--our friends, the lord
provost and Mr. Leslie, the architect, came immediately
after breakfast to show us the place.
About two o'clock we started from Aberdeen, among
crowds of friends, to whom we bade farewell with real
regret.
At Stonehaven station, where we stopped a few minutes,
there was quite a gathering of the inhabitants to
exchange greetings, and afterwards, at successive
stations along the road, many a kindly face and voice
made our journey a pleasant one.
When we got into Dundee it seemed all alive with
welcome. We went in the carriage with the lord provost,
Mr. Thoms, to his residence, where a party had been
waiting dinner for us for some time.
The meeting in the evening was in a large church,
densely crowded, and conducted much as the others had
been. When they came to sing the closing hymn, I hoped
they would sing Dundee; but they did not, and I fear
in Scotland, as elsewhere, the characteristic national
melodies are giving way before more modern ones.
We left Dundee at two o'clock, by cars, for Edinburgh
again, and in the evening attended another _soirée_ of
the workingmen of Edinburgh. We have received letters
from the workingmen, both in Dundee and Glasgow,
desiring our return to attend _soirées_ in those
cities. Nothing could give us greater pleasure, had we
time or strength. The next day we had a few calls to
make, and an invitation from Lady Drummond to visit
classic Hawthornden, which, however, we had not time
to accept. In the forenoon, Mr. S. and I called on
Lord and Lady Gainsborough. Though she is one of the
queen's household, she is staying here at Edinburgh
while the queen is at Osborne. I infer, therefore, that
the appointment includes no very onerous duties. The
Earl of Gainsborough is the eldest brother of the Rev.
Baptist W. Noel.
It was a rainy, misty morning when I left my kind
retreat and friends in Edinburgh. Considerate as
everybody had been about imposing on my time or
strength, still you may well believe that I was much
exhausted. We left Edinburgh, therefore, with the
determination to plunge at once into some hidden and
unknown spot, where we might spend two or three days
quietly by ourselves; and remembering your Sunday at
Stratford-on-Avon, I proposed that we should go there.
As Stratford, however, is off the railroad line, we
determined to accept the invitation, which was lying by
us, from our friend, Joseph Sturge, of Birmingham, and
take sanctuary with him. So we wrote on, intrusting him
with the secret, and charging him on no account to let
any one know of our arrival.
About night our cars whizzed into the depot at
Birmingham; but just before we came in a difficulty
was started in the company. "Mr. Sturge is to be there
waiting for us, but he does not know us and we don't
know him; what is to be done?" C. insisted that he
should know him by instinct; and so, after we reached
the depot, we told him to sally out and try. Sure
enough, in a few moments he pitched upon a cheerful,
middle-aged gentleman, with a moderate but not decisive
broad brim to his hat, and challenged him as Mr.
Sturge. The result verified the truth that "instinct is
a great matter." In a few moments our new friend and
ourselves were snugly encased in a fly, trotting off
as briskly as ever we could to his place at Edgbaston,
nobody a whit the wiser. You do not know how pleased we
felt to think we had done it so nicely.
As we were drinking tea that evening, Elihu Burritt
came in. It was the first time I had ever seen him,
though I had heard a great deal of him from our
friends in Edinburgh. He is a man in middle life,
tall and slender, with fair complexion, blue eyes,
an air of delicacy and refinement, and manners of
great gentleness. My ideas of the "learned blacksmith"
had been of something altogether more ponderous and
peremptory. Elihu has been for some years operating,
in England and on the Continent, in a movement which
many in our half-Christianized times regard with as
much incredulity as the grim, old warlike barons did
the suspicious imbecilities of reading and writing. The
sword now, as then, seems so much more direct a way to
terminate controversies, that many Christian men, even,
cannot conceive how the world is to get along without
it.
We spent the evening in talking over various topics
relating to the anti-slavery movement. Mr. Sturge was
very confident that something more was to be done
than had ever been done yet, by combinations for the
encouragement of free in the place of slave grown
produce; a question which has, ever since the days
of Clarkson, more or less deeply occupied the minds
of abolitionists in England. I should say that Mr.
Sturge in his family has for many years conscientiously
forborne the use of any article produced by slave
labor. I could scarcely believe it possible that there
could be such an abundance and variety of all that is
comfortable and desirable in the various departments
of household living within these limits. Mr. Sturge
presents the subject with very great force, the more so
from the consistency of his example.
The next morning, as we were sitting down to
breakfast, our friends sent in to me a plate of the
largest, finest strawberries I have ever seen, which,
considering that it was only the latter part of April,
seemed to me quite an astonishing luxury.
Before we left, we had agreed to meet a circle of
friends from Birmingham, consisting of the Abolition
Society there, which is of long standing, extending
back in its memories to the very commencement of the
agitation under Clarkson and Wilberforce. The windows
of the parlor were opened to the ground; and the
company invited filled not only the room, but stood
in a crowd on the grass around the window. Among the
peaceable company present was an admiral in the navy, a
fine, cheerful old gentleman, who entered with hearty
interest into the scene.
A throng of friends accompanied us to the depot, while
from Birmingham we had the pleasure of the company of
Elihu Burritt, and enjoyed a delightful run to London,
where we arrived towards evening.
At the station-house in London we found the Rev.
Messrs. Binney and Sherman waiting for us with
carriages. C. went with Mr. Sherman, and Mr. S. and I
soon found ourselves in a charming retreat called Rose
Cottage, in Walworth, about which I will tell you more
anon. Mrs. B. received us with every attention which
the most thoughtful hospitality could suggest. One of
the first things she said to me after we got into our
room was, "Oh, we are so glad you have come! for we
are all going to the lord mayor's dinner to-night, and
you are invited." So, though I was tired, I hurried
to dress in all the glee of meeting an adventure. As
soon as Mr. and Mrs. B. and the rest of the party were
ready, crack went the whip, round went the wheels, and
away we drove.
We found a considerable throng, and I was glad to
accept a seat which was offered me in the agreeable
vicinity of the lady mayoress, so that I might see what
would be interesting to me of the ceremonial.
A very dignified gentleman, dressed in black velvet,
with a fine head, made his way through the throng, and
sat down by me, introducing himself as Lord Chief Baron
Pollock. He told me he had just been reading the legal
part of the "Key to Uncle Tom's Cabin," and remarked
especially on the opinion of Judge Ruffin, in the case
of _State_ v. _Mann_, as having made a deep impression
on his mind.
Dinner was announced between nine and ten o'clock,
and we were conducted into a splendid hall, where the
tables were laid.
Directly opposite me was Mr. Dickens, whom I now beheld
for the first time, and was surprised to see looking
so young. Mr. Justice Talfourd, known as the author
of "Ion," was also there with his lady. She had a
beautiful, antique cast of head. The lord mayor was
simply dressed in black, without any other adornment
than a massive gold chain. We rose from table between
eleven and twelve o'clock--that is, we ladies--and went
into the drawing-room, where I was presented to Mrs.
Dickens and several other ladies. Mrs. Dickens is a
good specimen of a truly English woman; tall, large,
and well developed, with fine, healthy color, and an
air of frankness, cheerfulness, and reliability. A
friend whispered to me that she was as observing and
fond of humor as her husband.
After a while the gentlemen came back to the
drawing-room, and I had a few moments of very pleasant,
friendly conversation with Mr. Dickens. They are both
people that one could not know a little of without
desiring to know more.
After a little we began to talk of separating; the lord
mayor to take his seat in the House of Commons, and the
rest of the party to any other engagement that might be
upon their list.
"Come, let us go to the House of Commons," said one
of my friends, "and make a night of it." "With all my
heart," replied I, "if I only had another body to go
into to-morrow."
What a convenience in sight-seeing it would be if
one could have a relay of bodies as of clothes, and
slip from one into the other! But we, not used to the
London style of turning night into day, are full weary
already. So good-night to you all.
CHAPTER X.
FROM OVER THE SEA, 1853.
THE EARL OF CARLISLE.--ARTHUR HELPS.--THE DUKE AND
DUCHESS OF ARGYLL.--MARTIN FARQUHAR TUPPER.--A
MEMORABLE MEETING AT STAFFORD HOUSE.--MACAULAY AND DEAN
MILMAN.--WINDSOR CASTLE.--PROFESSOR STOWE RETURNS TO
AMERICA.--MRS. STOWE ON THE CONTINENT.--IMPRESSIONS OF
PARIS.--EN ROUTE TO SWITZERLAND AND GERMANY.--BACK TO
ENGLAND.--HOMEWARD BOUND.
ROSE COTTAGE, WALWORTH, LONDON, _May 2, 1856._
MY DEAR,--This morning Mrs. Follen called and we had
quite a chat. We are separated by the whole city.
She lives at the West End, while I am down here in
Walworth, which is one of the postscripts of London,
for this place has as many postscripts as a lady's
letter. This evening we dined with the Earl of
Carlisle. There was no company but ourselves, for he,
with great consideration, said in his note that he
thought a little quiet would be the best thing he could
offer.
Lord Carlisle is a great friend to America, and so is
his sister, the Duchess of Sutherland. He is the only
English traveler who ever wrote notes on our country in
a real spirit of appreciation.
We went about seven o'clock, the dinner hour being here
somewhere between eight and nine. We were shown into an
ante-room adjoining the entrance hall, and from that
into an adjacent apartment, where we met Lord Carlisle.
The room had a pleasant, social air, warmed and
enlivened by the blaze of a coal fire and wax candles.
We had never, any of us, met Lord Carlisle before; but
the considerateness and cordiality of our reception
obviated whatever embarrassment there might have
been in this circumstance. In a few moments after we
were all seated, a servant announced the Duchess of
Sutherland, and Lord Carlisle presented me. She is
tall and stately, with a most noble bearing. Her fair
complexion, blonde hair, and full lips speak of Saxon
blood.
The only person present not of the family connection
was my quondam correspondent in America, Arthur Helps.
Somehow or other I had formed the impression from his
writings that he was a venerable sage of very advanced
years, who contemplated life as an aged hermit from the
door of his cell. Conceive my surprise to find a genial
young gentleman of about twenty-five, who looked as if
he might enjoy a joke as well as another man.
After the ladies left the table, the conversation
turned on the Maine law, which seems to be considered
over here as a phenomenon in legislation, and many of
the gentlemen present inquired about it with great
curiosity.
After the gentlemen rejoined us, the Duke and Duchess
of Argyll came in, and Lord and Lady Blantyre. These
ladies are the daughters of the Duchess of Sutherland.
The Duchess of Argyll is of slight and fairy-like
figure, with flaxen hair and blue eyes, answering
well enough to the description of Annot Lyle in the
Legend of Montrose. Lady Blantyre was somewhat taller,
of fuller figure, with a very brilliant bloom. Lord
Blantyre is of the Stuart blood, a tall and slender
young man with very graceful manners.
As to the Duke of Argyll, we found that the picture
drawn of him by his countrymen in Scotland was in
every way correct. Though slight of figure, with
fair complexion and blue eyes, his whole appearance
is indicative of energy and vivacity. His talents
and efficiency have made him a member of the British
Cabinet at a much earlier age than is usual; and
he has distinguished himself not only in political
life, but as a writer, having given to the world a
work on Presbyterianism, embracing an analysis of
the ecclesiastical history of Scotland since the
Reformation, which is spoken of as written with great
ability, and in a most liberal spirit. He made many
inquiries about our distinguished men, particularly of
Emerson, Longfellow, and Hawthorne; also of Prescott,
who appears to be a general favorite here. I felt at
the moment that we never value our own literary men so
much as when we are placed in a circle of intelligent
foreigners.
The following evening we went to dine with our old
friends of the Dingle, Mr. and Mrs. Edward Cropper,
who are now spending a little time in London. We were
delighted to meet them once more and to hear from our
Liverpool friends. Mrs. Cropper's father, Lord Denman,
has returned to England, though with no sensible
improvement in his health.
At dinner we were introduced to Lord and Lady
Hatherton. Lady Hatherton is a person of great
cultivation and intelligence, warmly interested in all
the progressive movements of the day; and I gained much
information in her society. There were also present
Sir Charles and Lady Trevelyan; the former holds an
appointment at the treasury, and Lady Trevelyan is a
sister of Macaulay.
In the evening quite a circle came in, among others
Lady Emma Campbell, sister of the Duke of Argyll; the
daughters of the Archbishop of Canterbury, who very
kindly invited me to visit them at Lambeth; and Mr.
Arthur Helps, besides many others whose names I need
not mention.
_May 7._ This evening our house was opened in a
general way for callers, who were coming and going all
the evening. I think there must have been over two
hundred people, among them Martin Farquhar Tupper, a
little man with fresh, rosy complexion and cheery,
joyous manners; and Mary Howitt, just such a cheerful,
sensible, fireside companion as we find her in her
books,--winning love and trust the very first moment of
the interview.
The general topic of remark on meeting me seems to be,
that I am not so bad-looking as they were afraid I was;
and I do assure you that when I have seen the things
that are put up in the shop windows here with my name
under them, I have been in wondering admiration at the
boundless loving-kindness of my English and Scottish
friends in keeping up such a warm heart for such a
Gorgon. I should think that the Sphinx in the London
Museum might have sat for most of them. I am going to
make a collection of these portraits to bring home to
you. There is a great variety of them, and they will be
useful, like the Irishman's guide-board, which showed
where the road did not go.
Before the evening was through I was talked out and
worn out; there was hardly a chip of me left. To-morrow
at eleven o'clock comes the meeting at Stafford House.
What it will amount to I do not know; but I take no
thought for the morrow.
_May 8._
MY DEAR C.,--In fulfillment of my agreement I will tell
you, as nearly as I can remember, all the details of
the meeting at Stafford House. At about eleven o'clock
we drove under the arched carriage-way of a mansion
externally not very showy in appearance.
When the duchess appeared, I thought she looked
handsomer by daylight than in the evening. She received
us with the same warm and simple kindness which she
had shown before. We were presented to the Duke of
Sutherland. He is a tall, slender man, with rather a
thin face, light-brown hair, and a mild blue eye, with
an air of gentleness and dignity.
Among the first that entered were the members of the
family, the Duke and Duchess of Argyll, Lord and Lady
Blantyre, the Marquis and Marchioness of Stafford, and
Lady Emma Campbell. Then followed Lord Shaftesbury with
his beautiful lady, and her father and mother, Lord and
Lady Palmerston. Lord Palmerston is of middle height,
with a keen dark eye and black hair streaked with gray.
There is something peculiarly alert and vivacious about
all his movements; in short, his appearance perfectly
answers to what we know of him from his public life.
One has a strange, mythological feeling about the
existence of people of whom one hears for many years
without ever seeing them. While talking with Lord
Palmerston I could but remember how often I had heard
father and Mr. S. exulting over his foreign dispatches
by our own fireside. There were present, also, Lord
John Russell, Mr. Gladstone, and Lord Granville. The
latter we all thought very strikingly resembled in his
appearance the poet Longfellow.
After lunch the whole party ascended to the
picture-gallery, passing on our way the grand staircase
and hall, said to be the most magnificent in Europe.
The company now began to assemble and throng the
gallery, and very soon the vast room was crowded. Among
the throng I remember many presentations, but of course
must have forgotten many more. Archbishop Whateley was
there, with Mrs. and Miss Whateley; Macaulay, with two
of his sisters; Milman, the poet and historian; the
Bishop of Oxford, Chevalier Bunsen and lady, and many
more.
When all the company were together, Lord Shaftesbury
read a very short, kind, and considerate address in
behalf of the ladies of England, expressive of their
cordial welcome.
This Stafford House meeting, in any view of it,
is a most remarkable fact. Kind and gratifying as
its arrangements have been to me, I am far from
appropriating it to myself individually as a personal
honor. I rather regard it as the most public expression
possible of the feelings of the women of England on one
of the most important questions of our day, that of
individual liberty considered in its religious bearings.
On this occasion the Duchess of Sutherland presented Mrs. Stowe with a
superb gold bracelet, made in the form of a slave's shackle, bearing
the inscription: "We trust it is a memorial of a chain that is soon
to be broken." On two of the links were inscribed the dates of the
abolition of the slave-trade and of slavery in English territory. Years
after its presentation to her, Mrs. Stowe was able to have engraved
on the clasp of this bracelet, "Constitutional Amendment (forever
abolishing slavery in the United States)."
Continuing her interesting journal, Mrs. Stowe writes, May 9th:--
DEAR E.,--This letter I consecrate to you, because I
know that the persons and things to be introduced into
it will most particularly be appreciated by you.
In your evening reading circles, Macaulay, Sydney
Smith, and Milman have long been such familiar names
that you will be glad to go with me over all the scenes
of my morning breakfast at Sir Charles Trevelyan's
yesterday. Lady Trevelyan, I believe I have said
before, is a sister of Macaulay.
We were set down at Westbourne Terrace somewhere, I
believe, about eleven o'clock, and found quite a number
already in the drawing-room. I had met Macaulay before,
but being seated between him and Dean Milman, I must
confess I was a little embarrassed at times, because I
wanted to hear what they were both saying at the same
time. However, by the use of the faculty by which you
play a piano with both hands, I got on very comfortably.
There were several other persons of note present
at this breakfast, whose conversation I had not an
opportunity of hearing, as they sat at a distance from
me. There was Lord Glenelg, brother of Sir Robert
Grant, governor of Bombay, whose beautiful hymns have
rendered him familiar in America. The favorite one,
commencing
"When gathering clouds around I view,"
was from his pen.
The historian Hallam was also present, and I think it
very likely there may have been other celebrities whom
I did not know. I am always finding out, a day or two
after, that I have been with somebody very remarkable
and did not know it at the time.
Under date of May 18th she writes to her sister Mary:--
DEAR M.,--I can compare the embarrassment of our London
life, with its multiplied solicitations and infinite
stimulants to curiosity and desire, only to that annual
perplexity which used to beset us in our childhood on
Thanksgiving Day. Like Miss Edgeworth's philosophic
little Frank, we are obliged to make out a list of what
man _must_ want, and of what he _may_ want; and in our
list of the former we set down, in large and decisive
characters, one quiet day for the exploration and
enjoyment of Windsor.
The ride was done all too soon. About eleven o'clock
we found ourselves going up the old stone steps to the
castle. We went first through the state apartments. The
principal thing that interested me was the ball-room,
which was a perfect gallery of Vandyke's paintings.
After leaving the ball-room we filed off to the proper
quarter to show our orders for the private rooms. The
state apartments, which we had been looking at, are
open at all times, but the private apartments can
only be seen in the Queen's absence and by a special
permission, which had been procured for us on that
occasion by the kindness of the Duchess of Sutherland.
One of the first objects that attracted my attention
upon entering the vestibule was a baby's wicker wagon,
standing in one corner. It was much such a carriage as
all mothers are familiar with; such as figures largely
in the history of almost every family. It had neat
curtains and cushions of green merino, and was not
royal, only maternal. I mused over the little thing
with a good deal of interest.
We went for our dinner to the White Hart, the very inn
which Shakespeare celebrates in his "Merry Wives," and
had a most overflowing merry time of it. After dinner
we had a beautiful drive.
We were bent upon looking up the church which gave rise
to Gray's "Elegy in a Country Churchyard," intending
when we got there to have a little scene over it; Mr.
S., in all the conscious importance of having been
there before, assuring us that he knew exactly where it
was. So, after some difficulty with our coachman, and
being stopped at one church which would not answer our
purpose in any respect, we were at last set down by one
which looked authentic; embowered in mossy elms, with a
most ancient and goblin yew-tree, an ivy-mantled tower,
all perfect as could be. Here, leaning on the old
fence, we repeated the Elegy, which certainly applies
here as beautifully as language could apply.
Imagine our chagrin, on returning to London, at
being informed that we had not been to the genuine
churchyard after all. The gentleman who wept over the
scenes of his early days on the wrong doorstep was not
more grievously disappointed. However, he and we could
both console ourselves with the reflection that the
emotion was admirable, and wanted only the right place
to make it the most appropriate in the world.
The evening after our return from Windsor was spent
with our kind friends, Mr. and Mrs. Gurney. After
breakfast the next day, Mr. S., C., and I drove out to
call upon Kossuth. We found him in an obscure lodging
on the outskirts of London. I would that some of the
editors in America, who have thrown out insinuations
about his living in luxury, could have seen the utter
bareness and plainness of the reception room, which
had nothing in it beyond the simplest necessaries. He
entered into conversation with us with cheerfulness,
speaking English well, though with the idioms of
foreign languages. When we parted he took my hand
kindly and said, "God bless you, my child!"
I have been quite amused with something which has
happened lately. This week the "Times" has informed the
United Kingdom that Mrs. Stowe is getting a new dress
made! It wants to know if Mrs. Stowe is aware what sort
of a place her dress is being made in; and there is
a letter from a dressmaker's apprentice stating that
it is being made up piecemeal, in the most shockingly
distressed dens of London, by poor, miserable white
slaves, worse treated than the plantation slaves of
America!
Now Mrs. Stowe did not know anything of this, but
simply gave the silk into the hands of a friend, and
was in due time waited on in her own apartment by
a very respectable-appearing woman, who offered to
make the dress, and lo, this is the result! Since the
publication of this piece, I have received earnest
missives, from various parts of the country, begging me
to interfere, hoping that I was not going to patronize
the white slavery of England, and that I would employ
my talents equally against oppression in every form.
Could these people only know in what sweet simplicity I
had been living in the State of Maine, where the only
dressmaker of our circle was an intelligent, refined,
well-educated woman who was considered as the equal of
us all, and whose spring and fall ministrations to our
wardrobe were regarded a double pleasure,--a friendly
visit as well as a domestic assistance,--I say, could
they know all this, they would see how guiltless I
was in the matter. I verily never thought but that
the nice, pleasant person who came to measure me for
my silk dress was going to take it home and make it
herself; it never occurred to me that she was the head
of an establishment.
May 22, she writes to her husband, whose duties had obliged him to
return to America: "To-day we went to hear a sermon in behalf of the
ragged schools by the Archbishop of Canterbury. My thoughts have
been much saddened by the news which I received of the death of Mary
Edmonson."
"_May 30._ The next day from my last letter came off Miss Greenfield's
concert, of which I send a card. You see in what company they have put
your poor little wife. Funny!--isn't it? Well, the Hons. and Right
Hons. all were there. I sat by Lord Carlisle.
"After the concert the duchess asked Lady Hatherton and me to come
round to Stafford House and take tea, which was not a thing to be
despised, either on account of the tea or the duchess. A lovelier time
we never had,--present, the Duchess of Argyll, Lady Caroline Campbell,
Lady Hatherton, and myself. We had the nicest cup of tea, with such
cream, and grapes and apricots, with some Italian bread, etc.
"When we were going the duchess got me, on some pretext, into another
room, and came up and put her arms round me, with her noble face all
full of feeling.
"'Oh, Mrs. Stowe, I have been reading that last chapter in the "Key";
Argyll read it aloud to us. Oh, surely, surely you will succeed,--God
surely will bless you!'
"I said then that I thanked her for all her love and feeling for us,
told her how earnestly all the women of England sympathized with her,
and many in America. She looked really radiant and inspired. Had those
who hang back from our cause seen her face, it might have put a soul
into them as she said again, 'It will be done--it will be done--oh, I
trust and pray it may!'
"So we kissed each other, and vowed friendship and fidelity--so I came
away.
"To-day I am going with Lord Shaftesbury to St. Paul's to see the
charity children, after which lunch with Dean Milman.
"_May 31._ We went to lunch with Miss R. at Oxford Terrace, where,
among a number of distinguished guests, was Lady Byron, with whom I had
a few moments of deeply interesting conversation. No engravings that
ever have been circulated in America do any justice to her appearance.
She is of slight figure, formed with exceeding delicacy, and her whole
form, face, dress, and air unite to make an impression of a character
singularly dignified, gentle, pure, and yet strong. No words addressed
to me in any conversation hitherto have made their way to my inner
soul with such force as a few remarks dropped by her on the present
religious aspect of England,--remarks of such quality as one seldom
hears.
"According to request, I will endeavor to keep you informed of all our
goings-on after you left, up to the time of our departure for Paris.
"We have borne in mind your advice to hasten away to the Continent.
Charles wrote, a day or two since, to Mrs. C. at Paris to secure very
private lodgings, and by no means let any one know that we were coming.
She has replied urging us to come to her house, and promising entire
seclusion and rest. So, since you departed, we have been passing with
a kind of comprehensive skip and jump over remaining engagements.
And just the evening after you left came off the presentation of the
inkstand by the ladies of Surrey Chapel.
"It is a beautiful specimen of silver-work, eighteen inches long, with
a group of silver figures on it representing Religion, with the Bible
in her hand, giving liberty to the slave. The slave is a masterly piece
of work. He stands with his hands clasped, looking up to Heaven, while
a white man is knocking the shackles from his feet. But the prettiest
part of the scene was the presentation of a _gold pen_ by a band of
beautiful children, one of whom made a very pretty speech. I called
the little things to come and stand around me, and talked with them a
few minutes, and this was all the speaking that fell to my share.
"To-morrow we go--go to quiet, to obscurity, to peace--to Paris, to
Switzerland; there we shall find the loveliest glen, and, as the Bible
says, 'fall on sleep.'
"_Paris, June 4._ Here we are in Paris, in a most charming family. I
have been out all the morning exploring shops, streets, boulevards,
and seeing and hearing life in Paris. When one has a pleasant home and
friends to return to, this gay, bustling, vivacious, graceful city is
one of the most charming things in the world; and we _have_ a most
charming home.
"I wish the children could see these Tuileries with their statues and
fountains, men, women, and children seated in family groups under the
trees, chatting, reading aloud, working muslin,--children driving hoop,
playing ball, all alive and chattering French. Such fresh, pretty girls
as are in the shops here! _Je suis ravé_, as they say. In short I am
decidedly in a French humor, and am taking things quite _couleur de
rose_.
"_Monday, June 13._ We went this morning to the studio of M. Belloc,
who is to paint my portrait. The first question which he proposed,
with a genuine French air, was the question of 'pose' or position.
It was concluded that, as other pictures had taken me looking at the
spectator, this should take me looking away. M. Belloc remarked that M.
Charpentier said I appeared always with the air of an observer,--was
always looking around on everything. Hence M. Belloc would take me '_en
observatrice, mais pas en curieuse_,'--with the air of observation,
but not of curiosity. By and by M. Charpentier came in. He began
panegyrizing 'Uncle Tom,' and this led to a discussion of the ground
of its unprecedented success. In his thirty-five years' experience as
a bookseller, he had known nothing like it. It surpassed all modern
writings! At first he would not read it; his taste was for old masters
of a century or two ago. 'Like M. Belloc in painting,' said I. At
length he found his friend M., the first intelligence of the age,
reading it.
"'What, you, too?' said he.
"'Ah, ah!' replied the friend; 'say nothing about this book! There is
nothing like it. This leaves us all behind,--all, all, miles behind!'
"M. Belloc said the reason was because there was in it more _genuine
faith_ than in any book; and we branched off into florid eloquence
touching paganism, Christianity, and art.
"_Wednesday, June 22._ Adieu to Paris! Ho for Chalons-sur-Saône! After
affectionate farewells of our kind friends, by eleven o'clock we were
rushing, in the pleasantest of cars, over the smoothest of rails,
through Burgundy. We arrived at Chalons at nine P. M.
"_Thursday, 23_, eight o'clock A. M. Since five we have had a fine
bustle on the quay below our windows. There lay three steamers, shaped
for all the world like our last night's rolls. One would think Ichabod
Crane might sit astride one of them and dip his feet in the water. They
ought to be swift. L'Hirondelle (The Swallow) flew at five; another at
six. We leave at nine.
"_Lyons._ There was a scene of indescribable confusion upon our
arrival here. Out of the hold of our steamer a man with a rope and hook
began hauling baggage up a smooth board. Three hundred people were
sorting their goods without checks. Porters were shouldering immense
loads, four or five heavy trunks at once, corded together, and stalking
off Atlantean. Hat-boxes, bandboxes, and valises burst like a meteoric
shower out of a crater. '_A moi, à moi!_' was the cry, from old men,
young women, soldiers, shopkeepers, and _frères_, scuffling and shoving
together.
"_Saturday, June 25._ Lyons to Genève. As this was our first experience
in the diligence line, we noticed particularly every peculiarity. I had
had the idea that a diligence was a ricketty, slow-moulded antediluvian
nondescript, toiling patiently along over impassable roads at a snail's
pace. Judge of my astonishment at finding it a full-blooded, vigorous
monster, of unscrupulous railway momentum and imperturbable equipoise
of mind. Down the macadamized slopes we thundered at a prodigious
pace; up the hills we trotted, with six horses, three abreast; madly
through the little towns we burst, like a whirlwind, crashing across
the pebbled streets, and out upon the broad, smooth road again. Before
we had well considered the fact that we were out of Lyons we stopped to
change horses. Done in a jiffy; and whoop, crick, crack, whack, rumble,
bump, whirr, whisk, away we blazed, till, ere we knew it, another
change and another.
"As evening drew on, a wind sprang up and a storm seemed gathering on
the Jura. The rain dashed against the panes of the berlin as we rode
past the grim-faced monarch of the 'misty shroud.' It was night as we
drove into Geneva and stopped at the Messagerie. I heard with joy a
voice demanding if this were _Madame Besshare_. I replied, not without
some scruples of conscience, '_Oui, Monsieur, c'est moi_,' though the
name did not sound exactly like the one to which I had been wont to
respond. In half an hour we were at home in the mansion of Monsieur
Fazy."
From Geneva the party made a tour of the Swiss Alps, spending some
weeks among them. While there Charles Beecher wrote from a small hotel
at the foot of the Jura:--
"The people of the neighborhood, having discovered who Harriet was,
were very kind, and full of delight at seeing her. It was Scotland over
again. We have had to be unflinching to prevent her being overwhelmed,
both in Paris and Geneva, by the same demonstrations of regard. To
this we were driven, as a matter of life and death. It was touching to
listen to the talk of these secluded mountaineers. The good hostess,
even the servant maids, hung about Harriet, expressing such tender
interest for the slave. All had read 'Uncle Tom;' and it had apparently
been an era in their life's monotony, for they said, 'Oh, madam, do
write another! Remember, our winter nights here are very long!'"
Upon their return to Geneva they visited the Castle of Chillon, of
which, in describing the dungeons, Mrs. Stowe writes:--
"One of the pillars in this vault is covered with names. I think it
is Bonnevard's Pillar. There are the names of Byron, Hunt, Schiller,
and ever so many more celebrities. As we were going from the cell our
conductress seemed to have a sudden light upon her mind. She asked a
question or two of some of our party, and fell upon me vehemently to
put my name also there. Charley scratched it on the soft freestone,
and there it is for future ages. The lady could scarce repress her
enthusiasm; she shook my hand over and over again, and said she had
read 'Uncle Tom.' 'It is beautiful,' she said, 'but it is cruel.'
"_Monday, July 18._ Weather suspicious. Stowed ourselves and our
baggage into our _voiture_, and bade adieu to our friends and to
Geneva. Ah, how regretfully! From the market-place we carried away
a basket of cherries and fruit as a consolation. Dined at Lausanne,
and visited the cathedral and picture-gallery, where was an exquisite
_Eva_. Slept at Meudon.
"_Tuesday, July 19._ Rode through Payerne to Freyburg. Stopped at the
Zähringer Hof,--most romantic of inns.
"_Wednesday, July 20._ Examined, not the lions, but the bears of Berne.
Engaged a _voiture_ and drove to Thun. Dined and drove by the shore of
the lake to Interlachen, arriving just after a brilliant sunset.
"We crossed the Wengern Alps to Grindelwald. The Jungfrau is right over
against us,--her glaciers purer, tenderer, more dazzlingly beautiful,
if possible, than those of Mont Blanc. Slept at Grindelwald."
From Rosenlaui, on this journey, Charles Beecher writes:--
"_Friday, July 22._ Grindelwald to Meyringen. On we came, to the top of
the Great Schiedeck, where H. and W. botanized, while I slept. Thence
we rode down the mountain till we reached Rosenlaui, where, I am free
to say, a dinner was to me a more interesting object than a glacier.
Therefore, while H. and W. went to the latter, I turned off to the inn,
amid their cries and reproaches.
"Here, then, I am, writing these notes in the _salle à manger_ of
the inn, where other voyagers are eating and drinking, and there is
H. feeding on the green moonshine of an emerald ice cave. One would
almost think her incapable of fatigue. How she skips up and down high
places and steep places, to the manifest perplexity of the honest
guide Kienholz, _père_, who tries to take care of her, but does not
exactly know how! She gets on a pyramid of débris, which the edge of
the glacier is plowing and grinding up, sits down, and falls--not
asleep exactly, but into a trance. W. and I are ready to go on: we
shout; our voice is lost in the roar of the torrent. We send the guide.
He goes down, and stands doubtfully. He does not know exactly what to
do. She hears him, and starts to her feet, pointing with one hand to
yonder peak, and with the other to that knife-like edge that seems
cleaving heaven with its keen and glistening cimeter of snow, reminding
one of Isaiah's sublime imagery, 'For my sword is bathed in heaven.'
She points at the grizzly rocks, with their jags and spear-points.
Evidently she is beside herself, and thinks she can remember the names
of those monsters, born of earthquake and storm, which cannot be named
nor known but by sight, and then are known at once perfectly and
forever."
After traveling through Germany, Belgium, and Holland, the party
returned to Paris toward the end of August, from which place Mrs. Stowe
writes:--
"I am seated in a snug little room at M. Belloc's. The weather is
overpoweringly hot, but these Parisian houses seem to have seized and
imprisoned coolness. French household ways are delightful. I like their
seclusion from the street by these deep-paned quadrangles.
"Madame Belloc was the translator of Maria Edgeworth, by that lady's
desire; corresponded with her for years, and still has many of her
letters. Her translation of 'Uncle Tom' has to me all the merit and all
the interest of an original composition. In perusing it, I enjoy the
pleasure of reading the story with scarce any consciousness of its ever
having been mine."
The next letter is from London _en route_ for America, to which passage
had been engaged on the Collins steamer Arctic. In it Mrs. Stowe
writes:--
"_London, August 28._ Our last letters from home changed all our plans.
We concluded to hurry away by the next steamer, if at that late hour
we could get a passage. We were all in a bustle. The last shoppings
for aunts, cousins, and little folks were to be done by us all. The
Palais Royal was to be rummaged; bronzes, vases, statuettes, bonbons,
playthings,--all that the endless fertility of France could show,--was
to be looked over for the 'folks at home.'
"How we sped across the Channel C. relates. We are spending a few very
pleasant days with our kind friends the L.'s, in London.
"_On board the Arctic, September 7._ On Thursday, September 1, we
reached York, and visited the beautiful ruins of St. Mary's Abbey,
and the magnificent cathedral. It rained with inflexible pertinacity
during all the time we were there, and the next day it rained still,
when we took the cars for Castle Howard station.
"Lady Carlisle welcomed us most affectionately, and we learned that,
had we not been so reserved at the York station in concealing our
names, we should have received a note from her. However, as we were
safely arrived, it was of no consequence.
"Our friends spoke much of Sumner and Prescott, who had visited there;
also of Mr. Lawrence, our former ambassador, who had visited them just
before his return. After a very pleasant day, we left with regret the
warmth of this hospitable circle, thus breaking one more of the links
that bind us to the English shore.
"Nine o'clock in the evening found us sitting by a cheerful fire in the
parlor of Mr. E. Baines at Leeds. The next day the house was filled
with company, and the Leeds offering was presented.
"Tuesday we parted from our excellent friends in Leeds, and soon found
ourselves once more in the beautiful "Dingle," our first and last
resting-place on English shores.
"A deputation from Belfast, Ireland, here met me, presenting a
beautiful bog-oak casket, lined with gold, and carved with appropriate
national symbols, containing an offering for the cause of the
oppressed. They read a beautiful address, and touched upon the
importance of inspiring with the principles of emancipation the Irish
nation, whose influence in our land is becoming so great. Had time and
strength permitted, it had been my purpose to visit Ireland, to revisit
Scotland, and to see more of England. But it is not in man that
walketh to direct his steps. And now came parting, leave-taking, last
letters, notes, and messages.
"Thus, almost sadly as a child might leave its home, I left the shores
of kind, strong Old England,--the mother of us all."
CHAPTER XI.
HOME AGAIN, 1853-1856.
ANTI-SLAVERY WORK.--STIRRING TIMES IN THE UNITED
STATES.--ADDRESS TO THE LADIES OF GLASGOW.--APPEAL TO
THE WOMEN OF AMERICA.--CORRESPONDENCE WITH WILLIAM
LLOYD GARRISON.--THE WRITING OF "DRED."--FAREWELL
LETTER FROM GEORGIANA MAY.--SECOND VOYAGE TO ENGLAND.
AFTER her return in the autumn of 1853 from her European tour, Mrs.
Stowe threw herself heart and soul into the great struggle with
slavery. Much of her time was occupied in distributing over a wide
area of country the English gold with which she had been intrusted
for the advancement of the cause. With this money she assisted in the
redemption of slaves whose cases were those of peculiar hardship, and
helped establish them as free men. She supported anti-slavery lectures
wherever they were most needed, aided in establishing and maintaining
anti-slavery publications, founded and assisted in supporting schools
in which colored people might be taught how to avail themselves of the
blessings of freedom. She arranged public meetings, and prepared many
of the addresses that should be delivered at them. She maintained such
an extensive correspondence with persons of all shades of opinion in
all parts of the world, that the letters received and answered by her
between 1853 and 1856 would fill volumes. With all these multifarious
interests, her children received a full share of her attention, nor
were her literary activities relaxed.
Immediately upon the completion of her European tour, her experiences
were published in the form of a journal, both in this country and
England, under the title of "Sunny Memories." She also revised and
elaborated the collection of sketches which had been published by the
Harpers in 1843, under title of "The Mayflower," and having purchased
the plates caused them to be republished in 1855 by Phillips & Sampson,
the successors of John P. Jewett & Co., in this country, and by Sampson
Low & Co. in London.
Soon after her return to America, feeling that she owed a debt of
gratitude to her friends in Scotland, which her feeble health had not
permitted her adequately to express while with them, Mrs. Stowe wrote
the following open letter:--
TO THE LADIES' ANTI-SLAVERY SOCIETY OF GLASGOW:
_Dear Friends_,--I have had many things in my mind
to say to you, which it was my hope to have said
personally, but which I am now obliged to say by letter.
I have had many fears that you must have thought our
intercourse, during the short time that I was in
Glasgow, quite unsatisfactory.
At the time that I accepted your very kind invitation,
I was in tolerable health, and supposed that I should
be in a situation to enjoy society, and mingle as much
in your social circles as you might desire.
When the time came for me to fulfil my engagement with
you, I was, as you know, confined to my bed with a
sickness brought on by the exertion of getting the
"Key to Uncle Tom's Cabin" through the press during the
winter.
In every part of the world the story of "Uncle Tom"
had awakened sympathy for the American slave, and
consequently in every part of the world the story of
his wrongs had been denied; it had been asserted to be
a mere work of romance, and I was charged with being
the slanderer of the institutions of my own country. I
knew that if I shrank from supporting my position, the
sympathy which the work had excited would gradually die
out, and the whole thing would be looked upon as a mere
romantic excitement of the passions.
When I came abroad, I had not the slightest idea of
the kind of reception which was to meet me in England
and Scotland. I had thought of something involving
considerable warmth, perhaps, and a good deal of
cordiality and feeling on the part of friends; but of
the general extent of feeling through society, and of
the degree to which it would be publicly expressed, I
had, I may say, no conception.
As through your society I was invited to your country,
it may seem proper that what communication I have to
make to friends in England and Scotland should be made
through you.
In the first place, then, the question will probably
arise in your minds, Have the recent demonstrations in
Great Britain done good to the anti-slavery cause in
America?
The first result of those demonstrations, as might have
been expected, was an intense reaction. Every kind of
false, evil, and malignant report has been circulated
by malicious and partisan papers; and if there is any
blessing in having all manner of evil said against us
falsely, we have seemed to be in a fair way to come in
possession of it.
The sanction which was given in this matter to the
voice of the people, by the nobility of England and
Scotland, has been regarded and treated with special
rancor; and yet, in its place, it has been particularly
important. Without it great advantages would have
been taken to depreciate the value of the national
testimony. The value of this testimony in particular
will appear from the fact that the anti-slavery cause
has been treated with especial contempt by the leaders
of society in this country, and every attempt made to
brand it with ridicule.
The effect of making a cause generally unfashionable
is much greater in this world than it ought to be. It
operates very powerfully with the young and impressible
portion of the community; therefore Cassius M. Clay
very well said with regard to the demonstration at
Stafford House: "It will help our cause by rendering it
fashionable."
With regard to the present state of the anti-slavery
cause in America, I think, for many reasons, that it
has never been more encouraging. It is encouraging in
this respect, that the subject is now fairly up for
inquiry before the public mind. And that systematic
effort which has been made for years to prevent its
being discussed is proving wholly ineffectual.
The "Key to Uncle Tom's Cabin" has sold extensively at
the South, following in the wake of "Uncle Tom." Not
one fact or statement in it has been disproved as yet.
I have yet to learn of even an _attempt_ to disprove.
The "North American Review," a periodical which has
never been favorable to the discussion of the slavery
question, has come out with a review of "Uncle Tom's
Cabin," in which, while rating the book very low as a
work of art, they account for its great circulation
and success by the fact of its being a true picture of
slavery. They go on to say that the system is one so
inherently abominable that, unless slaveholders shall
rouse themselves and abolish the principle of chattel
ownership, they can no longer sustain themselves under
the contempt and indignation of the whole civilized
world. What are the slaveholders to do when this is the
best their friends and supporters can say for them?
I regret to say that the movements of Christian
denominations on this subject are yet greatly behind
what they should be. Some movements have been made by
religious bodies, of which I will not now speak; but
as a general thing the professed Christian church is
pushed up to its duty by the world, rather than the
world urged on by the church.
The colored people in this country are rapidly rising
in every respect. I shall request Frederick Douglass
to send you the printed account of the recent colored
convention. It would do credit to any set of men
whatever, and I hope you will get some notice taken
of it in the papers of the United Kingdom. It is time
that the slanders against this unhappy race should be
refuted, and it should be seen how, in spite of every
social and political oppression, they are rising in the
scale of humanity. In my opinion they advance quite as
fast as any of the foreign races which have found an
asylum among us.
May God so guide us in all things that our good be not
evil spoken of, and that we be left to defend nothing
which is opposed to his glory and the good of man!
Yours in all sympathy,
H. B. STOWE.
During the Kansas and Nebraska agitation (1853-54), Mrs. Stowe, in
common with the abolitionists of the North, was deeply impressed
with a solemn sense that it was a desperate crisis in the nation's
history. She was in constant correspondence with Charles Sumner and
other distinguished statesmen of the time, and kept herself informed
as to the minutest details of the struggle. At this time she wrote and
caused to be circulated broadcast the following appeal to the women of
America:--
"The Providence of God has brought our nation to a crisis of most
solemn interest.
"A question is now pending in our national legislature which is most
vitally to affect the temporal and eternal interests, not only of
ourselves, but of our children and our children's children for ages yet
unborn. Through our nation it is to affect the interests of liberty and
Christianity throughout the world.
"Of the woes, the injustice, and the misery of slavery it is not
needful to speak. There is but one feeling and one opinion upon this
subject among us all. I do not think there is a mother who clasps her
child to her breast who would ever be made to feel it right that that
child should be a slave, not a mother among us who would not rather lay
that child in its grave.
"Nor can I believe that there is a woman so unchristian as to think
it right to inflict upon her neighbor's child what she would consider
worse than death were it inflicted upon her own. I do not believe there
is a wife who would think it right that _her_ husband should be sold to
a trader to be worked all his life without wages or a recognition of
rights. I do not believe there is a husband who would consider it right
that his wife should be regarded by law the property of another man. I
do not believe there is a father or mother who would consider it right
were they forbidden by law to teach their children to read. I do not
believe there is a brother who would think it right to have his sister
held as property, with no legal defense for her personal honor, by any
man living.
"All this is inherent in slavery. It is not the abuse of slavery, but
its legal nature. And there is not a woman in the United States, where
the question is fairly put to her, who thinks these things are right.
"But though our hearts have bled over this wrong, there have been
many things tending to fetter our hands, to perplex our efforts,
and to silence our voice. We have been told that to speak of it was
an invasion of the rights of states. We have heard of promises and
compacts, and the natural expression of feeling has in many cases been
repressed by an appeal to those honorable sentiments which respect the
keeping of engagements.
"But a time has now come when the subject is arising under quite a
different aspect.
"The question is not now, shall the wrongs of slavery exist as they
have within their own territories, but shall we permit them to be
extended all over the free territories of the United States? Shall the
woes and the miseries of slavery be extended over a region of fair,
free, unoccupied territory nearly equal in extent to the whole of the
free States?
"Nor is this all! This is not the last thing that is expected or
intended. Should this movement be submitted to in silence, should the
North consent to this solemn breach of contract on the part of the
South, there yet remains one more step to be apprehended, namely, the
legalizing of slavery throughout the free States. By a decision of the
supreme court in the Lemmon case, it may be declared lawful for slave
property to be held in the Northern States. Should this come to pass,
it is no more improbable that there may be four years hence slave
depots in New York city than it was four years ago that the South would
propose a repeal of the Missouri Compromise.
"Women of the free States! the question is not shall we remonstrate
with slavery on its own soil, but are we willing to receive slavery
into the free States and Territories of this Union? Shall the whole
power of these United States go into the hands of slavery? Shall every
State in the Union be thrown open to slavery? This is the possible
result and issue of the question now pending. This is the fearful
crisis at which we stand.
"And now you ask, What can the _women_ of a country do?
"O women of the free States! what did your brave mothers do in the
days of our Revolution? Did not liberty in those days feel the strong
impulse of woman's heart?
"There was never a great interest agitating a community where woman's
influence was not felt for good or for evil. At the time when the
abolition of the slave-trade was convulsing England, women contributed
more than any other laborers to that great triumph of humanity. The
women of England refused to receive into their houses the sugar
raised by slaves. Seventy thousand families thus refused the use of
sugar in testimony of their abhorrence of the manner in which it was
produced. At that time women were unwearied in going from house to
house distributing books and tracts upon the subject, and presenting it
clearly and forcibly to thousands of families who would otherwise have
disregarded it.
"The women all over England were associated in corresponding circles
for prayer and labor. Petitions to the government were prepared and
signed by women of every station in all parts of the kingdom.
"Women of America! we do not know with what thrilling earnestness the
hopes and the eyes of the world are fastened upon our country, and
how intense is the desire that we should take a stand for universal
liberty. When I was in England, although I distinctly stated that the
raising of money was no part of my object there, it was actually forced
upon me by those who could not resist the impulse to do something
for this great cause. Nor did it come from the well-to-do alone; but
hundreds of most affecting letters were received from poor working men
and women, who inclosed small sums in postage-stamps to be devoted to
freeing slaves.
"Nor is this deep feeling confined to England alone. I found it in
France, Switzerland, and Germany. Why do foreign lands regard us with
this intensity of interest? Is it not because the whole world looks
hopefully toward America as a nation especially raised by God to
advance the cause of human liberty and religion?
"There has been a universal expectation that the next step taken by
America would surely be one that should have a tendency to right this
great wrong. Those who are struggling for civil and religious liberty
in Europe speak this word 'slavery' in sad whispers, as one names a
fault of a revered friend. They can scarce believe the advertisements
in American papers of slave sales of men, women, and children, traded
like cattle. Scarcely can they trust their eyes when they read the laws
of the slave States, and the decisions of their courts. The advocates
of despotism hold these things up to them and say: 'See what comes
of republican liberty!' Hitherto the answer has been, 'America is
more than half free, and she certainly will in time repudiate slavery
altogether.'
"But what can they say now if, just as the great struggle for human
rights is commencing throughout Europe, America opens all her
Territories to the most unmitigated despotism?
"While all the nations of Europe are thus moved on the subject of
American slavery, shall we alone remain unmoved? Shall we, the wives,
mothers, and sisters of America, remain content with inaction in such a
crisis as this?
"The first duty of every American woman at this time is to thoroughly
understand the subject for herself, and to feel that she is bound to
use her influence for the right. Then they can obtain signatures to
petitions to our national legislature. They can spread information
upon this vital topic throughout their neighborhoods. They can employ
lecturers to lay the subject before the people. They can circulate the
speeches of their members of Congress that bear upon the subject, and
in many other ways they can secure to all a full understanding of the
present position of our country.
"Above all, it seems to be necessary and desirable that we should
make this subject a matter of earnest prayer. A conflict is now begun
between the forces of liberty and despotism throughout the whole world.
We who are Christians, and believe in the sure word of prophecy, know
that fearful convulsions and overturnings are predicted before the
coming of Him who is to rule the earth in righteousness. How important,
then, in this crisis, that all who believe in prayer should retreat
beneath the shadow of the Almighty!
"It is a melancholy but unavoidable result of such great encounters
of principle that they tend to degenerate into sectional and personal
bitterness. It is this liability that forms one of the most solemn and
affecting features of the crisis now presented. We are on the eve of a
conflict which will try men's souls, and strain to the utmost the bonds
of brotherly union that bind this nation together.
"Let us, then, pray that in the agitation of this question between
the North and the South the war of principle may not become a mere
sectional conflict, degenerating into the encounter of physical force.
Let us raise our hearts to Him who has the power to restrain the wrath
of men, that He will avert the consequences that our sins as a nation
so justly deserve.
"There are many noble minds in the South who do not participate in the
machinations of their political leaders, and whose sense of honor and
justice is outraged by this proposition equally with our own. While,
then, we seek to sustain the cause of freedom unwaveringly, let us
also hold it to be our office as true women to moderate the acrimony
of political contest, remembering that the slaveholder and the slave
are alike our brethren, whom the law of God commands us to love as
ourselves.
"For the sake, then, of our dear children, for the sake of our common
country, for the sake of outraged and struggling liberty throughout the
world, let every woman of America now do her duty."
At this same time Mrs. Stowe found herself engaged in an active
correspondence with William Lloyd Garrison, much of which appeared in
the columns of his paper, the "Liberator." Late in 1853 she writes to
him:--
"In regard to you, your paper, and in some measure your party, I am in
an honest embarrassment. I sympathize with you fully in many of your
positions. Others I consider erroneous, hurtful to liberty and the
progress of humanity. Nevertheless, I believe you and those who support
them to be honest and conscientious in your course and opinions. What
I fear is that your paper will take from poor Uncle Tom his Bible, and
give him nothing in its place."
To this Mr. Garrison answers: "I do not understand why the imputation
is thrown upon the 'Liberator' as tending to rob Uncle Tom of his
Bible. I know of no writer in its pages who wishes to deprive him of
it, or of any comfort he may derive from it. It is for him to place
whatever estimate he can upon it, and for you and me to do the same;
but for neither of us to accept any more of it than we sincerely
believe to be in accordance with reason, truth, and eternal right.
How much of it is true and obligatory, each one can determine only
for himself; for on Protestant ground there is no room for papal
infallibility. All Christendom professes to believe in the inspiration
of the volume, and at the same time all Christendom is by the ears as
to its real teachings. Surely you would not have me disloyal to my
conscience. How do you prove that you are not trammeled by educational
or traditional notions as to the entire sanctity of the book? Indeed,
it seems to me very evident that you are not free in spirit, in view of
the apprehension and sorrow you feel because you find your conceptions
of the Bible controverted in the 'Liberator,' else why such disquietude
of mind? 'Thrice is he armed who hath his quarrel just.'"
In answer to this Mrs. Stowe writes:--
I did not reply to your letter immediately, because
I did not wish to speak on so important a subject
unadvisedly, or without proper thought and reflection.
The greater the interest involved in a truth the more
careful, self-distrustful, and patient should be the
inquiry.
I would not attack the faith of a heathen without being
sure I had a better one to put in its place, because,
such as it is, it is better than nothing. I notice
in Mr. Parker's sermons a very eloquent passage on
the uses and influences of the Bible. He considers it
to embody absolute and perfect religion, and that no
better mode for securing present and eternal happiness
can be found than in the obedience to certain religious
precepts therein recorded. He would have it read and
circulated, and considers it, as I infer, a Christian
duty to send it to the heathen, the slave, etc. I
presume you agree with him.
These things being supposed about the Bible would
certainly make it appear that, if any man deems it
his duty to lessen its standing in the eyes of the
community, he ought at least to do so in a cautious and
reverential spirit, with humility and prayer.
My objection to the mode in which these things are
handled in the "Liberator" is that the general tone
and spirit seem to me the reverse of this. If your
paper circulated only among those of disciplined and
cultivated minds, skilled to separate truth from
falsehood, knowing where to go for evidence and how
to satisfy the doubts you raise, I should feel less
regret. But your name and benevolent labors have given
your paper a circulation among the poor and lowly. They
have no means of investigating, no habits of reasoning.
The Bible, as they at present understand it, is doing
them great good, and is a blessing to them and their
families. The whole tendency of your mode of proceeding
is to lessen their respect and reverence for the Bible,
without giving them anything in its place.
I have no fear of discussion as to its final results
on the Bible; my only regrets are for those human
beings whose present and immortal interests I think
compromised by this manner of discussion. Discussion
of the evidence of the authenticity and inspiration
of the Bible and of all theology will come more and
more, and I rejoice that they will. But I think they
must come, as all successful inquiries into truth must,
in a calm, thoughtful, and humble spirit; not with
bold assertions, hasty generalizations, or passionate
appeals.
[Illustration: Lyman Beecher]
I appreciate your good qualities none the less though
you differ with me on this point. I believe you to be
honest and sincere. In Mr. Parker's works I have found
much to increase my respect and esteem for him as a
man. He comes to results, it is true, to which it would
be death and utter despair for me to arrive at. Did I
believe as he does about the Bible and Jesus, I were of
all creatures most miserable, because I could not love
God. I could find no God to love. I would far rather
never have been born.
As to you, my dear friend, you must own that my
frankness to you is the best expression of my
confidence in your honor and nobleness. Did I not
believe that "an excellent spirit" is in you, I would
not take the trouble to write all this. If in any
points in this note I appear to have misapprehended or
done you injustice, I hope you will candidly let me
know where and how.
Truly your friend,
H. B. STOWE.
In addition to these letters the following extracts from a subsequent
letter to Mr. Garrison are given to show in what respect their fields
of labor differed, and to present an idea of what Mrs. Stowe was doing
for the cause of freedom besides writing against slavery:--
ANDOVER, MASS., _February 18, 1854._
DEAR FRIEND,--I see and sincerely rejoice in the result of your lecture
in New York. I am increasingly anxious that all who hate slavery be
united, if not in form, at least in fact,--a unity in difference. _Our_
field lies in the church, and as yet I differ from you as to what may
be done and hoped there. Brother Edward (Beecher) has written a sermon
that goes to the very root of the decline of moral feeling in the
church. As soon as it can be got ready for the press I shall have it
printed, and shall send a copy to every minister in the country.
Our lectures have been somewhat embarrassed by a pressure of new
business brought upon us by the urgency of the Kansas-Nebraska
question. Since we began, however, brother Edward has devoted his whole
time to visiting, consultation, and efforts the result of which will
shortly be given to the public. We are trying to secure a universal
arousing of the pulpit.
Dr. Bacon's letter is noble. You must think so. It has been sent to
every member of Congress. Dr. Kirk's sermon is an advance, and his
congregation warmly seconded it. Now, my good friend, be willing to see
that the church is better than you have thought it. Be not unwilling
to see some good symptoms, and hope that even those who see not at
all at first will gain as they go on. I am acting on the conviction
that you love the cause better than self. If anything can be done now
advantageously by the aid of money, let me know. God has given me some
power in this way, though I am too feeble to do much otherwise.
Yours for the cause,
H. B. STOWE.
Although the demand was very great upon Mrs. Stowe for magazine and
newspaper articles, many of which she managed to write in 1854-55,
she had in her mind at this time a new book which should be in many
respects the complement of "Uncle Tom's Cabin." In preparing her Key
to the latter work, she had collected much new material. In 1855,
therefore, and during the spring of 1856, she found time to weave these
hitherto unused facts into the story of "Dred." In her preface to the
English edition of this book she writes:--
"The author's object in this book is to show the general effect of
slavery on society; the various social disadvantages which it brings,
even to its most favored advocates; the shiftlessness and misery and
backward tendency of all the economical arrangements of slave States;
the retrograding of good families into poverty; the deterioration of
land; the worse demoralization of all classes, from the aristocratic,
tyrannical planter to the oppressed and poor white, which is the result
of the introduction of slave labor.
"It is also an object to display the corruption of Christianity which
arises from the same source; a corruption that has gradually lowered
the standard of the church, North and South, and been productive of
more infidelity than the works of all the encyclopædists put together."
The story of "Dred" was suggested by the famous negro insurrection,
led by Nat Turner, in Eastern Virginia in 1831. In this affair one of
the principal participators was named "Dred." An interesting incident
connected with the writing of "Dred" is vividly remembered by Mrs.
Stowe's daughters.
One sultry summer night there arose a terrific thunder-storm, with
continuous flashes of lightning and incessant rumbling and muttering of
thunder, every now and then breaking out into sharp, crashing reports
followed by torrents of rain.
The two young girls, trembling with fear, groped their way down-stairs
to their mother's room, and on entering found her lying quietly in
bed awake, and calmly watching the storm from the windows, the shades
being up. She expressed no surprise on seeing them, but said that
she had not been herself in the least frightened, though intensely
interested in watching the storm. "I have been writing a description
of a thunder-storm for my book, and I am watching to see if I need to
correct it in any particular." Our readers will be interested to know
that she had so well described a storm from memory that even this vivid
object-lesson brought with it no new suggestions. This scene is to be
found in the twenty-fourth chapter of "Dred,"--"Life in the Swamps."
"The day had been sultry and it was now an hour or two past midnight,
when a thunder-storm, which had long been gathering and muttering in
the distant sky, began to develop its forces. A low, shivering sigh
crept through the woods, and swayed in weird whistlings the tops of
the pines; and sharp arrows of lightning came glittering down among
the branches, as if sent from the bow of some warlike angel. An army
of heavy clouds swept in a moment across the moon; then came a broad,
dazzling, blinding sheet of flame."
What particularly impressed Mrs. Stowe's daughters at the time was
their mother's perfect calmness, and the minute study of the storm.
She was on the alert to detect anything which might lead her to correct
her description.
Of this new story Charles Summer wrote from the senate chamber:--
MY DEAR MRS. STOWE,--I am rejoiced to learn, from your
excellent sister here, that you are occupied with
another tale exposing slavery. I feel that it will
act directly upon pending questions, and help us in
our struggle for Kansas, and also to overthrow the
slave-oligarchy in the coming Presidential election. We
need your help at once in our struggle.
Ever sincerely yours,
CHARLES SUMNER.
Having finished this second great story of slavery, in the early
summer of 1856 Mrs. Stowe decided to visit Europe again, in search of
a much-needed rest. She also found it necessary to do so in order to
secure the English right to her book, which she had failed to do on
"Uncle Tom's Cabin."
Just before sailing she received the following touching letter from her
life-long friend, Georgiana May. It is the last one of a series that
extended without interruption over a period of thirty years, and as
such has been carefully cherished:--
OCEAN HOUSE, GROTON POINT, _July 26, 1856._
DEAR HATTIE,--Very likely it is too late for me to come
with my modest knock to your study door, and ask to
be taken in for a moment, but I do so want to _bless_
you before you go, and I have not been well enough to
write until to-day. It seems just as if I _could_ not
let you go till I have seen once more your face in the
flesh, for great uncertainties hang over my future. One
thing, however, is certain: whichever of us two gets
first to the farther shore of the great ocean between
us and the unseen will be pretty sure to be at hand to
welcome the other. It is not poetry, but solemn verity
between us that we _shall_ meet again.
But there is nothing _morbid_ or _morbific_ going into
these few lines. I have made "Old Tiff's" acquaintance.
_He_ is a verity,--will stand up with Uncle Tom and
Topsy, pieces of negro property you will be guilty of
holding after you are dead. Very likely your children
may be selling them.
Hattie, I rejoice over this completed work. Another
work for God and your generation. I am glad that you
have come out of it alive, that you have pleasure in
prospect, that you "walk at liberty" and have done
with "fits of languishing." Perhaps some day I shall
be set free, but the prospect does not look promising,
except as I have full faith that "the Good Man above
is looking on, and will bring it all round right."
Still "heart and flesh" both "fail me." He will be the
"strength of my heart," and I never seem to doubt "my
portion forever."
If I never speak to you again, this is the farewell
utterance.
Yours truly,
GEORGIANA.
Mrs. Stowe was accompanied on this second trip to Europe by her
husband, her two eldest daughters, her son Henry, and her sister
Mary (Mrs. Perkins). It was a pleasant summer voyage, and was safely
accomplished without special incident.
CHAPTER XII.
DRED, 1856.
SECOND VISIT TO ENGLAND.--A GLIMPSE AT THE QUEEN.--THE
DUKE OF ARGYLL AND INVERARY.--EARLY CORRESPONDENCE WITH
LADY BYRON.--DUNROBIN CASTLE AND ITS INMATES.--A VISIT
TO STOKE PARK.--LORD DUFFERIN.--CHARLES KINGSLEY AT
HOME.--PARIS REVISITED.--MADAME MOHL'S RECEPTIONS.
AFTER reaching England, about the middle of August, 1856, Mrs. Stowe
and her husband spent some days in London completing arrangements
to have an English edition of "Dred" published by Sampson Low & Co.
Professor Stowe's duties in America being very pressing, he had
intended returning at once, but was detained for a short time, as will
be seen in the following letter written by him from Glasgow, August 29,
to a friend in America:--
DEAR FRIEND,--I finished my business in London on
Wednesday, and intended to return by the Liverpool
steamer of to-morrow, but find that every berth on that
line is engaged until the 3d of October. We therefore
came here yesterday, and I shall take passage in the
steamer New York from this port next Tuesday. We have
received a special invitation to visit Inverary Castle,
the seat of the Duke of Argyll, and yesterday we had
just the very pleasantest little interview with the
Queen that ever was. None of the formal, drawing-room,
breathless receptions, but just an accidental,
done-on-purpose meeting at a railway station, while on
our way to Scotland.
The Queen seemed really delighted to see my wife, and
remarkably glad to see me for her sake. She pointed us
out to Prince Albert, who made two most gracious bows
to my wife and two to me, while the four royal children
stared their big blue eyes almost out looking at the
little authoress of "Uncle Tom's Cabin." Colonel Grey
handed the Queen, with my wife's compliments, a copy of
the new book ("Dred"). She took one volume herself and
handed the other to Prince Albert, and they were soon
both very busy reading. She is a real nice little body
with exceedingly pleasant, kindly manners.
I expect to be in Natick the last week in September.
God bless you all.
C. E. STOWE.
After her husband's departure for the United States, Mrs. Stowe,
with her son Henry, her two eldest daughters, and her sister Mary
(Mrs. Perkins), accepted the Duke of Argyll's invitation to visit
the Highlands. Of this visit we catch a pleasant glimpse from a
letter written to Professor Stowe during its continuance, which is as
follows:--
INVERARY CASTLE, _September 6, 1856._
MY DEAR HUSBAND,--We have been now a week in this
delicious place, enjoying the finest skies and scenery,
the utmost of kind hospitality. From Loch Goil we took
the coach for Inverary, a beautiful drive of about
two hours. We had seats on the outside, and the driver
John, like some of the White Mountain guides, was full
of song and story, and local tradition. He spoke Scotch
and Gaelic, recited ballads, and sung songs with great
gusto. Mary and the girls stopped in a little inn at
St. Catherine's, on the shores of Loch Fine, while
Henry and I took steamboat for Inverary, where we found
the duchess waiting in a carriage for us, with Lady
Emma Campbell....
The common routine of the day here is as follows: We
rise about half past eight. About half past nine we
all meet in the dining-hall, where the servants are
standing in a line down one side, and a row of chairs
for guests and visitors occupies the other. The duchess
with her nine children, a perfectly beautiful little
flock, sit together. The duke reads the Bible and a
prayer, and pronounces the benediction. After that,
breakfast is served,--a very hearty, informal, cheerful
meal,--and after that come walks, or drives, or fishing
parties, till lunch time, and then more drives, or
anything else: everybody, in short, doing what he likes
till half past seven, which is the dinner hour. After
that we have coffee and tea in the evening.
The first morning, the duke took me to see his mine
of nickel silver. We had a long and beautiful drive,
and talked about everything in literature, religion,
morals, and the temperance movement, about which last
he is in some state of doubt and uncertainty, not
inclining, I think, to have it pressed yet, though
feeling there is need of doing something.
If "Dred" has as good a sale in America as it is likely
to have in England, we shall do well. There is such
a demand that they had to placard the shop windows in
Glasgow with,--
"To prevent disappointment,
'Dred'
Not to be had till," etc.
Everybody is after it, and the prospect is of an
enormous sale.
God, to whom I prayed night and day while I was writing
the book, has heard me, and given us of worldly goods
more _than_ I asked. I feel, therefore, a desire to
"walk softly," and inquire, for what has He so trusted
us?
Every day I am more charmed with the duke and duchess;
they are simple-hearted, frank, natural, full of
feeling, of piety, and good sense. They certainly are,
apart from any considerations of rank or position, most
interesting and noble people. The duke laughed heartily
at many things I told him of our Andover theological
tactics, of your preaching, etc.; but I think he is a
sincere, earnest Christian.
Our American politics form the daily topic of interest.
The late movements in Congress are discussed with great
warmth, and every morning the papers are watched for
new details.
I must stop now, as it is late and we are to leave here
early to-morrow morning. We are going to Staffa, Iona,
the Pass of Glencoe, and finally through the Caledonian
Canal up to Dunrobin Castle, where a large party of all
sorts of interesting people are gathered around the
Duchess of Sutherland.
Affectionately yours,
HARRIET.
From Dunrobin Castle one of his daughters writes to Professor Stowe:
"We spent five most delightful days at Inverary, and were so sorry
you could not be there with us. From there we went to Oban, and spent
several days sight-seeing, finally reaching Inverness by way of the
Caledonian Canal. Here, to our surprise, we found our rooms at the
hotel all prepared for us. The next morning we left by post for
Dunrobin, which is fifty-nine miles from Inverness. At the borders of
the duke's estate we found a delightfully comfortable carriage awaiting
us, and before we had gone much farther the postilion announced that
the duchess was coming to meet us. Sure enough, as we looked up the
road we saw a fine cavalcade approaching. It consisted of a splendid
coach-and-four (in which sat the duchess) with liveried postilions, and
a number of outriders, one of whom rode in front to clear the way. The
duchess seemed perfectly delighted to see mamma, and taking her into
her own carriage dashed off towards the castle, we following on behind."
At Dunrobin Mrs. Stowe found awaiting her the following note from her
friend, Lady Byron:--
LONDON, _September 10, 1856._
Your book, dear Mrs. Stowe, is of the "little leaven"
kind, and must prove a great moral force,--perhaps not
manifestly so much as secretly, and yet I can hardly
conceive so much power without immediate and sensible
effects; only there will be a strong disposition to
resist on the part of all the hollow-hearted professors
of religion, whose heathenisms you so unsparingly
expose. They have a class feeling like others. To the
young, and to those who do not reflect much on what
is offered to their belief, you will do great good by
showing how spiritual food is adulterated. The Bread
from Heaven is in the same case as baker's bread. I
feel that one perusal is not enough. It is a "mine," to
use your own simile. If there is truth in what I heard
Lord Byron say, that works of fiction _lived_ only by
the amount of _truth_ which they contained, your story
is sure of long life....
I know now, more than before, how to value communion
with you.
With kind regards to your family,
Yours affectionately,
A. T. NOEL BYRON.
From this pleasant abiding-place Mrs. Stowe writes to her husband:--
DUNROBIN CASTLE, _September 15, 1856._
MY DEAR HUSBAND,--Everything here is like a fairy
story. The place is beautiful! It is the most perfect
combination of architectural and poetic romance,
with home comfort. The people, too, are charming. We
have here Mr. Labouchere, a cabinet minister, and
Lady Mary his wife,--I like him very much, and her,
too,--Kingsley's brother, a very entertaining man, and
to-morrow Lord Ellsmere is expected. I wish you could
be here, for I am sure you would like it. Life is so
quiet and sincere and friendly, that you would feel
more as if you had come at the hearts of these people
than in London.
The Sutherland estate looks like a garden. We stopped
at the town of Frain, four miles before we reached
Sutherlandshire, where a crowd of well-to-do,
nice-looking people gathered around the carriage, and
as we drove off gave three cheers. This was better than
I expected, and looks well for their opinion of my
views.
"Dred" is selling over here wonderfully. Low says, with
all the means at his command, he has not been able to
meet the demand. He sold fifty thousand in two weeks,
and probably will sell as many more.
I am showered with letters, private and printed, in
which the only difficulty is to know what the writers
would be at. I see evidently happiness and prosperity
all through the line of this estate. I see the duke
giving his thought and time, and spending the whole
income of this estate in improvements upon it. I see
the duke and duchess evidently beloved wherever they
move. I see them most amiable, most Christian, most
considerate to everybody. The writers of the letters
admit the goodness of the duke, but denounce the
system, and beg me to observe its effects for myself.
I do observe that, compared with any other part of
the Highlands, Sutherland is a garden. I observe
well-clothed people, thriving lands, healthy children,
fine schoolhouses, and all that.
Henry was invited to the tenants' dinner, where he
excited much amusement by pledging every toast in fair
water, as he has done invariably on all occasions since
he has been here.
The duchess, last night, showed me her copy of "Dred,"
in which she has marked what most struck or pleased
her. I begged it, and am going to send it to you. She
said to me this morning at breakfast, "The Queen says
that she began 'Dred' the very minute she got it, and
is deeply interested in it."
She bought a copy of Lowell's poems, and begged me to
mark the best ones for her; so if you see him, tell him
that we have been reading him together. She is, taking
her all in all, one of the noblest-appointed women I
ever saw; real old, genuine English, such as one reads
of in history; full of nobility, courage, tenderness,
and zeal. It does me good to hear her read prayers
daily, as she does, in the midst of her servants and
guests, with a manner full of grand and noble feeling.
_Thursday Morning, September 25._ We were obliged to
get up at half past five the morning we left Dunrobin,
an effort when one doesn't go to bed till one o'clock.
We found breakfast laid for us in the library, and
before we had quite finished the duchess came in.
Our starting off was quite an imposing sight. First
came the duke's landau, in which were Mary, the duke,
and myself; then a carriage in which were Eliza and
Hatty, and finally the carriage which we had hired,
with Henry, our baggage, and Mr. Jackson (the duke's
secretary). The gardener sent a fresh bouquet for each
of us, and there was such a leave-taking, as if we were
old and dear friends. We did really love them, and had
no doubt of their love for us.
The duke rode with us as far as Dornach, where he
showed us the cathedral beneath which his ancestors are
buried, and where is a statue of his father, similar to
one the tenants have erected on top of the highest hill
in the neighborhood.
We also saw the prison, which had but two inmates,
and the old castle. Here the duke took leave of us,
and taking our own carriage we crossed the ferry and
continued on our way. After a very bad night's rest at
Inverness, in consequence of the town's being so full
of people attending some Highland games that we could
have no places at the hotel, and after a weary ride in
the rain, we came into Aberdeen Friday night.
To-morrow we go on to Edinburgh, where I hope to meet
a letter from you. The last I heard from Low, he had
sold sixty thousand of "Dred," and it was still selling
well. I have not yet heard from America how it goes.
The critics scold, and whiffle, and dispute about it,
but on the whole it is a success, so the "Times" says,
with much coughing, hemming, and standing first on one
foot and then on the other. If the "Times" were sure we
should beat in the next election, "Dred" would go up in
the scale; but as long as there is that uncertainty, it
has first one line of praise, and then one of blame.
Henry Stowe returned to America in October to enter Dartmouth College,
while the rest of the party pursued their way southward, as will be
seen by the following letters:--
CITY OF YORK, _October 10, 1856._
DEAR HUSBAND,--Henry will tell you all about our
journey, and at present I have but little time for
details. I received your first letter with great joy,
relief, and gratitude, first to God for restoring your
health and strength, and then to you for so good, long,
and refreshing a letter.
Henry, I hope, comes home with a serious determination
to do well and be a comfort. Seldom has a young man
seen what he has in this journey, or made more valuable
friends.
Since we left Aberdeen, from which place my last was
mailed, we have visited in Edinburgh with abounding
delight; thence yesterday to Newcastle. Last night
attended service in Durham Cathedral, and after that
came to York, whence we send Henry to Liverpool.
I send you letters, etc., by him. One hundred thousand
copies of "Dred" sold in four weeks! After that who
cares what critics say? Its success in England has
been complete, so far as sale is concerned. It is very
bitterly attacked, both from a literary and a religious
point of view. The "Record" is down upon it with a
cartload of solemnity; the "Athenæum" with waspish
spite; the "Edinburgh" goes out of its way to say that
the author knows nothing of the society she describes;
but yet it goes everywhere, is read everywhere, and
Mr. Low says that he puts the hundred and twenty-fifth
thousand to press confidently. The fact that so many
good judges like it better than "Uncle Tom" is success
enough.
In my journal to Henry, which you may look for next
week, you will learn how I have been very near the
Queen, and formed acquaintance with divers of her lords
and ladies, and heard all she has said about "Dred;"
how she prefers it to "Uncle Tom," how she inquired for
you, and other matters.
Till then, I am, as ever, your affectionate wife,
H. B. STOWE.
After leaving York, Mrs. Stowe and her party spent a day or two at
Carlton Rectory, on the edge of Sherwood Forest, in which they enjoyed
a most delightful picnic. From there they were to travel to London by
way of Warwick and Oxford, and of this journey Mrs. Stowe writes as
follows to her son Henry:--
"The next morning we were induced to send our things to London, being
assured by Mr. G. that he would dispatch them immediately with some
things of his own that were going, and that they should certainly await
us upon our arrival. In one respect it was well for us that we thus rid
ourselves of the trouble of looking after them, for I never saw such
blind, confusing arrangements as these English railroads have.
"When we were set down at the place where we were to change for
Warwick, we were informed that probably the train had gone. At any rate
it could only be found on the other side of the station. You might
naturally think we had nothing to do but walk across to the other side.
No, indeed! We had to ascend a flight of stairs, go through a sort of
tubular bridge, and down another pair of stairs. When we got there
the guard said the train was just about to start, and yet the ticket
office was closed. We tried the door in vain. 'You must hurry,' said
the guard. 'How can we?' said I, 'when we can't get tickets.' He went
and thumped, and at last roused the dormant intelligence inside. We got
our tickets, ran for dear life, got in, and then _waited ten minutes_!
Arrived at Warwick we had a very charming time, and after seeing all
there was to see we took cars for Oxford.
"The next day we tried to see Oxford. You can have no idea of it.
Call it a college! it is a city of colleges,--a mountain of museums,
colleges, halls, courts, parks, chapels, lecture-rooms. Out of
twenty-four colleges we saw only three. We saw enough, however, to show
us that to explore the colleges of Oxford would take a week. Then we
came away, and about eleven o'clock at night found ourselves in London.
"It was dripping and raining here, for all the world, just as it did
when we left; but we found a cosy little parlor, papered with cheerful
crimson paper, lighted by a coal-fire, a neat little supper laid out,
and the Misses Low waiting; for us. Wasn't it nice?
"We are expecting our baggage to-night. Called at Sampson Low's store
to-day and found it full everywhere of red 'Dreds.'"
Upon reaching London Mrs. Stowe found the following note from Lady
Byron awaiting her:--
OXFORD HOUSE, _October 15, 1856._
DEAR MRS. STOWE,--The newspapers represent you as
returning to London, but I cannot wait for the chance,
slender I fear, of seeing you there, for I wish to
consult you on a point admitting but of little delay.
Feeling that the sufferers in Kansas have a claim not
only to sympathy, but to the expression of it, I wish
to send them a donation. It is, however, necessary to
know what is the best application of money and what
the safest channel. Presuming that you will approve
the object, I ask you to tell me. Perhaps you would
undertake the transmission of my £50. My present
residence, two miles beyond Richmond, is opposite. I
have watched for instructions of your course with warm
interest. The sale of your book will go on increasing.
It is beginning to be understood.
Believe me, with kind regards to your daughters,
Your faithful and affectionate
A. T. NOEL BYRON.
To this note the following answer was promptly returned:--
GROVE TERRACE, KENTISH TOWN, _October 16, 1856._
DEAR LADY BYRON,--How glad I was to see your
handwriting once more! how more than glad I should be
to see _you!_ I do long to see you. I have so much to
say,--so much to ask, and need to be refreshed with a
sense of a congenial and sympathetic soul.
Thank you, my dear friend, for your sympathy with our
poor sufferers in Kansas. May God bless you for it! By
doing this you will step to my side; perhaps you may
share something of that abuse which they who "know not
what they do" heap upon all who so feel for the right.
I assure you, dear friend, I am _not_ insensible to the
fiery darts which thus fly around me....
Direct as usual to my publishers, and believe me, as
ever, with all my heart,
Affectionately yours, H. B. S.
Having dispatched this note, Mrs. Stowe wrote to her husband concerning
their surroundings and plans as follows:--
"_Friday, 16th._ Confusion in the camp! no baggage come, nobody
knows why; running to stations, inquiries, messages, and no baggage.
Meanwhile we have not even a clean collar, nothing but very soiled
traveling dresses; while Lady Mary Labouchere writes that her carriage
will wait for us at Slough Station this afternoon, and we must be off
at two. What's to be done? Luckily I did not carry all my dresses to
Dunrobin; so I, of all the party, have a dress that can be worn. We go
out and buy collars and handkerchiefs, and two o'clock beholds us at
the station house.
"_Stoke Park._ I arrived here alone, the baggage not having yet been
heard from. Mr. G., being found in London, confessed that he delayed
sending it by the proper train. In short, Mr. G. is what is called
an easy man, and one whose easiness makes everybody else uneasy. So
because he was easy and thought it was no great matter, and things
would turn out well enough, without any great care, _we_ have had all
this discomfort.
"I arrived alone at the Slough Station and found Lady Mary's carriage
waiting. Away we drove through a beautiful park full of deer, who
were so tame as to stand and look at us as we passed. The house is in
the Italian style, with a dome on top, and wide terraces with stone
balustrades around it.
"Lady Mary met me at the door, and seemed quite concerned to learn
of our ill-fortune. We went through a splendid suite of rooms to a
drawing-room, where a little tea-table was standing.
"After tea Lady Mary showed me my room. It had that delightful,
homelike air of repose and comfort they succeed so well in giving to
rooms here. There was a cheerful fire burning, an arm-chair drawn up
beside it, a sofa on the other side with a neatly arranged sofa-table
on which were writing materials. One of the little girls had put
a pot of pretty greenhouse moss in a silver basket on this table,
and my toilet cushion was made with a place in the centre to hold a
little vase of flowers. Here Lady Mary left me to rest before dressing
for dinner. I sat down in an easy-chair before the fire, and formed
hospitable resolutions as to how I would try to make rooms always look
homelike and pleasant to tired guests. Then came the maid to know if
I wanted hot water,--if I wanted anything,--and by and by it was time
for dinner. Going down into the parlor I met Mr. Labouchere and we all
went in to dinner. It was not quite as large a party as at Dunrobin,
but much in the same way. No company, but several ladies who were all
family connections.
"The following morning Lord Dufferin and Lord Alfred Paget, two
gentlemen of the Queen's household, rode over from Windsor to lunch
with us. They brought news of the goings-on there. Do you remember one
night the Duchess of S. read us a letter from Lady Dufferin, describing
the exploits of her son, who went yachting with Prince Napoleon up by
Spitzbergen, and when Prince Napoleon and all the rest gave up and went
back, still persevered and discovered a new island? Well, this was the
same man. A thin, slender person, not at all the man you would fancy as
a Mr. Great Heart,--lively, cheery, and conversational.
"Lord Alfred is also very pleasant.
"Lady Mary prevailed on Lord Dufferin to stay and drive with us after
lunch, and we went over to Clifden, the duchess's villa, of which we
saw the photograph at Dunrobin. For grace and beauty some of the rooms
in this place exceed any I have yet seen in England.
"When we came back my first thought was whether Aunt Mary and the
girls had come. Just as we were all going up to dress for dinner they
appeared. Meanwhile, the Queen had sent over from Windsor for Lady Mary
and her husband to dine with her that evening, and such invitations are
understood as commands.
"So, although they themselves had invited four or five people to
dinner, they had to go and leave us to entertain ourselves. Lady
Mary was dressed very prettily in a flounced white silk dress with a
pattern of roses woven round the bottom of each flounce, and looked
very elegant. Mr. Labouchere wore breeches, with knee and shoe buckles
sparkling with diamonds.
"They got home soon after we had left the drawing-room, as the Queen
always retires at eleven. No late hours for her.
"The next day Lady Mary told me that the Queen had talked to her all
about 'Dred,' and how she preferred it to 'Uncle Tom's Cabin,' how
interested she was in Nina, how provoked when she died, and how she
was angry that something dreadful did not happen to Tom Gordon. She
inquired for papa, and the rest of the family, all of whom she seemed
to be well informed about.
"The next morning we had Lord Dufferin again to breakfast. He is one of
the most entertaining young men I have seen in England, full of real
thought and noble feeling, and has a wide range of reading. He had read
all our American literature, and was very flattering in his remarks
on Hawthorne, Poe, and Longfellow. I find J. R. Lowell less known,
however, than he deserves to be.
"Lord Dufferin says that his mother wrote him some verses on his coming
of age, and that he built a tower for them and inscribed them on a
brass plate. I recommend the example to you, Henry; make yourself the
tower and your memory the brass plate.
"This morning came also, to call, Lady Augusta Bruce, Lord Elgin's
daughter, one of the Duchess of Kent's ladies-in-waiting; a very
excellent, sensible girl, who is a strong anti-slavery body.
"After lunch we drove over to Eton, and went in to see the provost's
house. After this, as we were passing by Windsor the coachman suddenly
stopped and said, 'The Queen is coming, my lady.' We stood still and
the royal cortége passed. I only saw the Queen, who bowed graciously.
"Lady Mary stayed at our car door till it left the station, and handed
in a beautiful bouquet as we parted. This is one of the loveliest
visits I have made."
After filling a number of other pleasant engagements in England, among
which was a visit in the family of Charles Kingsley, Mrs. Stowe and her
party crossed the Channel and settled down for some months in Paris for
the express purpose of studying French. From the French capital she
writes to her husband in Andover as follows:--
PARIS, _November 7, 1856._
MY DEAR HUSBAND,--On the 28th, when your last was
written, I was at Charles Kingsley's. It seemed odd
enough to Mary and me to find ourselves, long after
dark, alone in a hack, driving towards the house of a
man whom we never had seen (nor his wife either).
My heart fluttered as, after rumbling a long way
through the dark, we turned into a yard. We knocked at
a door and were met in the hall by a man who stammers
a little in his speech, and whose inquiry, "Is this
Mrs. Stowe?" was our first positive introduction.
Ushered into a large, pleasant parlor lighted by a coal
fire, which flickered on comfortable chairs, lounges,
pictures, statuettes, and book-cases, we took a good
view of him. He is tall, slender, with blue eyes, brown
hair, and a hale, well-browned face, and somewhat
loose-jointed withal. His wife is a real Spanish beauty.
How we did talk and go on for three days! I guess he
is tired. I'm sure we were. He is a nervous, excitable
being, and talks with head, shoulders, arms, and
hands, while his hesitance makes it the harder. Of his
theology I will say more some other time. He, also,
has been through the great distress, the "Conflict
of Ages," but has come out at a different end from
Edward, and stands with John Foster, though with more
positiveness than he.
He laughed a good deal at many stories I told him of
father, and seemed delighted to hear about him. But he
is, what I did not expect, a zealous Churchman; insists
that the Church of England is the finest and broadest
platform a man can stand on, and that the thirty-nine
articles are the only ones he could subscribe to.
I told him you thought them the best summary (of
doctrine) you knew, which pleased him greatly.
Well, I got your letter to-night in Paris, at No. 19
Rue de Clichy, where you may as well direct your future
letters.
We reached Paris about eleven o'clock last night and
took a carriage for 17 Rue de Clichy, but when we got
there, no ringing or pounding could rouse anybody.
Finally, in despair, we remembered a card that had been
handed into the cars by some hotel-runner, and finding
it was of an English and French hotel, we drove there,
and secured very comfortable accommodations. We did not
get to bed until after two o'clock. The next morning I
sent a messenger to find Mme. Borione, and discovered
that we had mistaken the number, and should have gone
to No. 19, which was the next door; so we took a
carriage and soon found ourselves established here,
where we have a nice parlor and two bedrooms.
There are twenty-one in the family, mostly Americans,
like ourselves, come to learn to speak French. One of
them is a tall, handsome, young English lady, Miss
Durant, who is a sculptress, studying with Baron de
Triqueti. She took me to his studio, and he immediately
remarked that she ought to get me to sit. I said
I would, "only my French lessons." "Oh," said he,
smiling, "we will give you French lessons while you
sit." So I go to-morrow morning.
As usual, my horrid pictures do me a service, and
people seem relieved when they see me; think me even
handsome "in a manner." Kingsley, in his relief,
expressed as much to his wife, and as beauty has never
been one of my strong points I am open to flattery upon
it.
We had a most agreeable call from Arthur Helps before
we left London. He, Kingsley, and all the good people
are full of the deepest anxiety for our American
affairs. They really do feel very deeply, seeing the
peril so much plainer than we do in America.
_Sunday night._ I fear I have delayed your letter too
long. The fact is, that of the ten days I have been
here I have been laid up three with severe neuralgia,
viz., _toothache in the backbone_, and since then have
sat all day to be modeled for my bust.
We spent the other evening with Baron de Triqueti,
the sculptor. He has an English wife, and a charming
daughter about the age of our girls. Life in Paris is
altogether more simple and natural than in England.
They give you a plate of cake and a cup of tea in the
most informal, social way,--the tea-kettle sings at the
fire, and the son and daughter busy themselves gayly
together making and handing tea. When tea was over, M.
de Triqueti showed us a manuscript copy of the Gospels,
written by his mother, to console herself in a season
of great ill-health, and which he had illustrated all
along with exquisite pen-drawings, resembling the most
perfect line engravings. I can't describe the beauty,
grace, delicacy, and fullness of devotional feeling in
these people. He is one of the loveliest men I ever saw.
We have already three evenings in the week in which we
can visit and meet friends if we choose, namely, at
Madame Mohl's, Madame Lanziel's, and Madame Belloc's.
All these salôns are informal, social gatherings, with
no fuss of refreshments, no nonsense of any kind. Just
the cheeriest, heartiest, kindest little receptions you
ever saw.
A kiss to dear little Charley. If he could see all the
things that I see every day in the Tuileries and Champs
Elysées, he would go wild. All Paris is a general
whirligig out of doors, but indoors people seem steady,
quiet, and sober as anybody.
_November 30._ This is Sunday evening, and a Sunday
in Paris always puts me in mind of your story about
somebody who said, "Bless you! they make such a
noise that the Devil couldn't meditate." All the
extra work and odd jobs of life are put into Sunday.
Your washerwoman comes Sunday, with her innocent,
good-humored face, and would be infinitely at a
loss to know why she shouldn't. Your bonnet, cloak,
shoes, and everything are sent home Sunday morning,
and all the way to church there is such whirligiging
and pirouetting along the boulevards as almost takes
one's breath away. To-day we went to the Oratoire to
hear M. Grand Pierre. I could not understand much; my
French ear is not quick enough to follow. I could only
perceive that the subject was "La Charité," and that
the speaker was fluent, graceful, and earnest, the
audience serious and attentive.
Last night we were at Baron de Triqueti's again, with a
party invited to celebrate the birthday of their eldest
daughter, Blanche, a lovely girl of nineteen. There
were some good ladies there who had come eighty leagues
to meet me, and who were so delighted with my miserable
French that it was quite encouraging. I believe I am
getting over the sandbar at last, and conversation is
beginning to come easy to me.
There were three French gentlemen who had just been
reading "Dred" in English, and who were as excited
and full of it as could be, and I talked with them to
a degree that astonished myself. There is a review
of "Dred" in the "Revue des Deux Mondes" which has
long extracts from the book, and is written in a very
appreciative and favorable spirit. Generally speaking,
French critics seem to have a finer appreciation of my
subtle shades of meaning than English. I am curious
to hear what Professor Park has to say about it.
There has been another review in "La Presse" equally
favorable. All seem to see the truth about American
slavery much plainer than people can who are in it. If
American ministers and Christians could see through
their sophistical spider-webs, with what wonder, pity,
and contempt they would regard their own vacillating
condition!
We visit once a week at Madame Mohl's, where we meet
all sorts of agreeable people. Lady Elgin doesn't go
into society now, having been struck with paralysis,
but sits at home and receives her friends as usual.
This notion of sitting always in the open air is one of
her peculiarities.
I must say, life in Paris is arranged more sensibly
than with us. Visiting involves no trouble in the
feeding line. People don't go to eat. A cup of tea and
plate of biscuit is all,--just enough to break up the
stiffness.
It is wonderful that the people here do not seem to
have got over "Uncle Tom" a bit. The impression seems
fresh as if just published. How often have they said,
That book has revived the Gospel among the poor of
France; it has done more than all the books we have
published put together. It has gone among the _les
ouvriers_, among the poor of Faubourg St. Antoine, and
nobody knows how many have been led to Christ by it. Is
not this blessed, my dear husband? Is it not worth all
the suffering of writing it?
I went the other evening to M. Grand Pierre's, where
there were three rooms full of people, all as eager
and loving as ever we met in England or Scotland. Oh,
if Christians in Boston could only see the earnestness
of feeling with which Christians here regard slavery,
and their surprise and horror at the lukewarmness, to
say the least, of our American church! About eleven
o'clock we all joined in singing a hymn, then M. Grand
Pierre made an address, in which I was named in the
most affectionate and cordial manner. Then followed a
beautiful prayer for our country, for America, on which
hang so many of the hopes of Protestantism. One and all
then came up, and there was great shaking of hands and
much effusion.
Under date of December 28, Mrs. Perkins writes: "On Sunday we went with
Mr. and Mrs. (Jacob) Abbott to the Hôtel des Invalides, and I think
I was never more interested and affected. Three or four thousand old
and disabled soldiers have here a beautiful and comfortable home. We
went to the morning service. The church is very large, and the colors
taken in battle are hung on the walls. Some of them are so old as to be
moth-eaten. The service is performed, as near as possible, in imitation
of the service before a battle. The drum beats the call to assemble,
and the common soldiers march up and station themselves in the centre
of the church, under the commander. All the services are regulated by
the beat of the drum. Only one priest officiates, and soldiers are
stationed around to protect him. The music is from a brass band, and is
very magnificent.
"In the afternoon I went to vespers in the Madeleine, where the music
was exquisite. They have two fine organs at opposite ends of the
church. The 'Adeste Fidelis' was sung by a single voice, accompanied
by the organ, and after every verse it was taken up by male voices
and the other organ and repeated. The effect was wonderfully fine. I
have always found in our small churches at home that the organ was too
powerful and pained my head, but in these large cathedrals the effect
is different. The volume of sound rolls over, full but soft, and I feel
as though it must come from another sphere.
"In the evening Mr. and Mrs. Bunsen called. He is a son of Chevalier
Bunsen, and she a niece of Elizabeth Fry,--very intelligent and
agreeable people."
Under date of January 25, Mrs. Stowe writes from Paris:--
"Here is a story for Charley. The boys in the Faubourg St. Antoine are
the children of _ouvriers_, and every day their mothers give them two
sous to buy a dinner. When they heard I was coming to the school, of
their own accord they subscribed half their dinner money to give to me
for the poor slaves. This five-franc piece I have now; I have bought it
of the cause for five dollars, and am going to make a hole in it and
hang it round Charley's neck as a medal.
"I have just completed arrangements for leaving the girls at a
Protestant boarding-school while I go to Rome.
"We expect to start the 1st of February, and my direction will be, E.
Bartholimeu, 108 Via Margaretta."
CHAPTER XIII
OLD SCENES REVISITED, 1856.
EN ROUTE TO ROME.--TRIALS OF TRAVEL.--A MIDNIGHT
ARRIVAL AND AN INHOSPITABLE RECEPTION.--GLORIES OF THE
ETERNAL CITY.--NAPLES AND VESUVIUS.--VENICE.--HOLY
WEEK IN ROME.--RETURN TO ENGLAND.--LETTER FROM HARRIET
MARTINEAU ON "DRED."--A WORD FROM MR. PRESCOTT ON
"DRED."--FAREWELL TO LADY BYRON.
AFTER leaving Paris Mrs. Stowe and her sister, Mrs. Perkins, traveled
leisurely through the South of France toward Italy, stopping at Amiens,
Lyons, and Marseilles. At this place they took steamer for Genoa,
Leghorn, and Civita Vecchia. During their last night on shipboard they
met with an accident, of which, and their subsequent trials in reaching
Rome, Mrs. Stowe writes as follows:--
About eleven o'clock, as I had just tranquilly laid
down in my berth, I was roused by a grating crash,
accompanied by a shock that shook the whole ship,
and followed by the sound of a general rush on deck,
trampling, scuffling, and cries. I rushed to the door
and saw all the gentlemen hurrying on their clothes and
getting confusedly towards the stairway. I went back
to Mary, and we put on our things in silence, and, as
soon as we could, got into the upper saloon. It was an
hour before we could learn anything certainly, except
that we had run into another vessel. The fate of the
Arctic came to us both, but we did not mention it to
each other; indeed, a quieter, more silent company
you would not often see. Had I had any confidence
in the administration of the boat, it would have
been better, but as I had not, I sat in momentary
uncertainty. Had we then known, as we have since, the
fate of a boat recently sunk in the Mediterranean by
a similar carelessness, it would have increased our
fears. By a singular chance an officer, whose wife and
children were lost on board that boat, was on board
ours, and happened to be on the forward part of the
boat when the accident occurred. The captain and mate
were both below; there was nobody looking out, and
had not this officer himself called out to stop the
boat, we should have struck her with such force as to
have sunk us. As it was, we turned aside and the shock
came on a paddle-wheel, which was broken by it, for
when, after two hours' delay, we tried to start and
had gone a little way, there was another crash and the
paddle-wheel fell down. You may be sure we did little
sleeping that night. It was an inexpressible desolation
to think that we might never again see those we loved.
No one knows how much one thinks, and how rapidly, in
such hours.
In the Naples boat that was sunk a short time ago, the
women perished in a dreadful way. The shock threw the
chimney directly across the egress from below, so that
they could not get on deck, and they were all drowned
in the cabin.
We went limping along with one broken limb till
the next day about eleven, when we reached Civita
Vecchia, where there were two hours more of delay
about passports. Then we, that is, Mary and I, and a
Dr. Edison from Philadelphia, with his son Alfred,
took a carriage to Rome, but they gave us a miserable
thing that looked as if it had been made soon after
the deluge. About eight o'clock at night, on a lonely
stretch of road, the wheel came off. We got out, and
our postilions stood silently regarding matters. None
of us could speak Italian, they could not speak French;
but the driver at last conveyed the idea that for five
francs he could get a man to come and mend the wheel.
The five francs were promised, and he untackled a horse
and rode off. Mary and I walked up and down the dark,
desolate road, occasionally reminding each other that
we were on classic ground, and laughing at the oddity
of our lonely, starlight promenade. After a while our
driver came back, Tag, Rag, and Bobtail at his heels.
I don't think I can do greater justice to Italian
costumes than by this respectable form of words.
Then there was another consultation. They put a
bit of rotten timber under to pry the carriage up.
Fortunately, it did not break, as we all expected it
would, till after the wheel was on. Then a new train
of thought was suggested. How was it to be kept on?
Evidently they had not thought far in that direction,
for they had brought neither hammer nor nail, nor tool
of any kind, and therefore they looked first at the
wheel, then at each other, and then at us. The doctor
now produced a little gimlet, with the help of which
the broken fragments of the former linchpin were pushed
out, and the way was cleared for a new one. Then they
began knocking a fence to pieces to get out nails, but
none could be found to fit. At last another ambassador
was sent back for nails. While we were thus waiting,
the diligence, in which many of our ship's company were
jogging on to Rome, came up. They had plenty of room
inside, and one of the party, seeing our distress,
tried hard to make the driver stop, but he doggedly
persisted in going on, and declared if anybody got down
to help us he would leave him behind.
An interesting little episode here occurred. It was
raining, and Mary and I proposed, as the wheel was now
on, to take our seats. We had no sooner done so than
the horses were taken with a sudden fit of animation
and ran off with us in the most vivacious manner, Tag,
Rag, and Co. shouting in the rear. Some heaps of stone
a little in advance presented an interesting prospect
by way of a terminus. However, the horses were lucidly
captured before the wheel was off again; and our
ambassador being now returned, we were set right and
again proceeded.
I must not forget to remark that at every post where
we changed horses and drivers, we had a pitched battle
with the driver for more money than we had been told
was the regular rate, and the carriage was surrounded
with a perfect mob of ragged, shock-headed, black-eyed
people, whose words all ended in "ino," and who raved
and ranted at us till finally we paid much more than we
ought, to get rid of them.
At the gates of Rome the official, after looking at our
passports, coolly told the doctor that if he had a mind
to pay him five francs he could go in without further
disturbance, but if not he would keep the baggage till
morning. This form of statement had the recommendation
of such precision and neatness of expression that we
paid him forthwith, and into Rome we dashed at two
o'clock in the morning of the 9th of February, 1857, in
a drizzling rain.
We drove to the Hotel d'Angleterre,--it was full,--and
ditto to four or five others, and in the last effort
our refractory wheel came off again, and we all got out
into the street. About a dozen lean, ragged "corbies,"
who are called porters and who are always lying in
wait for travelers, pounced upon us. They took down
our baggage in a twinkling, and putting it all into
the street surrounded it, and chattered over it, while
M. and I stood in the rain and received first lessons
in Italian. How we did try to say something! but they
couldn't talk anything but in "ino" as aforesaid. The
doctor finally found a man who could speak a word or
two of French, and leaving Mary, Alfred, and me to keep
watch over our pile of trunks, he went off with him to
apply for lodgings. I have heard many flowery accounts
of first impressions of Rome. I must say ours was
somewhat sombre.
A young man came by and addressed us in English. How
cheering! We almost flew upon him. We begged him, at
least, to lend us his Italian to call another carriage,
and he did so. A carriage which was passing was luckily
secured, and Mary and I, with all our store of boxes
and little parcels, were placed in it out of the rain,
at least. Here we sat while the doctor from time to
time returned from his wanderings to tell us he could
find no place. "Can it be," said I, "that we are to
be obliged to spend a night in the streets?" What
made it seem more odd was the knowledge that, could
we only find them, we had friends enough in Rome who
would be glad to entertain us. We began to speculate
on lodgings. Who knows what we may get entrapped into?
Alfred suggested stories he had read of beds placed on
trap-doors,--of testers which screwed down on people
and smothered them; and so, when at last the doctor
announced lodgings found, we followed in rather an
uncertain frame of mind.
We alighted at a dirty stone passage, smelling of cats
and onions, damp, cold, and earthy, we went up stone
stairways, and at last were ushered into two very
decent chambers, where we might lay our heads. The
"corbies" all followed us,--black-haired, black-browed,
ragged, and clamorous as ever. They insisted that we
should pay the pretty little sum of twenty francs, or
four dollars, for bringing our trunks about twenty
steps. The doctor modestly but firmly declined to
be thus imposed upon, and then ensued a general
"chatteration;" one and all fell into attitudes, and
the "inos" and "issimos" rolled freely. "For pity's
sake get them off," we said; so we made a truce for ten
francs, but still they clamored, forced their way even
into our bedroom, and were only repulsed by a loud and
combined volley of "No, no, noes!" which we all set up
at once, upon which they retreated.
Our hostess was a little French woman, and that
reassured us. I examined the room, and seeing no trace
of treacherous testers, or trap-doors, resolved to
avail myself without fear of the invitation of a very
clean, white bed, where I slept till morning without
dreaming.
The next day we sent our cards to M. Bartholimeu, and
before we had finished breakfast he was on the spot.
We then learned that he had been watching the diligence
office for over a week, and that he had the pleasant
set of apartments we are now occupying all ready and
waiting for us.
_March 1._
MY DEAR HUSBAND,--Every day is opening to me a new
world of wonders here in Italy. I have been in the
Catacombs, where I was shown many memorials of the
primitive Christians, and to-day we are going to the
Vatican. The weather is sunny and beautiful beyond
measure, and flowers are springing in the fields on
every side. Oh, my dear, how I do long to have you
here to enjoy what you are so much better fitted to
appreciate than I,--this wonderful combination of the
past and the present, of what has been and what is!
Think of strolling leisurely through the Forum, of
seeing the very stones that were laid in the time of
the Republic, of rambling over the ruined Palace of the
Cæsars, of walking under the Arch of Titus, of seeing
the Dying Gladiator, and whole ranges of rooms filled
with wonders of art, all in one morning! All this I
did on Saturday, and only wanted you. You know so much
more and could appreciate so much better. At the Palace
of the Cæsars, where the very dust is a _mélange_ of
exquisite marbles, I saw for the first time an acanthus
growing, and picked my first leaf.
Our little _ménage_ moves on prosperously; the doctor
takes excellent care of us and we of him. One sees
everybody here at Rome, John Bright, Mrs. Hemans' son,
Mrs. Gaskell, etc., etc. Over five thousand English
travelers are said to be here. Jacob Abbot and wife
are coming. Rome is a world! Rome is an astonishment!
Papal Rome is an enchantress! Old as she is, she is
like Niñon d'Enclos,--the young fall in love with her.
You will hear next from us at Naples.
Affectionately yours,
H. B. S.
From Rome the travelers went to Naples, and after visiting Pompeii and
Herculaneum made the ascent of Vesuvius, a graphic account of which
is contained in a letter written at this time by Mrs. Stowe to her
daughters in Paris. After describing the preparations and start, she
says:--
"Gradually the ascent became steeper and steeper, till at length it
was all our horses could do to pull us up. The treatment of horses in
Naples is a thing that takes away much from the pleasure and comfort of
such travelers as have the least feeling for animals. The people seem
absolutely to have no consideration for them. You often see vehicles
drawn by one horse carrying fourteen or fifteen great, stout men and
women. This is the worse as the streets are paved with flat stones
which are exceedingly slippery. On going up hill the drivers invariably
race their horses, urging them on with a constant storm of blows.
"As the ascent of the mountain became steeper, the horses panted and
trembled in a way that made us feel that we could not sit in the
carriage, yet the guide and driver never made the slightest motion to
leave the box. At last three of us got out and walked, and invited
our guide to do the same, yet with all this relief the last part of
the ascent was terrible, and the rascally fellows actually forced the
horses to it by beating them with long poles on the back of their
legs. No Englishman or American would ever allow a horse to be treated
so.
"The Hermitage is a small cabin, where one can buy a little wine or
any other refreshment one may need. There is a species of wine made of
the grapes of Vesuvius, called 'Lachryma Christi,' that has a great
reputation. Here was a miscellaneous collection of beggars, ragged
boys, men playing guitars, bawling donkey drivers, and people wanting
to sell sticks or minerals, the former to assist in the ascent, and the
latter as specimens of the place. In the midst of the commotion we were
placed on our donkeys, and the serious, pensive brutes moved away. At
last we reached the top of the mountain, and I gladly sprang on firm
land. The whole top of the mountain was covered with wavering wreaths
of smoke, from the shadows of which emerged two English gentlemen,
who congratulated us on our safe arrival, and assured us that we were
fortunate in our day, as the mountain was very active. We could hear
a hollow, roaring sound, like the burning of a great furnace, but saw
nothing. 'Is this all?' I said. 'Oh, no. Wait till the guide comes up
with the rest of the party,' and soon one after another came up, and we
then followed the guide up a cloudy, rocky path, the noise of the fire
constantly becoming nearer. Finally we stood on the verge of a vast,
circular pit about forty feet deep, the floor of which is of black,
ropy waves of congealed lava.
"The sides are sulphur cliffs, stained in every brilliant shade, from
lightest yellow to deepest orange and brown. In the midst of the lava
floor rises a black cone, the chimney of the great furnace. This was
burning and flaming like the furnace of a glass-house, and every few
moments throwing up showers of cinders and melted lava which fell with
a rattling sound on the black floor of the pit. One small bit of the
lava came over and fell at our feet, and a gentleman lighted his cigar
at it.
"All around where we stood the smoke was issuing from every chance rent
and fissure of the rock, and the Neapolitans who crowded round us were
every moment soliciting us to let them cook us an egg in one of these
rifts, and, overcome by persuasion, I did so, and found it very nicely
boiled, or rather steamed, though the shell tasted of Glauber's salt
and sulphur.
"The whole place recalled to my mind so vividly Milton's description of
the infernal regions, that I could not but believe that he had drawn
the imagery from this source. Milton, as we all know, was some time in
Italy, and, although I do not recollect any account of his visiting
Vesuvius, I cannot think how he should have shaped his language so
coincidently to the phenomena if he had not.
"On the way down the mountain our ladies astonished the natives
by making an express stipulation that our donkeys were not to be
beaten,--why, they could not conjecture. The idea of any feeling of
compassion for an animal is so foreign to a Neapolitan's thoughts that
they supposed it must be some want of courage on our part. When, once
in a while, the old habit so prevailed that the boy felt that he must
strike the donkey, and when I forbade him, he would say, 'Courage,
signora, courage.'
"Time would fail me to tell the whole of our adventures in Southern
Italy. We left it with regret, and I will tell you some time by word of
mouth what else we saw.
"We went by water from Naples to Leghorn, and were gloriously seasick,
all of us. From Leghorn we went to Florence, where we abode two weeks
nearly. Two days ago we left Florence and started for Venice, stopping
one day and two nights _en route_ at Bologna. Here we saw the great
university, now used as a library, the walls of which are literally
covered with the emblazoned names and coats of arms of distinguished
men who were educated there.
"_Venice._ The great trouble of traveling in Europe, or indeed
of traveling anywhere, is that you can never _catch_ romance. No
sooner are you in any place than being there seems the most natural,
matter-of-fact occurrence in the world. Nothing looks foreign or
strange to you. You take your tea and your dinner, eat, drink, and
sleep as aforetime, and scarcely realize where you are or what you are
seeing. But Venice is an exception to this state of things; it is all
romance from beginning to end, and never ceases to seem strange and
picturesque.
"It was a rainy evening when our cars rumbled over the long railroad
bridge across the lagoon that leads to the station. Nothing but flat,
dreary swamps, and then the wide expanse of sea on either side. The
cars stopped, and the train, being a long one, left us a little out
of the station. We got out in a driving rain, in company with flocks
of Austrian soldiers, with whom the third-class cars were filled. We
went through a long passage, and emerged into a room where all nations
seemed commingling; Italians, Germans, French, Austrians, Orientals,
all in wet weather trim.
"Soon, however, the news was brought that our baggage was looked out
and our gondolas ready.
"The first plunge under the low, black hood of a gondola, especially of
a rainy night, has something funereal in it. Four of us sat cowering
together, and looked, out of the rain-dropped little windows at the
sides, at the scene. Gondolas of all sizes were gliding up and down,
with their sharp, fishy-looking prows of steel pushing their ways
silently among each other, while gondoliers shouted and jabbered, and
made as much confusion in their way as terrestrial hackmen on dry land.
Soon, however, trunks and carpet-bags being adjusted, we pushed off,
and went gliding away up the Grand Canal, with a motion so calm that
we could scarce discern it except by the moving of objects on shore.
Venice, _la belle_, appeared to as much disadvantage as a beautiful
woman bedraggled in a thunder-storm."
"_Lake Como._ We stayed in Venice five days, and during that time saw
all the sights that it could enter the head of a _valet-de-place_ to
afflict us with. It is an affliction, however, for which there is no
remedy, because you want to see the things, and would be very sorry if
you went home without having done so. From Venice we went to Milan to
see the cathedral and Leonardo da Vinci's 'Last Supper.' The former is
superb, and of the latter I am convinced, from the little that remains
of it, that it _was_ the greatest picture the world ever saw. We shall
run back to Rome for Holy Week, and then to Paris.
"_Rome._ From Lake Como we came back here for Holy Week, and now it is
over.
"'What do you think of it?'
"Certainly no thoughtful or sensitive person, no person impressible
either through the senses or the religious feelings, can fail to feel
it deeply.
"In the first place, the mere fact of the different nations of
the earth moving, so many of them, with one accord, to so old and
venerable a city, to celebrate the death and resurrection of Jesus, is
something in itself affecting. Whatever dispute there may be about the
other commemorative feasts of Christendom, the time of this epoch is
fixed unerringly by the Jews' Passover. That great and solemn feast,
therefore, stands as an historical monument to mark the date of the
most important and thrilling events which this world ever witnessed.
"When one sees the city filling with strangers, pilgrims arriving on
foot, the very shops decorating themselves in expectancy, every church
arranging its services, the prices even of temporal matters raised by
the crowd and its demands, he naturally thinks, Wherefore, why is all
this? and he must be very careless indeed if it do not bring to mind,
in a more real way than before, that at this very time, so many years
ago, Christ and his apostles were living actors in the scenes thus
celebrated to-day."
As the spring was now well advanced, it was deemed advisable to bring
this pleasant journey to a close, and for Mrs. Stowe at least it was
imperative that she return to America. Therefore, leaving Rome with
many regrets and lingering, backward glances, the two sisters hurried
to Paris, where they found their brother-in-law, Mr. John Hooker,
awaiting them. Under date of May 3 Mrs. Stowe writes from Paris to her
husband: "Here I am once more, safe in Paris after a fatiguing journey.
I found the girls well, and greatly improved in their studies. As to
bringing them home with me now, I have come to the conclusion that it
would not be expedient. A few months more of study here will do them
a world of good. I have, therefore, arranged that they shall come in
November in the Arago, with a party of friends who are going at that
time.
"John Hooker is here, so Mary is going with him and some others for a
few weeks into Switzerland. I have some business affairs to settle in
England, and shall sail from Liverpool in the Europa on the sixth of
June. I am _so_ homesick to-day, and long with a great longing to be
with you once more. I am impatient to go, and yet dread the voyage.
Still, to reach you I must commit myself once more to the ocean, of
which at times I have a nervous horror, as to the arms of my Father.
'The sea is his, and He made it.' It is a rude, noisy old servant, but
it is always obedient to his will, and cannot carry me beyond his power
and love, wherever or to whatever it bears me."
Having established her daughters in a Protestant boarding-school in
Paris, Mrs. Stowe proceeded to London. While there she received the
following letter from Harriet Martineau:--
AMBLESIDE, _June 1._
DEAR MRS. STOWE,--I have been at my wits' end to learn
how to reach you, as your note bore no direction but
"London." Arnolds, Croppers, and others could give no
light, and the newspapers tell only where you _had_
been. So I commit this to your publishers, trusting
that it will find you somewhere, and in time, perhaps,
bring you here. _Can't_ you come? You are aware that
we shall never meet if you don't come soon. I see
no strangers at all, but I hope to have breath and
strength enough for a little talk with you, if you
could come. You could have perfect freedom at the times
when I am laid up, and we could seize my "capability
seasons" for our talk.
The weather and scenery are usually splendid just now.
Did I see you (in white frock and black silk apron)
when I was in Ohio in 1835? Your sister I knew well,
and I have a clear recollection of your father. I
believe and hope you were the young lady in the black
silk apron.
Do you know I rather dreaded reading your book! Sick
people _are_ weak: and one of my chief weaknesses is
dislike of novels,--(except some old ones which I
almost know by heart). I knew that with you I should be
safe from the cobweb-spinning of our modern subjective
novelists and the jaunty vulgarity of our "funny
philosophers"--the Dickens sort, who have tired us
out. But I dreaded the alternative,--the too strong
interest. But oh! the delight I have had in "Dred!" The
genius carries all before it, and drowns everything in
glorious pleasure. So marked a work of genius claims
exemption from every sort of comparison; but, _as you
ask for my opinion of the book_, you may like to know
that I think it far superior to "Uncle Tom." I have
no doubt that a multitude of people will say it is a
falling off, because they made up their minds that
any new book of yours must be inferior to that, and
because it is so rare a thing for a prodigious fame to
be sustained by a second book; but, in my own mind I
am entirely convinced that the second book is by far
the best. Such faults as you have are in the artistic
department, and there is less defect in "Dred" than
in "Uncle Tom," and the whole material and treatment
seem to me richer and more substantial. I have had
critiques of "Dred" from the two very wisest people
I know--perfectly unlike each other (the critics, I
mean), and they delight me by thinking exactly like
each other and like me. They distinctly prefer it to
"Uncle Tom." To say the plain truth, it seems to me so
splendid a work of genius that nothing that I can say
can give you an idea of the intensity of admiration
with which I read it. It seemed to me, as I told my
nieces, that our English fiction writers had better
shut up altogether and have done with it, for one will
have no patience with any but didactic writing after
yours. My nieces (and you may have heard that Maria, my
nurse, is very, very clever) are thoroughly possessed
with the book, and Maria says she feels as if a fresh
department of human life had been opened to her since
this day week. I feel the freshness no less, while,
from my travels, I can be even more assured of the
truthfulness of your wonderful representation. I see
no limit to the good it may do by suddenly splitting
open Southern life, for everybody to look into. It
is precisely the thing that is most wanted,--just as
"Uncle Tom" was wanted, three years since, to show
what negro slavery in your republic was like. It is
plantation-life, particularly in the present case,
that I mean. As for your exposure of the weakness and
helplessness of the churches, I deeply honor you for
the courage with which you have made the exposure; but
I don't suppose that any amendment is to be looked for
in that direction. You have unburdened your own soul in
that matter, and if they had been corrigible, you would
have helped a good many more. But I don't expect that
result. The Southern railing at you will be something
unequaled, I suppose. I hear that three of us have
the honor of being abused from day to day already, as
most portentous and shocking women, you, Mrs. Chapman,
and myself (as the traveler of twenty years ago). Not
only newspapers, but pamphlets of such denunciation
are circulated, I'm told. I'm afraid now I, and even
Mrs. Chapman, must lose our fame, and all the railing
will be engrossed by you. My little function is to keep
English people tolerably right, by means of a London
daily paper, while the danger of misinformation and
misreading from the "Times" continues. I can't conceive
how such a paper as the "Times" can fail to be _better
informed_ than it is. At times it seems as if its New
York correspondent was making game of it. The able and
excellent editor of the "Daily News" gives me complete
liberty on American subjects, and Mrs. Chapman's and
other friends' constant supply of information enables
me to use this liberty for making the cause better
understood. I hope I shall hear that you are coming.
It is like a great impertinence--my having written so
freely about your book: but you asked my opinion,--that
is all I can say. Thank you much for sending the book
to me. If you come you will write our names in it, and
this will make it a valuable legacy to a nephew or
niece.
Believe me gratefully and affectionately yours,
HARRIET MARTINEAU.
In London Mrs. Stowe also received the following letter from Prescott,
the historian, which after long wandering had finally rested quietly at
her English publishers awaiting her coming.
PEPPERELL, _October 4, 1856._
MY DEAR MRS. STOWE,--I am much obliged to you for the
copy of "Dred" which Mr. Phillips put into my hands. It
has furnished us our evening's amusement since we have
been in the country, where we spend the brilliant month
of October.
The African race are much indebted to you for
showing up the good sides of their characters, their
cheerfulness, and especially their powers of humor,
which are admirably set off by their peculiar _patois_,
in the same manner as the expression of the Scottish
sentiment is by the peculiar Scottish dialect. People
differ; but I was most struck among your characters
with Uncle Tiff and Nina. The former a variation of
good old Uncle Tom, though conceived in a merrier vein
than belonged to that sedate personage; the difference
of their tempers in this respect being well suited to
the difference of the circumstances in which they were
placed. But Nina, to my mind, is the true _hero_ of the
book, which I should have named after her instead of
"Dred." She is indeed a charming conception, full of
what is called character, and what is masculine in her
nature is toned down by such a delightful sweetness
and kindness of disposition as makes her perfectly
fascinating. I cannot forgive you for smothering her
so prematurely. No _dramatis personæ_ could afford the
loss of such a character. But I will not bore you with
criticism, of which you have had quite enough. I must
thank you, however, for giving Tom Gordon a guttapercha
cane to perform his flagellations with.
I congratulate you on the brilliant success of the
work, unexampled even in this age of authorship; and,
as Mr. Phillips informs me, greater even in the old
country than in ours. I am glad you are likely to
settle the question and show that a Yankee writer can
get a copyright in England--little thanks to our own
government, which compels him to go there in order to
get it.
With sincere regard, believe me, dear Mrs. Stowe,
Very truly yours,
WM. H. PRESCOTT.
From Liverpool, on the eve of her departure for America, Mrs. Stowe
wrote to her daughters in Paris:--
I spent the day before leaving London with Lady Byron.
She is lovelier than ever, and inquired kindly about
you both. I left London to go to Manchester, and
reaching there found the Rev. Mr. Gaskell waiting to
welcome me in the station. Mrs. Gaskell seems lovely
at home, where besides being a writer she proves
herself to be a first-class housekeeper, and performs
all the duties of a minister's wife. After spending a
delightful day with her I came here to the beautiful
"Dingle," which is more enchanting than ever. I am
staying with Mrs. Edward Cropper, Lord Denman's
daughter.
I want you to tell Aunt Mary that Mr. Ruskin lives with
his father at a place called Denmark Hill, Camberwell.
He has told me that the gallery of Turner pictures
there is open to me or my friends at any time of the
day or night. Both young and old Mr. Ruskin are fine
fellows, sociable and hearty, and will cordially
welcome any of my friends who desire to look at their
pictures.
I write in haste, as I must be aboard the ship
to-morrow at eight o'clock. So good-by, my dear girls,
from your ever affectionate mother.
Her last letter written before sailing was to Lady Byron, and serves
to show how warm an intimacy had sprung up between them. It was as
follows:--
_June 5, 1857._
DEAR FRIEND,--I left you with a strange sort of
yearning, throbbing feeling--you make me feel quite
as I did years ago, a sort of girlishness quite odd
for me. I have felt a strange longing to send you
something. Don't smile when you see what it turns out
to be. I have a weakness for your pretty Parian things;
it is one of my own home peculiarities to have strong
passions for pretty tea-cups and other little matters
for my own quiet meals, when, as often happens, I am
too unwell to join the family. So I send you a cup
made of primroses, a funny little pitcher, quite large
enough for cream, and a little vase for violets and
primroses--which will be lovely together--and when you
use it think of me and that I love you more than I can
say.
I often think how strange it is that I should _know_
you--you who were a sort of legend of my early
days--that I should love you is only a natural result.
You seem to me to stand on the confines of that land
where the poor formalities which separate hearts here
pass like mist before the sun, and therefore it is
that I feel the language of love must not startle you
as strange or unfamiliar. You are so nearly there in
spirit that I fear with every adieu that it may be the
last; yet did you pass within the veil I should not
feel you lost.
I have got past the time when I feel that my heavenly
friends are _lost_ by going there. I feel them
_nearer_, rather than farther off.
So good-by, dear, dear friend, and if you see morning
in our Father's house before I do, carry my love to
those that wait for me, and if I pass first, you will
find me there, and we shall love each other _forever_.
Ever yours,
H. B. STOWE.
The homeward voyage proved a prosperous one, and it was followed by a
joyous welcome to the "Cabin" in Andover. The world seemed very bright,
and amid all her happiness came no intimation of the terrible blow
about to descend upon the head of the devoted mother.
CHAPTER XIV.
THE MINISTER'S WOOING, 1857-1859.
DEATH OF MRS. STOWE'S OLDEST SON.--LETTER TO THE
DUCHESS OF SUTHERLAND.--LETTER TO HER DAUGHTERS IN
PARIS.--LETTER TO HER SISTER CATHERINE.--VISIT TO
BRUNSWICK AND ORR'S ISLAND.--WRITES "THE MINISTER'S
WOOING" AND "THE PEARL OF ORR'S ISLAND."--MR.
WHITTIER'S COMMENTS.--MR. LOWELL ON THE "MINISTER'S
WOOING."--LETTER TO MRS. STOWE FROM MR. LOWELL.--JOHN
RUSKIN ON THE "MINISTER'S WOOING."--A YEAR OF
SADNESS.--LETTER TO LADY BYRON.--LETTER TO HER
DAUGHTER.--DEPARTURE FOR EUROPE.
IMMEDIATELY after Mrs. Stowe's return from England in June, 1857, a
crushing sorrow came upon her in the death of her oldest son, Henry
Ellis, who was drowned while bathing in the Connecticut River at
Hanover, N. H., where he was pursuing his studies as a member of the
Freshman class in Dartmouth College. This melancholy event took place
the 9th of July, 1857, and the 3d of August Mrs. Stowe wrote to the
Duchess of Sutherland:--
DEAR FRIEND,--Before this reaches you you will have
perhaps learned from other sources of the sad blow
which has fallen upon us,--our darling, our good,
beautiful boy, snatched away in the moment of health
and happiness. Alas! could I know that when I parted
from my Henry on English shores that I should never
see him more? I returned to my home, and, amid the
jubilee of meeting the rest, was fain to be satisfied
with only a letter from him, saying that his college
examinations were coming on, and he must defer seeing
me a week or two till they were over. I thought then
of taking his younger brother and going up to visit
him; but the health of the latter seeming unfavorably
affected by the seacoast air, I turned back with him
to a water-cure establishment. Before I had been two
weeks absent a fatal telegram hurried me home, and when
I arrived there it was to find the house filled with
his weeping classmates, who had just come bringing his
remains. There he lay so calm, so placid, so peaceful,
that I could not believe that he would not smile upon
me, and that my voice which always had such power over
him could not recall him. There had always been such
a peculiar union, such a tenderness between us. I had
had such power always to call up answering feelings
to my own, that it seemed impossible that he could be
silent and unmoved at my grief. But yet, dear friend,
I am sensible that in this last sad scene I had an
alleviation that was not granted to you. I recollect,
in the mournful letter you wrote me about that time,
you said that you mourned that you had never told your
own dear one how much you loved him. That sentence
touched me at the time. I laid it to heart, and from
that time lost no occasion of expressing to my children
those feelings that we too often defer to express to
our dearest friends till it is forever too late.
He did fully know how I loved him, and some of the last
loving words he spoke were of me. The very day that he
was taken from us, and when he was just rising from
the table of his boarding-house to go whence he never
returned, some one noticed the seal ring, which you
may remember to have seen on his finger, and said, How
beautiful that ring is! Yes, he said, and best of all,
it was my mother's gift to me. That ring, taken from
the lifeless hand a few hours later, was sent to me.
Singularly enough, it is broken right across the name
from a fall a little time previous....
It is a great comfort to me, dear friend, that I took
Henry with me to Dunrobin. I hesitated about keeping
him so long from his studies, but still I thought a
mind so observing and appreciative might learn from
such a tour more than through books, and so it was.
He returned from England full of high resolves and
manly purposes. "I may not be what the world calls a
Christian," he wrote, "but I will live such a life as
a Christian ought to live, such a life as every true
man ought to live." Henceforth he became remarkable for
a strict order and energy, and a vigilant temperance
and care of his bodily health, docility and deference
to his parents and teachers, and perseverance in every
duty.... Well, from the hard battle of this life he
is excused, and the will is taken for the deed, and
whatever comes his heart will not be pierced as mine
is. But I am glad that I can connect him with all my
choicest remembrances of the Old World.
Dunrobin will always be dearer to me now, and I have
felt towards you and the duke a turning of spirit,
because I remember how kindly you always looked on and
spoke to him. I knew then it was the angel of your lost
one that stirred your hearts with tenderness when you
looked on another so near his age. The plaid that the
duke gave him, and which he valued as one of the chief
of his boyish treasures, will hang in his room--for
still we have a room that we call his.
[Illustration: Aunty Sutherland]
You will understand, you will feel, this sorrow with us
as few can. My poor husband is much prostrated. I need
not say more: you know what this must be to a father's
heart. But still I repeat what I said when I saw you
last. Our dead are ministering angels; they teach us
to love, they fill us with tenderness for all that can
suffer. These weary hours when sorrow makes us for
the time blind and deaf and dumb, have their promise.
These hours come in answer to our prayers for nearness
to God. It is always our treasure that the lightning
strikes.... I have poured out my heart to you because
you can understand. While I was visiting in Hanover,
where Henry died, a poor, deaf old slave woman, who
has still five children in bondage, came to comfort
me. "Bear up, dear soul, she said; you must bear it,
for the Lord loves ye." She said further, "Sunday is a
heavy day to me, 'cause I can't work, and can't hear
preaching, and can't read, so I can't keep my mind off
my poor children. Some on 'em the blessed Master's got,
and they's safe; but, oh, there are five that I don't
know where they are."
What are our mother sorrows to this! I shall try to
search out and redeem these children, though, from the
ill success of efforts already made, I fear it will
be hopeless. Every sorrow I have, every lesson on the
sacredness of family love, makes me the more determined
to resist to the last this dreadful evil that makes so
many mothers so much deeper mourners than I ever can
be....
Affectionately yours,
H. B. STOWE.
About this same time she writes to her daughters in Paris: "Can
anybody tell what sorrows are locked up with our best affections, or
what pain may be associated with every pleasure? As I walk the house,
the pictures he used to love, the presents I brought him, and the
photographs I meant to show him, all pierce my heart. I have had a
dreadful faintness of sorrow come over me at times. I have felt so
crushed, so bleeding, so helpless, that I could only call on my Saviour
with groanings that could not be uttered. Your papa justly said,
'Every child that dies is for the time being an only one; yes--his
individuality no time, no change, can ever replace.'
"Two days after the funeral your father and I went to Hanover. We saw
Henry's friends, and his room, which was just as it was the day he left
it.
"'There is not another such room in the college as his,' said one of
his classmates with tears. I could not help loving the dear boys as
they would come and look sadly in, and tell us one thing and another
that they remembered of him. 'He was always talking of his home and his
sisters,' said one. The very day he died he was so happy because I had
returned, and he was expecting soon to go home and meet me. He died
with that dear thought in his heart.
"There was a beautiful lane leading down through a charming glen to
the river. It had been for years the bathing-place of the students,
and into the pure, clear water he plunged, little dreaming that he was
never to come out alive.
"In the evening we went down to see the boating club of which he was
a member. He was so happy in this boating club. They had a beautiful
boat called the Una, and a uniform, and he enjoyed it so much.
"This evening all the different crews were out; but Henry's had their
flag furled, and tied with black crape. I felt such love to the dear
boys, all of them, because they loved Henry, that it did not pain me as
it otherwise would. They were glad to see us there, and I was glad that
we could be there. Yet right above where their boats were gliding in
the evening light lay the bend in the river, clear, still, beautiful,
fringed with overhanging pines, from whence our boy went upward to
heaven. To heaven--if earnest, manly purpose, if sincere, deliberate
strife with besetting sin is accepted of God, as I firmly believe it
is. Our dear boy was but a beginner in the right way. Had he lived, we
had hoped to see all wrong gradually fall from his soul as the worn-out
calyx drops from the perfected flower. But Christ has taken him into
his own teaching.
"'And one view of Jesus as He is,
Will strike all sin forever dead.'
"Since I wrote to you last we have had anniversary meetings, and with
all the usual bustle and care, our house full of company. Tuesday we
received a beautiful portrait of our dear Henry, life-size, and as
perfect almost as life. It has just that half-roguish, half-loving
expression with which he would look at me sometimes, when I would come
and brush back his hair and look into his eyes. Every time I go in or
out of the room, it seems to give so bright a smile that I almost think
that a spirit dwells within it.
"When I am so heavy, so weary, and go about as if I were wearing an
arrow that had pierced my heart, I sometimes look up, and this smile
seems to say, 'Mother, patience, I am happy. In our Father's house are
many mansions.' Sometimes I think I am like a gardener who has planted
the seed of some rare exotic. He watches as the two little points of
green leaf first spring above the soil. He shifts it from soil to
soil, from pot to pot. He watches it, waters it, saves it through
thousands of mischiefs and accidents. He counts every leaf, and marks
the strengthening of the stem, till at last the blossom bud was fully
formed. What curiosity, what eagerness,--what expectation--what longing
now to see the mystery unfold in the new flower.
"Just as the calyx begins to divide and a faint streak of color becomes
visible,--lo! in one night the owner of the greenhouse sends and takes
it away. He does, not consult me, he gives me no warning; he silently
takes it and I look, but it is no more. What, then? Do I suppose he has
destroyed the flower? Far from it; I know that he has taken it to his
own garden. What Henry might have been I could guess better than any
one. What Henry is, is known to Jesus only."
Shortly after this time Mrs. Stowe wrote to her sister Catherine:--
If ever I was conscious of an attack of the Devil
trying to separate me from the love of Christ, it was
for some days after the terrible news came. I was in a
state of great physical weakness, most agonizing, and
unable to control my thoughts. Distressing doubts as
to Henry's spiritual state were rudely thrust upon my
soul. It was as if a voice had said to me: "You trusted
in God, did you? You believed that He loved you! You
had perfect confidence that he would never take your
child till the work of grace was mature! Now He has
hurried him into eternity without a moment's warning,
without preparation, and where is he?"
I saw at last that these thoughts were irrational, and
contradicted the calm, settled belief of my better
moments, and that they were dishonorable to God, and
that it was my duty to resist them, and to assume and
steadily maintain that Jesus in love had taken my dear
one to his bosom. Since then the Enemy has left me in
peace.
It is our duty to assume that a thing which would be
in its very nature unkind, ungenerous, and unfair has
not been done. What should we think of the crime of
that human being who should take a young mind from
circumstances where it was progressing in virtue, and
throw it recklessly into corrupting and depraving
society? Particularly if it were the child of one who
had trusted and confided in Him for years. No! no such
slander as this shall the Devil ever fix in my mind
against my Lord and my God! He who made me capable of
such an absorbing, unselfish devotion for my children,
so that I would sacrifice my eternal salvation for
them, He certainly did not make me capable of more
love, more disinterestedness than He has himself. He
invented mothers' hearts, and He certainly has the
pattern in his own, and my poor, weak rush-light of
love is enough to show me that some things can and some
things cannot be done. Mr. Stowe said in his sermon
last Sunday that the mysteries of God's ways with us
must be swallowed up by the greater mystery of the love
of Christ, even as Aaron's rod swallowed up the rods of
the magicians.
Papa and mamma are here, and we have been reading over
the "Autobiography and Correspondence." It is glorious,
beautiful; but more of this anon.
Your affectionate sister,
HATTIE.
ANDOVER, _August 24, 1857._
DEAR CHILDREN,--Since anniversary papa and I have been
living at home; Grandpa and Grandma Beecher are here
also, and we have had much comfort in their society....
To-night the last sad duty is before us. The body is
to be removed from the receiving tomb in the Old South
Churchyard, and laid in the graveyard near by. Pearson
has been at work for a week on a lot that is to be
thenceforth ours.
"Our just inheritance consecrated by his grave."
How little he thought, wandering there as he often has
with us, that his mortal form would so soon be resting
there. Yet that was written for him. It was as certain
then as now, and the hour and place of our death is
equally certain, though we know it not.
It seems selfish that I should yearn to lie down by his
side, but I never knew how much I loved him till now.
The one lost piece of silver seems more than all the
rest,--the one lost sheep dearer than all the fold, and
I so long for one word, one look, one last embrace....
ANDOVER, _September 1, 1857._
MY DARLING CHILDREN,--I must not allow a week to pass
without sending a line to you.... Our home never looked
lovelier. I never saw Andover look so beautiful; the
trees so green, the foliage so rich. Papa and I are
just starting to spend a week in Brunswick, for I am so
miserable;--so weak--the least exertion fatigues me,
and much of my time I feel a heavy languor, indifferent
to everything. I know nothing is so likely to bring
me up as the air of the seaside.... I have set many
flowers around Henry's grave, which are blossoming;
pansies, white immortelle, white petunia, and verbenas.
Papa walks there every day, often twice or three times.
The lot has been rolled and planted with fine grass,
which is already up and looks green and soft as velvet,
and the little birds gather about it. To-night as I
sat there the sky was so beautiful, all rosy, with the
silver moon looking out of it. Papa said with a deep
sigh, "I am submissive, but not reconciled."
BRUNSWICK, _September 6, 1857._
MY DEAR GIRLS,--Papa and I have been here for four
or five days past. We both of us felt so unwell that
we thought we would try the sea air and the dear old
scenes of Brunswick. Everything here is just as we
left it. We are staying with Mrs. Upham, whose house
is as wide, cool, and hospitable as ever. The trees
in the yard have grown finely, and Mrs. Upham has
cultivated flowers so successfully that the house is
all surrounded by them. Everything about the town is
the same, even to Miss Gidding's old shop, which is
as disorderly as ever, presenting the same medley of
tracts, sewing-silk, darning-cotton, and unimaginable
old bonnets, which existed there of yore. She has been
heard to complain that she can't find things as easily
as once. Day before yesterday papa, Charley, and I went
down to Harpswell about seven o'clock in the morning.
The old spruces and firs look lovely as ever, and I was
delighted, as I always used to be, with every step of
the way. Old Getchell's mill stands as forlorn as ever
in its sandy wastes, and More Brook creeps on glassy
and clear beyond. Arriving at Harpswell a glorious hot
day, with scarce a breeze to ruffle the water, papa
and Charley went to fish for cunners, who soon proved
too _cun_ning for them, for they ate every morsel of
bait off the hooks, so that out of twenty bites they
only secured two or three. What they did get were fried
for our dinner, reinforced by a fine clam-chowder. The
evening was one of the most glorious I ever saw--a
calm sea and round, full moon; Mrs. Upham and I sat
out on the rocks between the mainland and the island
until ten o'clock. I never did see a more perfect and
glorious scene, and to add to it there was a splendid
northern light dancing like spirits in the sky. Had it
not been for a terrible attack of mosquitoes in our
sleeping-rooms, that kept us up and fighting all night,
we should have called it a perfect success.
We went into the sea to bathe twice, once the day we
came, and about eight o'clock in the morning before we
went back. Besides this we have been to Middle Bay,
where Charley, standing where you all stood before him,
actually caught a flounder with his own hand, whereat
he screamed loud enough to scare all the folks on Eagle
Island. We have also been to Maquoit. We have visited
the old pond, and, if I mistake not, the relics of your
old raft yet float there; at all events, one or two
fragments of a raft are there, caught among rushes.
I do not realize that one of the busiest and happiest
of the train who once played there shall play there no
more. "He shall return to his house no more, neither
shall his place know him any more." I think I have felt
the healing touch of Jesus of Nazareth on the deep
wound in my heart, for I have golden hours of calm
when I say: "Even so, Father, for so it seemed good in
thy sight." So sure am I that the most generous love
has ordered all, that I can now take pleasure to give
this little proof of my unquestioning confidence in
resigning one of my dearest comforts to Him. I feel
very near the spirit land, and the words, "I shall go
to him, but he shall not return to me," are very sweet.
Oh, if God would give to you, my dear children, a view
of the infinite beauty of Eternal Love,--if He would
unite us in himself, then even on earth all tears might
be wiped away.
Papa has preached twice to-day, and is preaching again
to-night. He told me to be sure to write and send you
his love. I hope his health is getting better. Mrs.
Upham sends you her best love, and hopes you will make
her a visit some time.
Good-by, my darlings. Come soon to your affectionate
mother.
H. B. S.
The winter of 1857 was passed quietly and uneventfully at Andover. In
November Mrs. Stowe contributed to the "Atlantic Monthly" a touching
little allegory, "The Mourning Veil."
In December, 1858, the first chapter of "The Minister's Wooing"
appeared in the same magazine. Simultaneously with this story was
written "The Pearl of Orr's Island," published first as a serial in
the "Independent."
She dictated a large part of "The Minister's Wooing" under a great
pressure of mental excitement, and it was a relief to her to turn to
the quiet story of the coast of Maine, which she loved so well.
In February, 1874, Mrs. Stowe received the following words from Mr.
Whittier, which are very interesting in this connection: "When I am in
the mood for thinking deeply I read 'The Minister's Wooing.' But 'The
Pearl of Orr's Island' is my favorite. It is the most charming New
England idyl ever written."
"The Minister's Wooing" was received with universal commendation from
the first, and called forth the following appreciative words from the
pen of Mr. James Russell Lowell:--
"It has always seemed to us that the anti-slavery element in the two
former novels by Mrs. Stowe stood in the way of a full appreciation of
her remarkable genius, at least in her own country. It was so easy to
account for the unexampled popularity of 'Uncle Tom' by attributing it
to a cheap sympathy with sentimental philanthropy! As people began to
recover from the first enchantment, they began also to resent it and
to complain that a dose of that insane Garrison-root which takes the
reason prisoner had been palmed upon them without their knowing it,
and that their ordinary water-gruel of fiction, thinned with sentiment
and thickened with moral, had been hocussed with the bewildering
hasheesh of Abolition. We had the advantage of reading that truly
extraordinary book for the first time in Paris, long after the whirl of
excitement produced by its publication had subsided, in the seclusion
of distance, and with a judgment unbiased by those political sympathies
which it is impossible, perhaps unwise, to avoid at home. We felt then,
and we believe now, that the secret of Mrs. Stowe's power lay in that
same genius by which the great successes in creative literature have
always been achieved,--the genius that instinctively goes right to
the organic elements of human nature, whether under a white skin or a
black, and which disregards as trivial the conventional and factitious
notions which make so large a part both of our thinking and feeling.
Works of imagination written with an aim to immediate impression are
commonly ephemeral, like Miss Martineau's 'Tales,' and Elliott's
'Corn-law Rhymes;' but the creative faculty of Mrs. Stowe, like that
of Cervantes in 'Don Quixote' and of Fielding in 'Joseph Andrews,'
overpowered the narrow specialty of her design, and expanded a local
and temporary theme with the cosmopolitanism of genius.
"It is a proverb that 'There is a great deal of human nature in men,'
but it is equally and sadly true that there is amazingly little of it
in books. Fielding is the only English novelist who deals with life in
its broadest sense. Thackeray, his disciple and congener, and Dickens,
the congener of Smollett, do not so much treat of life as of the strata
of society; the one studying nature from the club-room window, the
other from the reporters' box in the police court. It may be that the
general obliteration of distinctions of rank in this country, which is
generally considered a detriment to the novelist, will in the end turn
to his advantage by compelling him to depend for his effects on the
contrasts and collisions of innate character, rather than on those
shallower traits superinduced by particular social arrangements, or by
hereditary associations. Shakespeare drew ideal, and Fielding natural
men and women; Thackeray draws either gentlemen or snobs, and Dickens
either unnatural men or the oddities natural only in the lowest grades
of a highly artificial system of society. The first two knew human
nature; of the two latter, one knows what is called the world, and
the other the streets of London. Is it possible that the very social
democracy which here robs the novelist of so much romance, so much
costume, so much antithesis of caste, so much in short that is purely
external, will give him a set-off in making it easier for him to get at
that element of universal humanity which neither of the two extremes
of an aristocratic system, nor the salient and picturesque points of
contrast between the two, can alone lay open to him?
"We hope to see this problem solved by Mrs. Stowe. That kind of
romantic interest which Scott evolved from the relations of lord
and vassal, of thief and clansman, from the social more than the
moral contrast of Roundhead and Cavalier, of far-descended pauper
and _nouveau riche_ which Cooper found in the clash of savagery with
civilization, and the shaggy virtue bred on the border-land between
the two, Indian by habit, white by tradition, Mrs. Stowe seems in
her former novels to have sought in a form of society alien to her
sympathies, and too remote for exact study, or for the acquirement of
that local truth which is the slow result of unconscious observation.
There can be no stronger proof of the greatness of her genius, of her
possessing that conceptive faculty which belongs to the higher order
of imagination, than the avidity with which 'Uncle Tom' was read at the
South. It settled the point that this book was true to human nature,
even if not minutely so to plantation life.
"If capable of so great a triumph where success must so largely depend
on the sympathetic insight of her mere creative power, have we not a
right to expect something far more in keeping with the requirements
of art, now that her wonderful eye is to be the mirror of familiar
scenes, and of a society in which she was bred, of which she has
seen so many varieties, and that, too, in the country, where it is
most _naïve_ and original? It is a great satisfaction to us that in
'The Minister's Wooing' she has chosen her time and laid her scene
amid New England habits and traditions. There is no other writer who
is so capable of perpetuating for us, in a work of art, a style of
thought and manners which railways and newspapers will soon render as
palæozoic as the mastodon or the megalosaurians. Thus far the story has
fully justified our hopes. The leading characters are all fresh and
individual creations. Mrs. Kate Scudder, the notable Yankee housewife;
Mary, in whom Cupid is to try conclusions with Calvin; James Marvyn,
the adventurous boy of the coast, in whose heart the wild religion of
nature swells till the strait swathings of Puritanism are burst; Dr.
Hopkins, the conscientious minister come upon a time when the social
_prestige_ of the clergy is waning, and whose independence will test
the voluntary system of ministerial support; Simeon Brown, the man
of theological dialectics, in whom the utmost perfection of creed is
shown to be not inconsistent with the most contradictory imperfection
of life,--all these are characters new to literature. And the scene
is laid just far enough away in point of time to give proper tone and
perspective.
"We think we find in the story, so far as it has proceeded, the promise
of an interest as unhackneyed as it will be intense. There is room
for the play of all the passions and interests that make up the great
tragi-comedy of life, while all the scenery and accessories will be
those which familiarity has made dear to us. We are a little afraid of
Colonel Burr, to be sure, it is so hard to make a historical personage
fulfill the conditions demanded by the novel of every-day life. He is
almost sure either to fall below our traditional conception of him,
or to rise above the natural and easy level of character, into the
vague or the melodramatic. Moreover, we do not want a novel of society
from Mrs. Stowe; she is quite too good to be wasted in that way, and
her tread is much more firm on the turf of the "door-yard" or the
pasture, and the sanded floor of the farmhouse, than on the velvet of
the _salôn_. We have no notion how she is to develop her plot, but we
think we foresee chances for her best power in the struggle which seems
foreshadowed between Mary's conscientious admiration of the doctor and
her half-conscious passion for James, before she discovers that one of
these conflicting feelings means simply moral liking and approval, and
the other that she is a woman and that she loves. And is not the value
of dogmatic theology as a rule of life to be thoroughly tested for the
doctor by his slave-trading parishioners? Is he not to learn the bitter
difference between intellectual acceptance of a creed and that true
partaking of the sacrament of love and faith and sorrow that makes
Christ the very life-blood of our being and doing? And has not James
Marvyn also his lesson to be taught? We foresee him drawn gradually
back by Mary from his recoil against Puritan formalism to a perception
of how every creed is pliant and plastic to a beautiful nature, of how
much charm there may be in an hereditary faith, even if it have become
almost conventional.
"In the materials of character already present in the story, there is
scope for Mrs. Stowe's humor, pathos, clear moral sense, and quick eye
for the scenery of life. We do not believe that there is any one who,
by birth, breeding, and natural capacity, has had the opportunity to
know New England so well as she, or who has the peculiar genius so
to profit by the knowledge. Already there have been scenes in 'The
Minister's Wooing' that, in their lowness of tone and quiet truth,
contrast as charmingly with the humid vagueness of the modern school of
novel-writers as 'The Vicar of Wakefield' itself, and we are greatly
mistaken if it do not prove to be the most characteristic of Mrs.
Stowe's works, and therefore that on which her fame will chiefly rest
with posterity."
"The Minister's Wooing" was not completed as a serial till December,
1859. Long before its completion Mrs. Stowe received letters from many
interested readers, who were as much concerned for the future of her
"spiritual children," as George Eliot would call them, as if they had
been flesh and blood.
The following letter from Mr. Lowell is given as the most valuable
received by Mrs. Stowe at this time:--
CAMBRIDGE, _February 4, 1859._
MY DEAR MRS. STOWE,--I certainly did mean to write you
about your story, but only to cry _bravissima!_ with
the rest of the world. I intended no kind of criticism;
deeming it wholly out of place, and in the nature of
a wet-blanket, so long as a story is unfinished. When
I got the first number in MS., I said to Mr. Phillips
that I thought it would be the best thing you had done,
and what followed has only confirmed my first judgment.
From long habit, and from the tendency of my studies, I
cannot help looking at things purely from an æsthetic
point of view, and what _I_ valued in "Uncle Tom" was
the genius, and not the moral. That is saying a good
deal, for I never use the word _genius_ at haphazard,
and always (perhaps, too) sparingly. I am going to be
as frank as I ought to be with one whom I value so
highly. What especially charmed me in the new story
was, that you had taken your stand on New England
ground. You are one of the few persons lucky enough
to be born with eyes in your head,--that is, with
something behind the eyes which makes them of value. To
most people the seeing apparatus is as useless as the
great telescope at the observatory is to me,--something
to stare through with no intelligent result. Nothing
could be better than the conception of your plot (so
far as I divine it), and the painting-in of your
figures. As for "theology," it is as much a part of
daily life in New England as in Scotland, and all I
should have to say about it is this: let it crop out
when it naturally comes to the surface, only don't dig
down to it. A moral aim is a fine thing, but in making
a story an artist is a traitor who does not sacrifice
everything to art. Remember the lesson that Christ gave
us twice over. First, he preferred the useless Mary to
the dish-washing Martha, and next, when that exemplary
moralist and friend of humanity, Judas, objected to
the sinful waste of the Magdalen's ointment, the great
Teacher would rather it should be wasted in an act of
simple beauty than utilized for the benefit of the
poor. Cleopatra was an artist when she dissolved her
biggest pearl to captivate her Antony-public. May I, a
critic by profession, say the whole truth to a woman of
genius? Yes? And never be forgiven? I shall try, and
try to be forgiven, too. In the first place, pay no
regard to the advice of anybody. In the second place,
pay a great deal to mine! A Kilkenny-cattish style
of advice? Not at all. My advice is to follow your
own instincts,--to stick to nature, and to avoid what
people commonly call the "Ideal;" for that, and beauty,
and pathos, and success, all lie in the simply natural.
We all preach it, from Wordsworth down, and we all,
from Wordsworth down, don't practice it. Don't I feel
it every day in this weary editorial mill of mine, that
there are ten thousand people who can write "ideal"
things for one who can see, and feel, and reproduce
nature and character? Ten thousand, did I say? Nay, ten
million. What made Shakespeare so great? Nothing but
eyes and--faith in them. The same is true of Thackeray.
I see nowhere more often than in authors the truth that
men love their opposites. Dickens insists on being
tragic and makes shipwreck.
I always thought (forgive me) that the Hebrew parts of
"Dred" were a mistake. Do not think me impertinent; I
am only honestly anxious that what I consider a very
remarkable genius should have faith in itself. Let
your moral take care of itself, and remember that an
author's writing-desk is something infinitely higher
than a pulpit. What I call "care of itself" is shown
in that noble passage in the February number about the
ladder up to heaven. That is grand preaching and in the
right way. I am sure that "The Minister's Wooing" is
going to be the best of your products hitherto, and I
am sure of it because you show so thorough a mastery
of your material, so true a perception of realities,
without which the ideality is impossible.
As for "orthodoxy," be at ease. Whatever is well done
the world finds orthodox at last, in spite of all the
Fakir journals, whose only notion of orthodoxy seems
to be the power of standing in one position till you
lose all the use of your limbs. If, with your heart and
brain, _you_ are not orthodox, in Heaven's name who is?
If you mean "Calvinistic," no woman could ever be such,
for Calvinism is logic, and no woman worth the name
could ever live by syllogisms. Woman charms a higher
faculty in us than reason, God be praised, and nothing
has delighted me more in your new story than the happy
instinct with which you develop this incapacity of the
lovers' logic in your female characters. Go on just
as you have begun, and make it appear in as many ways
as you like,--that, whatever creed may be true, it is
_not_ true and never will be that man can be saved by
machinery. I can speak with some chance of being right,
for I confess a strong sympathy with many parts of
Calvinistic theology, and, for one thing, believe in
hell with all my might, and in the goodness of God for
all that.
I have not said anything. What could I say? One might
almost as well advise a mother about the child she
still bears under her heart, and say, give it these and
those qualities, as an author about a work yet in the
brain.
Only this I will say, that I am honestly delighted with
"The Minister's Wooing;" that reading it has been one
of my few editorial pleasures; that no one appreciates
your genius more highly than I, or hopes more fervently
that you will let yourself go without regard to this,
that, or t'other. Don't read any criticisms on your
story: believe that you know better than any of us, and
be sure that everybody likes it. That I know. There is
not, and never was, anybody so competent to write a
true New England poem as yourself, and have no doubt
that you are doing it. The native sod sends up the
best inspiration to the brain, and you are as sure of
immortality as we all are of dying,--if you only go on
with entire faith in yourself.
Faithfully and admiringly yours,
J. R. LOWELL.
After the book was published in England, Mr. Ruskin wrote to Mrs.
Stowe:--
"Well, I have read the book now, and I think nothing can be nobler
than the noble parts of it (Mary's great speech to Colonel Burr, for
instance), nothing wiser than the wise parts of it (the author's
parenthetical and under-breath remarks), nothing more delightful than
the delightful parts (all that Virginie says and does), nothing more
edged than the edged parts (Candace's sayings and doings, to wit); but
I do not like the plan of the whole, because the simplicity of the
minister seems to diminish the probability of Mary's reverence for him.
I cannot fancy even so good a girl who would not have laughed at him.
Nor can I fancy a man of real intellect reaching such a period of life
without understanding his own feelings better, or penetrating those of
another more quickly.
"Then I am provoked at nothing happening to Mrs. Scudder, whom I think
as entirely unendurable a creature as ever defied poetical justice at
the end of a novel meant to irritate people. And finally, I think you
are too disdainful of what ordinary readers seek in a novel, under the
name of 'interest,'--that gradually developing wonder, expectation, and
curiosity which makes people who have no self-command sit up till three
in the morning to get to the crisis, and people who have self-command
lay the book down with a resolute sigh, and think of it all the next
day through till the time comes for taking it up again. Still, I know
well that in many respects it was impossible for you to treat this
story merely as a work of literary art. There must have been many facts
which you could not dwell upon, and which no one may judge by common
rules.
"It is also true, as you say once or twice in the course of the work,
that we have not among us here the peculiar religious earnestness you
have mainly to describe.
"We have little earnest formalism, and our formalists are for the most
part hollow, feeble, uninteresting, mere stumbling-blocks. We have the
Simeon Brown species, indeed; and among readers even of his kind the
book may do some good, and more among the weaker, truer people, whom it
will shake like mattresses,--making the dust fly, and perhaps with it
some of the sticks and quill-ends, which often make that kind of person
an objectionable mattress. I write too lightly of the book,--far too
lightly,--but your letter made me gay, and I have been lighter-hearted
ever since; only I kept this after beginning it, because I was ashamed
to send it without a line to Mrs. Browning as well. I do not understand
why you should apprehend (or rather anticipate without apprehension)
any absurd criticism on it. It is sure to be a popular book,--not as
'Uncle Tom' was, for that owed part of its popularity to its dramatic
effect (the flight on the ice, etc.), which I did not like; but as a
true picture of human life is always popular. Nor, I should think,
would any critics venture at all to carp at it.
"The Candace and Virginie bits appear to me, as far as I have yet seen,
the best. I am very glad there is this nice French lady in it: the
French are the least appreciated in general, of all nations, by other
nations.... My father says the book is worth its weight in gold, and he
knows good work."
* * * * *
When we turn from these criticisms and commendations to the inner
history of this period, we find that the work was done in deep sadness
of heart, and the undertone of pathos that forms the dark background
of the brightest and most humorous parts of "The Minister's Wooing"
was the unconscious revelation of one of sorrowful spirit, who, weary
of life, would have been glad to lie down with her arms "round the
wayside cross, and sleep away into a brighter scene."
Just before beginning the writing of "The Minister's Wooing" she sent
the following letter to Lady Byron:--
ANDOVER, _June 30, 1858._
MY DEAR FRIEND,--I did long to hear from you at a time
when few knew how to speak, because I knew that you
did know everything that sorrow can teach,--you whose
whole life has been a crucifixion, a long ordeal.
But I believe that the "Lamb," who stands forever in
the midst of the throne "as it had been slain," has
everywhere his followers, those who are sent into the
world, as he was, to suffer for the redemption of
others, and like him they must look to the joy set
before them of redeeming others.
I often think that God called you to this beautiful and
terrible ministry when He suffered you to link your
destiny with one so strangely gifted, so fearfully
tempted, and that the reward which is to meet you, when
you enter within the veil, where you must soon pass,
will be to see the angel, once chained and defiled
within him, set free from sin and glorified, and so
know that to you it has been given, by your life of
love and faith, to accomplish this glorious change.
I think very much on the subject on which you conversed
with me once,--the future state of retribution. It
is evident to me that the spirit of Christianity has
produced in the human spirit a tenderness of love which
wholly revolts from the old doctrine on the subject,
and I observe the more Christ-like any one becomes,
the more impossible it seems for him to accept it; and
yet, on the contrary, it was Christ who said, "Fear
Him that is able to destroy soul and body in hell,"
and the most appalling language on this subject is
that of Christ himself. Certain ideas once prevalent
certainly must be thrown off. An endless infliction for
past sins was once the doctrine that we now generally
reject. The doctrine as now taught is that of an
eternal persistence in evil necessitating eternal
punishment, since evil induces misery by an eternal
nature of things, and this, I fear, is inferable from
the analogies of nature, and confirmed by the whole
implication of the Bible.
Is there any fair way of disposing of the current
of assertion, and the still deeper undercurrent of
implication, on this subject, without one which
loosens all faith in revelation, and throws us on pure
naturalism? But of one thing I am sure,--probation does
not end with this life, and the number of the redeemed
may therefore be infinitely greater than the world's
history leads us to suppose.
The views expressed in this letter certainly throw light on many
passages in "The Minister's Wooing."
The following letter, written to her daughter Georgiana, is introduced
as revealing the spirit in which much of "The Minister's Wooing" was
written:--
_February 12, 1859._
MY DEAR GEORGIE,--Why haven't I written? Because, dear
Georgie, I am like the dry, dead, leafless tree, and
have only cold, dead, slumbering buds of hope on the
end of stiff, hard, frozen twigs of thought, but no
leaves, no blossoms; nothing to send to a little girl
who doesn't know what to do with herself any more than
a kitten. I am cold, weary, dead; everything is a
burden to me.
I let my plants die by inches before my eyes, and do
not water them, and I dread everything I do, and wish
it was not to be done, and so when I get a letter from
my little girl I smile and say, "Dear little puss, I
will answer it;" and I sit hour after hour with folded
hands, looking at the inkstand and dreading to begin.
The fact is, pussy, mamma is tired. Life to you is
gay and joyous, but to mamma it has been a battle in
which the spirit is willing but the flesh weak, and
she would be glad, like the woman in the St. Bernard,
to lie down with her arms around the wayside cross,
and sleep away into a brighter scene. Henry's fair,
sweet face looks down upon me now and then from out
a cloud, and I feel again all the bitterness of the
eternal "No" which says I must never, never, in this
life, see that face, lean on that arm, hear that voice.
Not that my faith in God in the least fails, and that
I do not believe that all this is for good. I do, and
though not happy, I am blessed. Weak, weary as I am, I
rest on Jesus in the innermost depth of my soul, and
am quite sure that there is coming an inconceivable
hour of beauty and glory when I shall regain Jesus,
and he will give me back my beloved one, whom he is
educating in a far higher sphere than I proposed. So do
not mistake me,--only know that mamma is sitting weary
by the wayside, feeling weak and worn, but in no sense
discouraged.
Your affectionate mother,
H. B. S.
So is it ever: when with bold step we press our way into the holy place
where genius hath wrought, we find it to be a place of sorrows. Art
has its Gethsemane and its Calvary as well as religion. Our best loved
books and sweetest songs are those "that tell of saddest thought."
The summer of 1859 found Mrs. Stowe again on her way to Europe, this
time accompanied by all her children except the youngest.
CHAPTER XV.
THE THIRD TRIP TO EUROPE, 1859.
THIRD VISIT TO EUROPE.--LADY BYRON ON "THE
MINISTER'S WOOING."--SOME FOREIGN PEOPLE AND THINGS
AS THEY APPEARED TO PROFESSOR STOWE.--A WINTER IN
ITALY.--THINGS UNSEEN AND UNREVEALED.--SPECULATIONS
CONCERNING SPIRITUALISM.--JOHN RUSKIN.--MRS.
BROWNING.--THE RETURN TO AMERICA.--LETTERS TO DR.
HOLMES.
MRS. STOWE'S third and last trip to Europe was undertaken in the summer
of 1859. In writing to Lady Byron in May of that year, she says: "I
am at present writing something that interests me greatly, and may
interest you, as an attempt to portray the heart and life of New
England, its religion, theology, and manners. Sampson Low & Son are
issuing it in numbers, and I should be glad to know how they strike
you. It is to publish this work complete that I intend to visit England
this summer."
The story thus referred to was "The Minister's Wooing," and Lady
Byron's answer to the above, which is appended, leaves no room for
doubt as to her appreciation of it. She writes:--
LONDON, _May 31, 1859._
DEAR FRIEND,--I have found, particularly as to
yourself, that if I did not answer from the first
impulse, all had evaporated. Your letter came by the
Niagara, which brought Fanny Kemble, to learn the loss
of her _best_ friend, that Miss Fitzhugh whom you saw
at my house.
I have an intense interest in your new novel. More
power in these few numbers than in any of your former
writings, relatively, at least to my own mind. More
power than in "Adam Bede," which is _the_ book of the
season, and well deserves a high place. Whether Mrs.
Scudder will rival Mrs. Poyser, we shall see.
It would amuse you to hear my granddaughter and myself
attempting to foresee the future of the "love story,"
being quite persuaded for the moment that James is
at sea, and the minister about to ruin himself. We
think that she will labor to be in love with the
self-devoting man, under her mother's influence, and
from that hyper-conscientiousness so common with good
girls,--but we don't wish her to succeed. Then what
is to become of her older lover? He--Time will show.
I have just missed Dale Owen, with whom I wished to
have conversed about the "Spiritualism." Harris is
lecturing here on religion. I do not hear him praised.
People are looking for helps to believe everywhere but
in life,--in music, in architecture, in antiquity,
in ceremony,--and upon all is written, "Thou shalt
_not_ believe." At least, if this be faith, happier
the unbeliever. I am willing to see _through_ that
materialism, but if I am to rest there, I would rend
the veil.
_June 1._ The day of the packet's sailing. I shall hope
to be visited by you here. The best flowers sent me
have been placed in your little vases, giving life, as
it were, to the remembrance of you, though not to pass
away like them.
Ever yours,
A. T. NOEL BYRON.
The entire family, with the exception of the youngest son, was abroad
at this time. The two eldest daughters were in Paris, having previously
sailed for Havre in March, in company with their cousin, Miss Beecher.
On their arrival in Paris, they went directly to the house of their
old friend, Madame Borione, and soon afterwards entered a Protestant
school. The rest of the family, including Mrs. Stowe, her husband and
youngest daughter, sailed for Liverpool early in August. At about the
same time, Fred Stowe, in company with his friend Samuel Scoville, took
passage for the same port in a sailing vessel. A comprehensive outline
of the earlier portion of this foreign tour is given in the following
letter written by Professor Stowe to the sole member of the family
remaining in America:
CASTLE CHILLON, SWITZERLAND, _September 1, 1859._
DEAR LITTLE CHARLEY,--We are all here except Fred, and
all well. We have had a most interesting journey, of
which I must give a brief account.
We sailed from New York in the steamer Asia, on the 3d
of August [1859], a very hot day, and for ten days it
was the hottest weather I ever knew at sea. We had a
splendid ship's company, mostly foreigners, Italians,
Spaniards, with a sprinkling of Scotch and Irish. We
passed one big iceberg in the night close to, and as
the iceberg wouldn't turn out for us we turned out for
the iceberg, and were very glad to come off so. This
was the night of the 9th of August, and after that we
had cooler weather, and on the morning of the 13th the
wind blew like all possessed, and so continued till
afternoon. Sunday morning, the 14th, we got safe into
Liverpool, landed, and went to the Adelphi Hotel. Mamma
and Georgie were only a little sick on the way over,
and that was the morning of the 13th.
As it was court time, the high sheriff of Lancashire,
Sir Robert Gerauld, a fine, stout, old, gray-haired
John Bull, came thundering up to the hotel at noon
in his grand coach with six beautiful horses with
outriders, and two trumpeters, and twelve men with
javelins for a guard, all dressed in the gayest
manner, and rushing along like Time in the primer, the
trumpeters too-ti-toot-tooing like a house a-fire, and
how I wished my little Charley had been there to see it!
Monday we wanted to go and see the court, so we
went over to St. George's Hall, a most magnificent
structure, that beats the Boston State House all
hollow, and Sir Robert Gerauld himself met us, and said
he would get us a good place. So he took us away round
a narrow, crooked passage, and opened a little door,
where we saw nothing but a great, crimson curtain,
which he told us to put aside and go straight on; and
where do you think we all found ourselves?
Right on the platform with the judges in their big wigs
and long robes, and facing the whole crowded court! It
was enough to frighten a body into fits, but we took it
quietly as we could, and your mamma looked as meek as
Moses in her little, battered straw hat and gray cloak,
seeming to say, "I didn't come here o' purpose."
That same night we arrived in London, and Tuesday
(August 16th), riding over the city, we called at
Stafford House, and inquired if the Duchess of
Sutherland was there. A servant came out and said
the duchess was in and would be very glad to see us;
so your mamma, Georgie, and I went walking up the
magnificent staircase in the entrance hall, and the
great, noble, brilliant duchess came sailing down the
stairs to meet us, in her white morning dress (for it
was only four o'clock in the afternoon, and she was
not yet dressed for dinner), took your mamma into her
great bosom, and folded her up till the little Yankee
woman looked like a small gray kitten half covered in a
snowbank, and kissed and kissed her, and then she took
up little Georgie and kissed her, and then she took my
hand, and didn't kiss me.
Next day we went to the duchess's villa, near Windsor
Castle, and had a grand time riding round the park,
sailing on the Thames, and eating the very best dinner
that was ever set on a table.
We stayed in London till the 25th of August, and then
went to Paris and found H. and E. and H. B. all well
and happy; and on the 30th of August we all went to
Geneva together, and to-day, the 1st of September, we
all took a sail up the beautiful Lake Leman here in the
midst of the Alps, close by the old castle of Chillon,
about which Lord Byron has written a poem. In a day or
two we shall go to Chamouni, and then Georgie and I
will go back to Paris and London, and so home at the
time appointed. Until then I remain as ever,
Your loving father,
C. E. STOWE.
Mrs. Stowe accompanied her husband and daughter to England, where,
after traveling and visiting for two weeks, she bade them good-by and
returned to her daughters in Switzerland. From Lausanne she writes
under date of October 9th:--
MY DEAR HUSBAND,--Here we are at Lausanne, in the
Hotel Gibbon, occupying the very parlor that the
Ruskins had when we were here before. The day I left
you I progressed prosperously to Paris. Reached there
about one o'clock at night; could get no carriage,
and finally had to turn in at a little hotel close by
the station, where I slept till morning. I could not
but think what if anything should happen to me there?
Nobody knew me or where I was, but the bed was clean,
the room respectable; so I locked my door and slept,
then took a carriage in the morning, and found Madame
Borione at breakfast. I write to-night, that you may
get a letter from me at the earliest possible date
after your return.
Instead of coming to Geneva in one day, I stopped
over one night at Macon, got to Geneva the next day
about four o'clock, and to Lausanne at eight. Coming
up-stairs and opening the door, I found the whole
party seated with their books and embroidery about
a centre-table, and looking as homelike and cosy as
possible. You may imagine the greetings, the kissing,
laughing, and good times generally.
From Lausanne the merry party traveled toward Florence by easy stages,
stopping at Lake Como, Milan, Verona, Venice, Genoa, and Leghorn. At
Florence, where they arrived early in November, they met Fred Stowe
and his friend, Samuel Scoville, and here they were also joined by
their Brooklyn friends, the Howards. Thus it was a large and thoroughly
congenial party that settled down in the old Italian city to spend the
winter. From here Mrs. Stowe wrote weekly letters to her husband in
Andover, and among them are the following, that not only throw light
upon their mode of life, but illustrate a marked tendency of her mind:--
FLORENCE, _Christmas Day, 1859._
MY DEAR HUSBAND,--I wish you all a Merry Christmas,
hoping to spend the next one with you.
For us, we are expecting to spend this evening with
quite a circle of American friends. With Scoville and
Fred came L. Bacon (son of Dr. Bacon); a Mr. Porter,
who is to study theology at Andover, and is now making
the tour of Europe; Mr. Clarke, formerly minister at
Cornwall; Mr. Jenkyns, of Lowell; Mr. and Mrs. Howard,
John and Annie Howard, who came in most unexpectedly
upon us last night. So we shall have quite a New
England party, and shall sing Millais' Christmas hymn
in great force. Hope you will all do the same in the
old stone cabin.
Our parlor is all trimmed with laurel and myrtle,
looking like a great bower, and our mantel and table
are redolent with bouquets of orange blossoms and pinks.
_January 16, 1860._
MY DEAR HUSBAND,--Your letter received to-day has
raised quite a weight from my mind, for it shows that
at last you have received all mine, and that thus the
chain of communication between us is unbroken. What
you said about your spiritual experiences in feeling
the presence of dear Henry with you, and, above all,
the vibration of that mysterious guitar, was very
pleasant to me. Since I have been in Florence, I have
been distressed by inexpressible yearnings after
him,--such sighings and outreachings, with a sense of
utter darkness and separation, not only from him but
from all spiritual communion with my God. But I have
become acquainted with a friend through whom I receive
consoling impressions of these things,--a Mrs. E., of
Boston, a very pious, accomplished, and interesting
woman, who has had a history much like yours in
relation to spiritual manifestations.
Without doubt she is what the spiritualists would
regard as a very powerful medium, but being a very
earnest Christian, and afraid of getting led astray,
she has kept carefully aloof from all circles and
things of that nature. She came and opened her mind to
me in the first place, to ask my advice as to what she
had better do; relating experiences very similar to
many of yours.
My advice was substantially to try the spirits whether
they were of God,--to keep close to the Bible and
prayer, and then accept whatever came. But I have
found that when I am with her I receive very strong
impressions from the spiritual world, so that I feel
often sustained and comforted, as if I had been near
to my Henry and other departed friends. This has been
at times so strong as greatly to soothe and support
me. I told her your experiences, in which she was
greatly interested. She said it was so rare to hear of
Christian and reliable people with such peculiarities.
I cannot, however, think that Henry strikes the
guitar,--that must be Eliza. Her spirit has ever
seemed to cling to that mode of manifestation, and if
you would keep it in your sleeping-room, no doubt you
would hear from it oftener. I have been reading lately
a curious work from an old German in Paris who has been
making experiments in spirit-writing. He purports to
describe a series of meetings held in the presence of
fifty witnesses, whose names he gives, in which writing
has come on paper, without the apparition of hands or
any pen or pencil, from various historical people.
He seems a devout believer in inspiration, and the book
is curious for its mixture of all the phenomena, Pagan
and Christian, going over Hindoo, Chinese, Greek, and
Italian literature for examples, and then bringing
similar ones from the Bible.
One thing I am convinced of,--that spiritualism is a
reaction from the intense materialism of the present
age. Luther, when he recognized a personal devil,
was much nearer right. We ought to enter fully, at
least, into the spiritualism of the Bible. Circles and
spiritual jugglery I regard as the lying signs and
wonders, with all deceivableness of unrighteousness;
but there is a real scriptural spiritualism which has
fallen into disuse, and must be revived, and there
are, doubtless, people who, from some constitutional
formation, can more readily receive the impressions of
the surrounding spiritual world. Such were apostles,
prophets, and workers of miracles.
_Sunday evening._ To-day I went down to sit with Mrs.
E. in her quiet parlor. We read in Revelation together,
and talked of the saints and spirits of the just made
perfect, till it seemed, as it always does when with
her, as if Henry were close by me. Then a curious thing
happened. She has a little Florentine guitar which
hangs in her parlor, quite out of reach. She and I
were talking, and her sister, a very matter-of-fact,
practical body, who attends to temporals for her, was
arranging a little lunch for us, when suddenly the bass
string of the guitar was struck loudly and distinctly.
"Who struck that guitar?" said the sister. We both
looked up and saw that no body or thing was on that
side of the room. After the sister had gone out, Mrs.
E. said, "Now, that is strange! I asked last night
that if any spirit was present with us after you came
to-day, that it would try to touch that guitar." A
little while after her husband came in, and as we were
talking we were all stopped by a peculiar sound, as if
somebody had drawn a hand across all the strings at
once. We marveled, and I remembered the guitar at home.
What think you? Have you had any more manifestations,
any truths from the spirit world?
About the end of February the pleasant Florentine circle broke up, and
Mrs. Stowe and her party journeyed to Rome, where they remained until
the middle of April. We next find them in Naples, starting on a six
days' trip to Castellamare, Sorrento, Salerno, Pæstum, and Amalfi; then
up Vesuvius, and to the Blue Grotto of Capri, and afterwards back to
Rome by diligence. Leaving Rome on May 9th, they traveled leisurely
towards Paris, which they reached on the 27th. From there Mrs. Stowe
wrote to her husband on May 28th:--
Since my last letter a great change has taken place
in our plans, in consequence of which our passage for
America is engaged by the Europa, which sails the 16th
of June; so, if all goes well, we are due in Boston
four weeks from this date. I long for home, for my
husband and children, for my room, my yard and garden,
for the beautiful trees of Andover. We will make a very
happy home, and our children will help us.
Affectionately yours,
HATTY.
This extended and pleasant tour was ended with an equally pleasant
homeward voyage, for on the Europa were found Nathaniel Hawthorne and
James T. Fields, who proved most delightful traveling companions.
While Mrs. Stowe fully enjoyed her foreign experiences, she was
so thoroughly American in every fibre of her being that she was
always thankful to return to her own land and people. She could not,
therefore, in any degree reciprocate the views of Mr. Ruskin on this
subject, as expressed in the following letter, received soon after her
return to Andover:--
GENEVA, _June 18, 1860._
DEAR MRS. STOWE,--It takes a great deal, when I am at
Geneva, to make me wish myself anywhere else, and,
of all places else, in London; nevertheless, I very
heartily wish at this moment that I were looking out
on the Norwood Hills, and were expecting you and the
children to breakfast to-morrow.
I had very serious thoughts, when I received your
note, of running home; but I expected that very day an
American friend, Mr. S., who I thought would miss me
more here than you would in London; so I stayed.
What a dreadful thing it is that people should have to
go to America again, after coming to Europe! It seems
to me an inversion of the order of nature. I think
America is a sort of "United" States of Probation, out
of which all wise people, being once delivered, and
having obtained entrance into this better world, should
never be expected to return (sentence irremediably
ungrammatical), particularly when they have been making
themselves cruelly pleasant to friends here. My friend
Norton, whom I met first on this very blue lake water,
had no business to go back to Boston again, any more
than you.
I was waiting for S. at the railroad station on
Thursday, and thinking of you, naturally enough,--it
seemed so short a while since we were there together.
I managed to get hold of Georgie as she was crossing
the rails, and packed her in opposite my mother and
beside me, and was thinking myself so clever, when you
sent that rascally courier for her! I never forgave him
any of his behavior after his imperativeness on that
occasion.
And so she is getting nice and strong? Ask her, please,
when you write, with my love, whether, when she stands
now behind the great stick, one can see much of her on
each side?
So you have been seeing the Pope and all his Easter
performances? I congratulate you, for I suppose it is
something like "Positively the last appearance on any
stage." What was the use of thinking about _him_? You
should have had your own thoughts about what was to
come after him. I don't mean that Roman Catholicism
will die out so quickly. It will last pretty nearly as
long as Protestantism, which keeps it up; but I wonder
what is to come next. That is the main question just
now for everybody.
So you are coming round to Venice, after all? We shall
all have to come to it, depend upon it, some way or
another. There never has been anything in any other
part of the world like Venetian strength well developed.
I've no heart to write about anything in Europe to you
now. When are you coming back again? Please send me
a line as soon as you get safe over, to say you are
all--wrong, but not lost in the Atlantic.
I don't know if you will ever get this letter, but I
hope you will think it worth while to glance again at
the Denmark Hill pictures; so I send this to my father,
who, I hope, will be able to give it you.
I really am very sorry you are going,--you and yours;
and that is absolute fact, and I shall not enjoy my
Swiss journey at all so much as I might. It was a shame
of you not to give me warning before. I could have
stopped at Paris so easily for you! All good be with
you! Remember me devotedly to the young ladies, and
believe me ever affectionately yours,
J. RUSKIN.
In Rome Mrs. Stowe had formed a warm friendship with the Brownings,
with whom she afterwards maintained a correspondence. The following
letter from Mrs. Browning was written a year after their first meeting.
ROME, 126 VIA FELICE, _14 March, 1861._
MY DEAR MRS. STOWE,--Let me say one word first. Your
letter, which would have given me pleasure if I had
been in the midst of pleasures, came to me when little
beside could have pleased. Dear friend, let me say it,
I had had a great blow and loss in England, and you
wrote things in that letter which seemed meant for me,
meant to do me good, and which did me good,--the first
good any letter or any talk did me; and it struck me as
strange, as more than a coincidence, that your first
word since we parted in Rome last spring should come to
me in Rome, and bear so directly on an experience which
you did not know of. I thank you very much.
The earnest stanzas I sent to England for one who
wanted them even more than I. I don't know how people
can keep up their prejudices against spiritualism with
tears in their eyes,--how they are not, at least,
thrown on the "wish that it might be true," and the
investigation of the phenomena, by that abrupt shutting
in their faces of the door of death, which shuts them
out from the sight of their beloved. My tendency is to
beat up against it like a crying child. Not that this
emotional impulse is the best for turning the key and
obtaining safe conclusions,--no. I did not write before
because I always do shrink from touching my own griefs,
one feels at first so sore that nothing but stillness
is borne. It is only after, when one is better, that
one can express one's self at all. This is so with me,
at least, though perhaps it ought not to be so with a
poet.
If you saw my "De Profundis" you must understand that
it was written nearly twenty years ago, and referred
to what went before. Mr. Howard's affliction made me
think of the MS. (in reference to a sermon of Dr.
Beecher's in the "Independent"), and I pulled it out
of a secret place and sent it to America, not thinking
that the publication would fall in so nearly with a new
grief of mine as to lead to misconceptions. In fact the
poem would have been an exaggeration in that case, and
unsuitable in other respects.
It refers to the greatest affliction of my life,--the
only time when I felt _despair_,--written a year after
or more. Forgive all these reticences. My husband calls
me "peculiar" in some things,--peculiarly _lâche_,
perhaps. I can't articulate some names, or speak of
certain afflictions;--no, not to _him_,--not after all
these years! It's a sort of _dumbness_ of the soul.
Blessed are those who can speak, I say. But don't you
see from this how I must want "spiritualism" above most
persons?
Now let me be ashamed of this egotism, together with
the rest of the weakness obtruded on you here, when I
should rather have congratulated you, my dear friend,
on the great crisis you are passing through in America.
If the North is found noble enough to stand fast on
the moral question, whatever the loss or diminution of
territory, God and just men will see you greater and
more glorious as a nation.
I had much anxiety for you after the Seward and Adams
speeches, but the danger seems averted by that fine
madness of the South which seems judicial. The tariff
movement we should regret deeply (and do, some of us),
only I am told it was wanted in order to persuade
those who were less accessible to moral argument. It's
eking out the holy water with ditch water. If the Devil
flees before it, even so, let us be content. How you
must feel, _you_ who have done so much to set this
accursed slavery in the glare of the world, convicting
it of hideousness! They should raise a statue to you in
America and elsewhere.
Meanwhile I am reading you in the "Independent," sent
to me by Mr. Tilton, with the greatest interest. Your
new novel opens beautifully.[14]
Do write to me and tell me of yourself and the subjects
which interest us both. It seems to me that our Roman
affairs may linger a little (while the Papacy bleeds
slowly to death in its finances) on account of this
violent clerical opposition in France. Otherwise we
were prepared for the fall of the house any morning.
Prince Napoleon's speech represents, with whatever
slight discrepancy, the inner mind of the emperor. It
occupied seventeen columns of the "Moniteur" and was
magnificent. Victor Emmanuel wrote to thank him for
it in the name of Italy, and even the English papers
praised it as "a masterly exposition of the policy of
France." It is settled that we shall wait for Venice.
It will not be for long. Hungary is _only_ waiting,
and even in the ashes of Poland there are flickering
sparks. Is it the beginning of the restitution of all
things?
Here in Rome there are fewer English than usual, and
more empty houses. There is a new story every morning,
and nobody to cut off the head of the Scheherazade.
Yesterday the Pope was going to Venice directly, and,
the day before, fixed the hour for Victor Emmanuel's
coming, and the day before _that_ brought a letter from
Cavour to Antonelli about sweeping the streets clean
for the feet of the king. The poor Romans live on these
stories, while the Holy Father and king of Naples meet
holding one another's hands, and cannot speak for sobs.
The little queen, however, is a heroine in her way and
from her point of view, and when she drives about in a
common fiacre, looking very pretty under her only crown
left of golden hair, one must feel sorry that she was
not born and married nearer to holy ground. My husband
prays you to remember him, and I ask your daughters to
remember both of us. Our boy rides his pony and studies
under his abbé, and keeps a pair of red cheeks, thank
God.
I ought to send you more about the society in Rome, but
I have lived much alone this winter, and have little to
tell you. Dr. Manning and Mr. De Vere stay away, not
bearing, perhaps, to see the Pope in his agony.
Your ever affectionate friend,
ELIZABETH B. BROWNING.
Soon after her return to America Mrs. Stowe began a correspondence with
Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes, which opened the way for the warm friendship
that has stood the test of years. Of this correspondence the two
following letters, written about this time, are of attention.
ANDOVER, _September 9, 1860._
DEAR DR. HOLMES,--I have had an impulse upon me for
a long time to write you a line of recognition and
sympathy, in response to those that reached me monthly
in your late story in the "Atlantic" ("Elsie Venner").
I know not what others may think of it, since I have
seen nobody since my return; but to me it is of deeper
and broader interest than anything you have done
yet, and I feel an intense curiosity concerning that
underworld of thought from which like bubbles your
incidents and remarks often seem to burst up. The
foundations of moral responsibility, the interlacing
laws of nature and spirit, and their relations to us
here and hereafter, are topics which I ponder more
and more, and on which only one medically educated
can write _well_. I think a course of medical study
ought to be required of all ministers. How I should
like to talk with you upon the strange list of topics
suggested in the schoolmaster's letter! They are bound
to agitate the public mind more and more, and it is of
the chiefest importance to learn, if we can, to think
soundly and wisely of them. Nobody can be a sound
theologian who has not had his mind drawn to think with
reverential fear on these topics.
Allow me to hint that the monthly numbers are not
long enough. Get us along a little faster. You must
work this well out. Elaborate and give us all the
particulars. Old Sophie is a jewel; give us more of
her. I have seen her. Could you ever come out and spend
a day with us? The professor and I would so like to
have a talk on some of these matters with you!
Very truly yours,
H. B. STOWE.
ANDOVER, _February 18, 1861._
DEAR DOCTOR,--I was quite indignant to hear yesterday
of the very unjust and stupid attack upon you in the
----. Mr. Stowe has written to them a remonstrance
which I hope they will allow to appear as he wrote it,
and over his name. He was well acquainted with your
father and feels the impropriety of the thing.
But, my dear friend, in being shocked, surprised,
or displeased personally with such things, we must
consider other people's natures. A man or woman may
wound us to the quick without knowing it, or meaning to
do so, simply through difference of fibre. As Cowper
hath somewhere happily said:--
"Oh, why are farmers made so coarse,
Or clergy made so fine?
A kick that scarce might move a horse
Might kill a sound divine."
When once people get ticketed, and it is known that one
is a hammer, another a saw, and so on, if we happen to
get a taste of their quality we cannot help being hurt,
to be sure, but we shall not take it ill of them. There
be pious, well-intending beetles, wedges, hammers,
saws, and all other kinds of implements, good--except
where they come in the way of our fingers--and from a
beetle you can have only a beetle's gospel.
I have suffered in my day from this sort of handling,
which is worse for us women, who must never answer, and
once when I wrote to Lady Byron, feeling just as you
do about some very stupid and unkind things that had
invaded my personality, she answered me, "Words do not
kill, my dear, or I should have been dead long ago."
There is much true religion and kindness in the world,
after all, and as a general thing he who has struck a
nerve would be very sorry for it if he only knew what
he had done.
I would say nothing, if I were you. There is eternal
virtue in silence.
I must express my pleasure with the closing chapters of
"Elsie." They are nobly and beautifully done, and quite
come up to what I wanted to complete my idea of her
character. I am quite satisfied with it now. It is an
artistic creation, original and beautiful.
Believe me to be your true friend,
H. B. STOWE.
FOOTNOTE:
[14] _The Pearl of Orr's Island._
CHAPTER XVI.
THE CIVIL WAR, 1860-1865.
THE OUTBREAK OF CIVIL WAR.--MRS. STOWE'S SON
ENLISTS.--THANKSGIVING DAY IN WASHINGTON.--THE
PROCLAMATION OF EMANCIPATION.--REJOICINGS IN
BOSTON.--FRED STOWE AT GETTYSBURG.--LEAVING ANDOVER
AND SETTLING IN HARTFORD.--A REPLY TO THE WOMEN OF
ENGLAND.--LETTERS FROM JOHN BRIGHT, ARCHBISHOP WHATELY,
AND NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.
IMMEDIATELY after Mrs. Stowe's return from Europe, it became only too
evident that the nation was rapidly and inevitably drifting into all
the horrors of civil war. To use her own words: "It was God's will
that this nation--the North as well as the South--should deeply and
terribly suffer for the sin of consenting to and encouraging the great
oppressions of the South; that the ill-gotten wealth, which had arisen
from striking hands with oppression and robbery, should be paid back
in the taxes of war; that the blood of the poor slave, that had cried
so many years from the ground in vain, should be answered by the blood
of the sons from the best hearthstones through all the free States;
that the slave mothers, whose tears nobody regarded, should have with
them a great company of weepers, North and South,--Rachels weeping for
their children and refusing to be comforted; that the free States, who
refused to listen when they were told of lingering starvation, cold,
privation, and barbarous cruelty, as perpetrated on the slave, should
have lingering starvation, cold, hunger, and cruelty doing its work
among their own sons, at the hands of these slave-masters, with whose
sins our nation had connived."
Mrs. Stowe spoke from personal experience, having seen her own son go
forth in the ranks of those who first responded to the President's
call for volunteers. He was one of the first to place his name on the
muster-roll of Company A of the First Massachusetts Volunteers. While
his regiment was still at the camp in Cambridge, Mrs. Stowe was called
to Brooklyn on important business, from which place she writes to her
husband under the date June 11, 1861:--
"Yesterday noon Henry (Ward Beecher) came in, saying that the
Commonwealth, with the First (Massachusetts) Regiment on board, had
just sailed by. Immediately I was of course eager to get to Jersey City
to see Fred. Sister Eunice said she would go with me, and in a few
minutes she, Hatty, Sam Scoville, and I were in a carriage, driving
towards the Fulton Ferry. Upon reaching Jersey City we found that the
boys were dining in the depot, an immense building with many tracks
and platforms. It has a great cast-iron gallery just under the roof,
apparently placed there with prophetic instinct of these times. There
was a crowd of people pressing against the grated doors, which were
locked, but through which we could see the soldiers. It was with great
difficulty that we were at last permitted to go inside, and that object
seemed to be greatly aided by a bit of printed satin that some man gave
Mr. Scoville.
"When we were in, a vast area of gray caps and blue overcoats was
presented. The boys were eating, drinking, smoking, talking, singing,
and laughing. Company A was reported to be here, there, and everywhere.
At last S. spied Fred in the distance, and went leaping across the
tracks towards him. Immediately afterwards a blue-overcoated figure
bristling with knapsack and haversack, and looking like an assortment
of packages, came rushing towards us.
"Fred was overjoyed, you may be sure, and my first impulse was to wipe
his face with my handkerchief before I kissed him. He was in high
spirits, in spite of the weight of blue overcoat, knapsack, etc., etc.,
that he would formerly have declared intolerable for half an hour.
I gave him my handkerchief and Eunice gave him hers, with a sheer
motherly instinct that is so strong within her, and then we filled his
haversack with oranges.
"We stayed with Fred about two hours, during which time the gallery
was filled with people, cheering and waving their handkerchiefs. Every
now and then the band played inspiriting airs, in which the soldiers
joined with hearty voices. While some of the companies sang, others
were drilled, and all seemed to be having a general jollification. The
meal that had been provided was plentiful, and consisted of coffee,
lemonade, sandwiches, etc.
"On our way out we were introduced to the Rev. Mr. Cudworth, chaplain
of the regiment. He is a fine-looking man, with black eyes and hair,
set off by a white havelock. He wore a sword, and Fred, touching it,
asked, 'Is this for use or ornament, sir?'
"'Let me see you in danger,' answered the chaplain, 'and you'll find
out.'
"I said to him I supposed he had had many an one confided to his kind
offices, but I could not forbear adding one more to the number. He
answered, 'You may rest assured, Mrs. Stowe, I will do all in my power.'
"We parted from Fred at the door. He said he felt lonesome enough
Saturday evening on the Common in Boston, where everybody was taking
leave of somebody, and he seemed to be the only one without a friend,
but that this interview made up for it all.
"I also saw young Henry. Like Fred he is mysteriously changed, and
wears an expression of gravity and care. So our boys come to manhood
in a day. Now I am watching anxiously for the evening paper to tell me
that the regiment has reached Washington in safety."
In November, 1862, Mrs. Stowe was invited to visit Washington, to be
present at a great thanksgiving dinner provided for the thousands
of fugitive slaves who had flocked to the city. She accepted the
invitation the more gladly because her son's regiment was encamped
near the city, and she should once more see him. He was now Lieutenant
Stowe, having honestly won his promotion by bravery on more than one
hard-fought field. She writes of this visit:--
Imagine a quiet little parlor with a bright coal fire,
and the gaslight burning above a centre-table, about
which Hatty, Fred, and I are seated. Fred is as happy
as happy can be to be with mother and sister once more.
All day yesterday we spent in getting him. First we had
to procure a permit to go to camp, then we went to the
fort where the colonel is, and then to another where
the brigadier-general is stationed. I was so afraid
they would not let him come with us, and was never
happier than when at last he sprang into the carriage
free to go with us for forty-eight hours. "Oh!" he
exclaimed in a sort of rapture, "this pays for a year
and a half of fighting and hard work!"
We tried hard to get the five o'clock train out to
Laurel, where J.'s regiment is stationed, as we wanted
to spend Sunday all together; but could not catch it,
and so had to content ourselves with what we could
have. I have managed to secure a room for Fred next
ours, and feel as though I had my boy at home once
more. He is looking very well, has grown in thickness,
and is as loving and affectionate as a boy can be.
I have just been writing a pathetic appeal to the
brigadier-general to let him stay with us a week. I
have also written to General Buckingham in regard to
changing him from the infantry, in which there seems to
be no prospect of anything but garrison duty, to the
cavalry, which is full of constant activity.
General B. called on us last evening. He seemed to
think the prospect before us was, at best, of a long
war. He was the officer deputed to carry the order
to General McClellan relieving him of command of the
army. He carried it to him in his tent about twelve
o'clock at night. Burnside was there. McClellan said it
was very unexpected, but immediately turned over the
command. I said I thought he ought to have expected
it after having so disregarded the President's order.
General B. smiled and said he supposed McClellan had
done that so often before that he had no idea any
notice would be taken of it this time.
Now, as I am very tired, I must close, and remain as
always, lovingly yours,
HATTY.
During the darkest and most bitter period of the Civil War, Mrs. Stowe
penned the following letter to the Duchess of Argyll:--
ANDOVER, _July 31, 1863._
MY DEAR FRIEND,--Your lovely, generous letter was a
real comfort to me, and reminded me that a year--and,
alas! a whole year--had passed since I wrote to your
dear mother, of whom I think so often as one of God's
noblest creatures, and one whom it comforts me to think
is still in our world.
_So many_, good and noble, have passed away whose
friendship was such a pride, such a comfort to me!
Your noble father, Lady Byron, Mrs. Browning,--their
spirits are as perfect as ever passed to the world of
light. I grieve about your dear mother's eyes. I have
thought about you all, many a sad, long, quiet hour,
as I have lain on my bed and looked at the pictures
on my wall; one, in particular, of the moment before
the Crucifixion, which is the first thing I look at
when I wake in the morning. I think how suffering is,
and must be, the portion of noble spirits, and no lot
so brilliant that must not first or last dip into the
shadow of that eclipse. Prince Albert, too, the ideal
knight, the _Prince Arthur_ of our times, the good,
wise, steady head and heart we--that is, our world, we
Anglo-Saxons--need so much. And the Queen! yes, I have
thought of and prayed for her, too. But could a woman
hope to have _always_ such a heart, and yet ever be
weaned from earth "all this and heaven, too"?
Under my picture I have inscribed, "Forasmuch as Christ
also hath suffered for us in the flesh, arm yourselves
with the same mind."
This year has been one long sigh, one smothering sob,
to me. And I thank God that we have as yet one or two
generous friends in England who understand and feel for
our cause.
The utter failure of Christian, anti-slavery England,
in those _instincts_ of a right heart which always can
see where the cause of liberty lies, has been as bitter
a grief to me as was the similar prostration of all our
American religious people in the day of the Fugitive
Slave Law. Exeter Hall is a humbug, a pious humbug,
like the rest. Lord Shaftesbury. Well, let him go; he
is a Tory, and has, after all, the instincts of his
class. But I saw _your_ duke's speech to his tenants!
That was grand! If _he_ can see these things, they are
to be seen, and why cannot Exeter Hall see them? It is
simply the want of the honest heart.
Why do the horrible barbarities of _Southern_ soldiers
cause no comment? Why is the sympathy of the British
Parliament reserved for the poor women of New Orleans,
deprived of their elegant amusement of throwing vitriol
into soldiers' faces, and practicing indecencies
inconceivable in any other state of society? Why is
_all_ expression of sympathy on the _Southern_ side?
There is a class of women in New Orleans whom Butler
protects from horrible barbarities, that up to his day
have been practiced on them by these so-called New
Orleans ladies, but British sympathy has ceased to
notice _them_. You see I am bitter. I am. You wonder
at my brother. He is a man, and feels a thousand
times more than I can, and deeper than all he ever
has expressed, the spirit of these things. You must
not wonder, therefore. Remember it is the moment when
every nerve is vital; it is our agony; we tread the
winepress alone, and they whose cheap rhetoric has been
for years pushing us into it now desert _en masse_. I
thank my God I always loved and trusted most those who
now _do_ stand true,--your family, your duke, yourself,
your noble mother. I have lost Lady Byron. Her great
heart, her eloquent letters, would have been such a joy
to me! And Mrs. Browning, oh such a heroic woman! None
of her poems can express what _she_ was,--so grand, so
comprehending, so strong, with such inspired insight!
She stood by Italy through its crisis. Her heart was
with all good through the world. Your prophecy that
we shall come out better, truer, stronger, will, I am
confident, be true, and it was worthy of yourself and
your good lineage.
Slavery will be sent out by this agony. We are only
in the throes and ravings of the exorcism. The roots
of the cancer have gone everywhere, but they must
die--will. Already the Confiscation Bill is its natural
destruction. Lincoln has been too slow. He should have
done it sooner, and with an impulse, but come it must,
come it will. Your mother will live to see slavery
abolished, _unless_ England forms an alliance to hold
it up. England is the great reliance of the slave-power
to-day, and next to England the faltering weakness of
the North, which palters and dare not fire the great
broadside for fear of hitting friends. These things
_must_ be done, and sudden, sharp remedies are _mercy_.
Just now we are in a dark hour; but whether God be with
us or not, I know He is with the slave, and with his
redemption will come the solution of our question. I
have long known _what_ and who we had to deal with
in this, for when I wrote "Uncle Tom's Cabin" I had
letters addressed to me showing a state of society
perfectly _inconceivable_. That they violate graves,
make drinking-cups of skulls, that _ladies_ wear cameos
cut from bones, and treasure scalps, is no surprise
to me. If I had written what I knew of the obscenity,
brutality, and cruelty of that society down there,
society would have cast out the books; and it is for
their interest, the interest of the whole race in the
South, that we should succeed. I wish _them_ no ill,
feel no bitterness; they have had a Dahomian education
which makes them savage. We don't expect any more of
_them_, but if slavery is destroyed, one generation of
education and liberty will efface these stains. They
will come to themselves, these States, and be glad it
is over.
I am using up my paper to little purpose. Please give
my best love to your dear mother. I am going to write
to her. If I only could have written the things I have
often thought! I am going to put on her bracelet, with
the other dates, that of the abolition of slavery in
the District of Columbia. Remember me to the duke and
to your dear children. My husband desires his best
regards, my daughters also.
I am lovingly ever yours,
H. B. STOWE.
Later in the year we hear again from her son in the army, and this
time the news comes in a chaplain's letter from the terrible field of
Gettysburg. He writes:--
GETTYSBURG, PA., _Saturday, July 11_, 9.30 P. M.
MRS. H. B. STOWE:
_Dear Madam_,--Among the thousands of wounded and dying
men on this war-scarred field, I have just met with
your son, Captain Stowe. If you have not already heard
from him, it may cheer your heart to know that he is
in the hands of good, kind friends. He was struck by
a fragment of a shell, which entered his right ear.
He is quiet and cheerful, longs to see some member
of his family, and is, above all, anxious that they
should hear from him as soon as possible. I assured him
I would write at once, and though I am wearied by a
week's labor here among scenes of terrible suffering,
I know that, to a mother's anxious heart, even a hasty
scrawl about her boy will be more than welcome.
May God bless and sustain you in this troubled time!
Yours with sincere sympathy,
J. M. CROWELL.
The wound in the head was not fatal, and after weary months of intense
suffering it imperfectly healed; but the cruel iron had too nearly
touched the brain of the young officer, and never again was he what he
had been. Soon after the war his mother bought a plantation in Florida,
largely in the hope that the out-of-door life connected with its
management might be beneficial to her afflicted son. He remained on it
for several years, and then, being possessed with the idea that a long
sea voyage would do him more good than anything else, sailed from New
York to San Francisco around the Horn. That he reached the latter city
in safety is known; but that is all. No word from him or concerning
him has ever reached the loving hearts that have waited so anxiously
for it, and of his ultimate fate nothing is known.
Meantime, the year 1863 was proving eventful in many other ways to Mrs.
Stowe. In the first place, the long and pleasant Andover connection of
Professor Stowe was about to be severed, and the family were to remove
to Hartford, Conn. They were to occupy a house that Mrs. Stowe was
building on the bank of Park River. It was erected in a grove of oaks
that had in her girlhood been one of Mrs. Stowe's favorite resorts.
Here, with her friend Georgiana May, she had passed many happy hours,
and had often declared that if she were ever able to build a house, it
should stand in that very place. Here, then, it was built in 1863, and
as the location was at that time beyond the city limits, it formed,
with its extensive, beautiful groves, a particularly charming place of
residence. Beautiful as it was, however, it was occupied by the family
for only a few years. The needs of the growing city caused factories to
spring up in the neighborhood, and to escape their encroachments the
Stowes in 1873 bought and moved into the house on Forest Street that
has ever since been their Northern home. Thus the only house Mrs. Stowe
ever planned and built for herself has been appropriated to the use of
factory hands, and is now a tenement occupied by several families.
Another important event of 1863 was the publishing of that charming
story of Italy, "Agnes of Sorrento," which had been begun nearly four
years before. This story suggested itself to Mrs. Stowe while she
was abroad during the winter of 1859-60. The origin of the story is
as follows: One evening, at a hotel in Florence, it was proposed that
the various members of the party should write short stories and read
them for the amusement of the company. Mrs. Stowe took part in this
literary contest, and the result was the first rough sketch of "Agnes
of Sorrento." From this beginning was afterwards elaborated "Agnes of
Sorrento," with a dedication to Annie Howard, who was one of the party.
Not the least important event of the year to Mrs. Stowe, and the world
at large through her instrumentality, was the publication in the
"Atlantic Monthly" of her reply to the address of the women of England.
The "reply" is substantially as follows:--
_January, 1863._
A REPLY
To "The affectionate and Christian Address of many
thousands of Women of Great Britain and Ireland to
their Sisters, the Women of the United States of
America," (signed by)
ANNA MARIA BEDFORD (Duchess of Bedford).
OLIVIA CECILIA COWLEY (Countess Cowley).
CONSTANCE GROSVENOR (Countess Grosvenor).
HARRIET SUTHERLAND (Duchess of Sutherland).
ELIZABETH ARGYLL (Duchess of Argyll).
ELIZABETH FORTESCUE (Countess Fortescue).
EMILY SHAFTESBURY (Countess of Shaftesbury).
MARY RUTHVEN (Baroness Ruthven).
M. A. MILMAN (wife of Dean of St. Paul).
R. BUXTON (daughter of Sir Thomas Fowell Buxton).
CAROLINE AMELIA OWEN (wife of Professor Owen).
MRS. CHARLES WINDHAM.
C. A. HATHERTON (Baroness Hatherton).
ELIZABETH DUCIE (Countess Dowager of Ducie).
CECILIA PARKE (wife of Baron Parke).
MARY ANN CHALLIS (wife of the Lord Mayor of London).
E. GORDON (Duchess Dowager of Gordon).
ANNA M. L. MELVILLE (daughter of Earl of Leven and Melville).
GEORGIANA EBRINGTON (Lady Ebrington).
A. HILL (Viscountess Hill).
MRS. GOBAT (wife of Bishop Gobat of Jerusalem).
E. PALMERSTON (Viscountess Palmerston).
(And others).
SISTERS,--More than eight years ago you sent to us in
America a document with the above heading. It is as
follows:--
"A common origin, a common faith, and, we sincerely
believe, a common cause, urge us, at the present
moment, to address you on the subject of that system of
negro slavery which still prevails so extensively, and,
even under kindly disposed masters, with such frightful
results, in many of the vast regions of the Western
world.
"We will not dwell on the ordinary topics,--on the
progress of civilization, on the advance of freedom
everywhere, on the rights and requirements of the
nineteenth century; but we appeal to you very seriously
to reflect, and to ask counsel of God, how far such a
state of things is in accordance with his Holy Word,
the inalienable rights of immortal souls, and the
pure and merciful spirit of the Christian religion.
We do not shut our eyes to the difficulties, nay, the
dangers, that might beset the immediate abolition of
that long-established system. We see and admit the
necessity of preparation for so great an event; but,
in speaking of indispensable preliminaries, we cannot
be silent on those laws of your country which, in
direct contravention of God's own law, 'instituted in
the time of man's innocency,' deny in effect to the
slave the sanctity of marriage, with all its joys,
rights, and obligations; which separate, at the will
of the master, the wife from the husband, and the
children from the parents. Nor can we be silent on that
awful system which, either by statute or by custom,
interdicts to any race of men, or any portion of the
human family, education in the truths of the gospel and
the ordinances of Christianity. A remedy applied to
these two evils alone would commence the amelioration
of their sad condition. We appeal to you then, as
sisters, as wives, and as mothers, to raise your voices
to your fellow-citizens, and your prayers to God, for
the removal of this affliction and disgrace from the
Christian world.
"We do not say these things in a spirit of
self-complacency, as though our nation were free from
the guilt it perceives in others.
"We acknowledge with grief and shame our heavy share
in this great sin. We acknowledge that our forefathers
introduced, nay compelled the adoption, of slavery in
those mighty colonies. We humbly confess it before
Almighty God; and it is because we so deeply feel
and unfeignedly avow our own complicity, that we now
venture to implore your aid to wipe away our common
crime and our common dishonor."
* * * * *
This address, splendidly illuminated on vellum, was
sent to our shores at the head of twenty-six folio
volumes, containing considerably more than half
a million of signatures of British women. It was
forwarded to me with a letter from a British nobleman,
now occupying one of the highest official positions
in England, with a request on behalf of these ladies
that it should be in any possible way presented to the
attention of my countrywomen.
This memorial, as it now stands in its solid oaken
case, with its heavy folios, each bearing on its back
the imprint of the American eagle, forms a most unique
library, a singular monument of an international
expression of a moral idea. No right-thinking person
can find aught to be objected against the substance
or form of this memorial. It is temperate, just, and
kindly; and on the high ground of Christian equality,
where it places itself, may be regarded as a perfectly
proper expression of sentiment, as between blood
relations and equals in two different nations. The
signatures to this appeal are not the least remarkable
part of it; for, beginning at the very steps of the
throne, they go down to the names of women in the
very humblest conditions in life, and represent all
that Great Britain possesses, not only of highest and
wisest, but of plain, homely common sense and good
feeling. Names of wives of cabinet ministers appear
on the same page with the names of wives of humble
labourers,--names of duchesses and countesses, of wives
of generals, ambassadors, savants, and men of letters,
mingled with names traced in trembling characters by
hands evidently unused to hold the pen, and stiffened
by lowly toil. Nay, so deep and expansive was the
feeling, that British subjects in foreign lands had
their representation. Among the signatures are those of
foreign residents, from Paris to Jerusalem. Autographs
so diverse, and collected from sources so various,
have seldom been found in juxtaposition. They remain
at this day a silent witness of a most singular tide
of feeling which at that time swept over the British
community and _made_ for itself an expression, even at
the risk of offending the sensibilities of an equal and
powerful nation.
No reply to that address, in any such tangible and
monumental form, has ever been possible. It was
impossible to canvass our vast territories with the
zealous and indefatigable industry with which England
was canvassed for signatures. In America, those
possessed of the spirit which led to this efficient
action had no leisure for it. All their time and
energies were already absorbed in direct efforts to
remove the great evil, concerning which the minds of
their English sisters had been newly aroused, and their
only answer was the silent continuance of these efforts.
From the slaveholding States, however, as was to be
expected, came a flood of indignant recrimination and
rebuke. No one act, perhaps, ever produced more frantic
irritation, or called out more unsparing abuse. It came
with the whole united weight of the British aristocracy
and commonalty on the most diseased and sensitive part
of our national life; and it stimulated that fierce
excitement which was working before, and has worked
since, till it has broken out into open war.
The time has come, however, when such an astonishing
page has been turned, in the anti-slavery history of
America, that the women of our country, feeling that
the great anti-slavery work to which their English
sisters exhorted them is almost done, may properly and
naturally feel moved to reply to their appeal, and lay
before them the history of what has occurred since the
receipt of their affectionate and Christian address.
Your address reached us just as a great moral conflict
was coming to its intensest point. The agitation kept
up by the anti-slavery portion of America, by England,
and by the general sentiment of humanity in Europe,
had made the situation of the slaveholding aristocracy
intolerable. As one of them at the time expressed it,
they felt themselves under the ban of the civilized
world. Two courses only were open to them: to abandon
slave institutions, the sources of their wealth and
political power, or to assert them with such an
overwhelming national force as to compel the respect
and assent of mankind. They chose the latter.
To this end they determined to seize on and control all
the resources of the Federal Government, and to spread
their institutions through new States and Territories
until the balance of power should fall into their hands
and they should be able to force slavery into all the
free States.
A leading Southern senator boasted that he would yet
call the roll of his slaves on Bunker Hill; and for a
while the political successes of the slave-power were
such as to suggest to New England that this was no
impossible event.
They repealed the Missouri Compromise, which had
hitherto stood like the Chinese wall, between our
Northwestern Territories and the irruptions of
slaveholding barbarians.
Then came the struggle between freedom and slavery in
the new territory; the battle for Kansas and Nebraska,
fought with fire and sword and blood, where a race of
men, of whom John Brown was the immortal type, acted
over again the courage, the perseverance, and the
military-religious ardor of the old Covenanters of
Scotland, and like them redeemed the ark of liberty at
the price of their own blood, and blood dearer than
their own.
The time of the Presidential canvass which elected
Mr. Lincoln was the crisis of this great battle. The
conflict had become narrowed down to the one point of
the extension of slave territory. If the slaveholders
could get States enough, they could control and
rule; if they were outnumbered by free States, their
institutions, by the very law of their nature, would
die of suffocation. Therefore Fugitive Slave Law,
District of Columbia, Inter-State Slave-trade, and what
not, were all thrown out of sight for a grand rally
on this vital point. A President was elected pledged
to opposition to this one thing alone,--a man known
to be in favor of the Fugitive Slave Law and other
so-called compromises of the Constitution, but honest
and faithful in his determination on this one subject.
That this was indeed the vital point was shown by the
result. The moment Lincoln's election was ascertained,
the slaveholders resolved to destroy the Union they
could no longer control.
They met and organized a Confederacy which they openly
declared to be the first republic founded on the right
and determination of the white man to enslave the black
man, and, spreading their banners, declared themselves
to the Christian world of the nineteenth century as a
nation organized with the full purpose and intent of
perpetuating slavery.
But in the course of the struggle that followed, it
became important for the new confederation to secure
the assistance of foreign powers, and infinite pains
were then taken to blind and bewilder the mind of
England as to the real issues of the conflict in
America.
It has been often and earnestly asserted that slavery
had nothing to do with this conflict; that it was a
mere struggle for power; that the only object was to
restore the Union as it was, with all its abuses. It is
to be admitted that expressions have proceeded from the
national administration which naturally gave rise to
misapprehension, and therefore we beg to speak to you
on this subject more fully.
And first the declaration of the Confederate States
themselves is proof enough, that, whatever may be
declared on the other side, the maintenance of slavery
is regarded by them as the vital object of their
movement.
We ask your attention under this head to the
declaration of their Vice-President, Stephens, in that
remarkable speech delivered on the 21st of March,
1861, at Savannah, Georgia, wherein he declares the
object and purposes of the new Confederacy. It is one
of the most extraordinary papers which our century
has produced. I quote from the _verbatim_ report in
the "Savannah Republican" of the address as it was
delivered in the Athenæum of that city, on which
occasion, says the newspaper from which I copy, "Mr.
Stephens took his seat amid a burst of enthusiasm and
applause such as the Athenæum has never had displayed
within its walls within the recollection 'of the oldest
inhabitant.'"
Last, not least, the new Constitution has put at rest
_forever_ all the agitating questions relating to our
peculiar institution,--African slavery as it exists
among us, the proper _status_ of the negro in our form
of civilization. _This was the immediate cause of the
late rupture and present revolution._ Jefferson, in his
forecast, had anticipated this as the "rock upon which
the old Union would split." He was right. What was a
conjecture with him is now a realized fact. But whether
he fully comprehended the great truth upon which that
rock _stood_ and _stands_ may be doubted.
_The prevailing ideas entertained by him and most of
the leading statesmen at the time of the formation of
the old Constitution were, that the enslavement of
the African was in violation of the laws of nature;
that it was wrong in principle, socially, morally, and
politically._
In the mean while, during the past year, the Republican
administration, with all the unwonted care of
organizing an army and navy, and conducting military
operations on an immense scale, have proceeded to
demonstrate the feasibility of overthrowing slavery
by purely constitutional measures. To this end they
have instituted a series of movements which have made
this year more fruitful in anti-slavery triumphs than
any other since the emancipation of the British West
Indies. The District of Columbia, as belonging strictly
to the national government and to no separate State,
has furnished a fruitful subject of remonstrance from
British Christians with America. We have abolished
slavery there, and thus wiped out the only blot of
territorial responsibility on our escutcheon.
By another act, equally grand in principle, and far
more important in its results, slavery is forever
excluded from the Territories of the United States.
By another act, America has consummated the
long-delayed treaty with Great Britain for the
suppression of the slave-trade. In ports whence slave
vessels formerly sailed with the connivance of the
port officers, the administration has placed men who
stand up to their duty, and for the first time in our
history the slave-trader is convicted and hung as a
pirate. This abominable secret traffic has been wholly
demolished by the energy of the Federal Government.
Lastly, and more significant still, the United States
government has in its highest official capacity taken
distinct anti-slavery ground, and presented to the
country a plan of peaceable emancipation with suitable
compensation. This noble-spirited and generous offer
has been urged on the slaveholding States by the chief
executive with earnestness and sincerity. But this is
but half the story of the anti-slavery triumphs of this
year. We have shown you what has been done for freedom
by the simple use of the ordinary constitutional forces
of the Union. We are now to show you what has been done
to the same end by the constitutional war-power of the
nation.
By this power it has been this year decreed that every
slave of a rebel who reaches the lines of our army
becomes a free man; that all slaves found deserted
by their masters become free men; that every slave
employed in any service for the United States thereby
obtains his liberty; and that every slave employed
against the United States in any capacity obtains his
liberty; and lest the army should contain officers
disposed to remand slaves to their masters, the power
of judging and delivering up slaves is denied to army
officers, and all such acts are made penal.
By this act the Fugitive Slave Law is for all present
purposes practically repealed. With this understanding
and provision, wherever our armies march they carry
liberty with them. For be it remembered that our army
is almost entirely a volunteer one, and that the most
zealous and ardent volunteers are those who have been
for years fighting, with tongue and pen, the abolition
battle. So marked is the character of our soldiers in
this respect, that they are now familiarly designated
in the official military dispatches of the Confederate
States as "the Abolitionists." Conceive the results
when an army so empowered by national law marches
through a slave territory. One regiment alone has to
our certain knowledge liberated two thousand slaves
during the past year, and this regiment is but one out
of hundreds.
Lastly, the great decisive measure of the war
has appeared,--_the President's Proclamation of
Emancipation_.
This also has been much misunderstood and
misrepresented in England. It has been said to mean
virtually this: Be loyal and you shall keep your
slaves; rebel and they shall be free. But let us
remember what we have just seen of the purpose and
meaning of the Union to which the rebellious States
are invited back. It is to a Union which has abolished
slavery in the District of Columbia, and interdicted
slavery in the Territories; which vigorously represses
the slave-trade, and hangs the convicted slaver as a
pirate; which necessitates emancipation by denying
expansion to slavery, and facilitates it by the offer
of compensation. Any slaveholding States which should
return to such a Union might fairly be supposed to
return with the purpose of peaceable emancipation.
The President's Proclamation simply means this: Come
in and emancipate peaceably with compensation; stay
out and I emancipate, nor will I protect you from the
consequences.
Will our sisters in England feel no heartbeat at
that event? Is it not one of the predicted voices of
the latter day, saying under the whole heavens, "It
is done; the kingdoms of this world are become the
kingdoms of our Lord and of His Christ"?
And now, sisters of England, in this solemn, expectant
hour, let us speak to you of one thing which fills our
hearts with pain and solicitude. It is an unaccountable
fact, and one which we entreat you seriously to ponder,
that the party which has brought the cause of freedom
thus far on its way, during the past eventful year,
has found little or no support in England. Sadder
than this, the party which makes slavery the chief
corner-stone of its edifice finds in England its
strongest defenders.
The voices that have spoken for us who contend for
liberty have been few and scattering. God forbid that
we should forget those few noble voices, so sadly
exceptional in the general outcry against us! They
are, alas! too few to be easily forgotten. False
statements have blinded the minds of your community,
and turned the most generous sentiments of the British
heart against us. The North are fighting for supremacy
and the South for independence, has been the voice.
Independence? for what? to do what? To prove the
doctrine that all men are _not_ equal; to establish the
doctrine that the white may enslave the negro!
In the beginning of our struggle, the voices that
reached us across the water said: "If we were only
sure you were fighting for the abolition of slavery,
we should not dare to say whither our sympathies for
your cause might not carry us." Such, as we heard, were
the words of the honored and religious nobleman who
draughted this very letter which you signed and sent
us, and to which we are now replying.
When these words reached us we said: "We can wait; our
friends in England will soon see whither this conflict
is tending." A year and a half have passed; step after
step has been taken for liberty; chain after chain has
fallen, till the march of our armies is choked and
clogged by the glad flocking of emancipated slaves;
the day of final emancipation is set; the border
States begin to move in voluntary consent; universal
freedom for all dawns like the sun in the distant
horizon, and still no voice from England. No voice?
Yes, we have heard on the high seas the voice of a
war-steamer, built for a man-stealing Confederacy,
with English gold, in an English dockyard, going out
of an English harbor, manned by English sailors, with
the full knowledge of English government officers, in
defiance of the Queen's proclamation of neutrality!
So far has English sympathy overflowed. We have heard
of other steamers, iron-clad, designed to furnish to
a slavery-defending Confederacy their only lack,--a
navy for the high seas. We have heard that the British
Evangelical Alliance refuses to express sympathy with
the liberating party, when requested to do so by
the French Evangelical Alliance. We find in English
religious newspapers all those sad degrees in the
downward-sliding scale of defending and apologizing
for slaveholders and slaveholding, with which we have
so many years contended in our own country. We find
the President's Proclamation of Emancipation spoken
of in those papers only as an incitement to servile
insurrection. Nay, more,--we find in your papers, from
thoughtful men, the admission of the rapid decline of
anti-slavery sentiments in England.
This very day the writer of this has been present at
a solemn religious festival in the national capital,
given at the home of a portion of those fugitive slaves
who have fled to our lines for protection,--who, under
the shadow of our flag, find sympathy and succor. The
national day of thanksgiving was there kept by over
a thousand redeemed slaves, and for whom Christian
charity had spread an ample repast. Our sisters,
we wish _you_ could have witnessed the scene. We
wish you could have heard the prayer of a blind old
negro, called among his fellows John the Baptist,
when in touching broken English he poured forth his
thanksgivings. We wish you could have heard the sound
of that strange rhythmical chant which is now forbidden
to be sung on Southern plantations,--the psalm of this
modern exodus,--which combines the barbaric fire of
the Marseillaise with the religious fervor of the old
Hebrew prophet:--
"Oh, go down, Moses,
Way down into Egypt's land!
Tell King Pharaoh
To let my people go!
Stand away dere,
Stand away dere,
And let my people go!"
As we were leaving, an aged woman came and lifted up
her hands in blessing. "Bressed be de Lord dat brought
me to see dis first happy day of my life! Bressed be de
Lord!" In all England is there no Amen?
We have been shocked and saddened by the question
asked in an association of Congregational ministers in
England, the very blood relations of the liberty-loving
Puritans,--"Why does not the North let the South go?"
What! give up the point of emancipation for these four
million slaves? Turn our backs on them, and leave them
to their fate? What! leave our white brothers to run
a career of oppression and robbery, that, as sure as
there is a God that ruleth in the armies of heaven,
will bring down a day of wrath and doom? Remember that
wishing success to this slavery-establishing effort is
only wishing to the sons and daughters of the South all
the curses that God has written against oppression.
_Mark our words!_ If we succeed, the children of
these very men who are now fighting us will rise up
to call us blessed. Just as surely as there is a God
who governs in the world, so surely all the laws of
national prosperity follow in the train of equity; and
if we succeed, we shall have delivered the children's
children of our misguided brethren from the wages of
sin, which is always and everywhere death.
And now, sisters of England, think it not strange if we
bring back the words of your letter, not in bitterness,
but in deepest sadness, and lay them down at your door.
We say to you, Sisters, you have spoken well; we have
heard you; we have heeded; we have striven in the
cause, even unto death. We have sealed our devotion
by desolate hearth and darkened homestead,--by the
blood of sons, husbands, and brothers. In many of
our dwellings the very light of our lives has gone
out; and yet we accept the life-long darkness as our
own part in this great and awful expiation, by which
the bonds of wickedness shall be loosed, and abiding
peace established on the foundation of righteousness.
Sisters, what have _you_ done, and what do you mean to
do?
We appeal to you as sisters, as wives, and as mothers,
to raise your voices to your fellow-citizens, and your
prayers to God for the removal of this affliction and
disgrace from the Christian world.
In behalf of many thousands of American women.
HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.
WASHINGTON, _November 27, 1862._
The publication of this reply elicited the following interesting letter
from John Bright:--
ROCHDALE, _March 9, 1863._
DEAR MRS. STOWE,--I received your kind note with
real pleasure, and felt it very good of you to send
me a copy of the "Atlantic Monthly" with your noble
letter to the women of England. I read every word
of it with an intense interest, and I am quite sure
that its effect upon opinion here has been marked and
beneficial. It has covered some with shame, and it has
compelled many to think, and it has stimulated not a
few to act. Before this reaches you, you will have
seen what large and earnest meetings have been held in
all our towns in favor of abolition and the North. No
town has a building large enough to contain those who
come to listen, to applaud, and to vote in favor of
freedom and the Union. The effect of this is evident
on our newspapers and on the tone of Parliament, where
now nobody says a word in favor of recognition, or
mediation, or any such thing.
The need and duty of England is admitted to be a strict
neutrality, but the feeling of the millions of her
people is one of friendliness to the United States and
its government. It would cause universal rejoicing,
among all but a limited circle of aristocracy and
commercially rich and corrupt, to hear that the
Northern forces had taken Vicksburg on the great river,
and Charleston on the Atlantic, and that the neck of
the conspiracy was utterly broken.
I hope your people may have strength and virtue to win
the great cause intrusted to them, but it is fearful to
contemplate the amount of the depravity in the North
engendered by the long power of slavery. New England is
far ahead of the States as a whole,--too instructed and
too moral; but still I will hope that she will bear the
nation through this appalling danger.
I well remember the evening at Rome and our
conversation. You lamented the election of Buchanan.
You judged him with a more unfriendly but a more
correct eye than mine. He turned out more incapable and
less honest than I hoped for. And I think I was right
in saying that your party was not then sufficiently
consolidated to enable it to maintain its policy in the
execution, even had Frémont been elected. As it is now,
six years later, the North but falteringly supports the
policy of the government, though impelled by the force
of events which then you did not dream of. President
Lincoln has lived half his troubled reign. In the
coming half I hope he may see land; surely slavery will
be so broken up that nothing can restore and renew it;
and, slavery once fairly gone, I know not how all your
States can long be kept asunder.
Believe me very sincerely yours,
JOHN BRIGHT.
It also called forth from Archbishop Whately the following letter:--
PALACE, DUBLIN, _January, 1863._
DEAR MADAM,--In acknowledging your letter and
pamphlet, I take the opportunity of laying before
you what I collect to be the prevailing sentiments
here on American affairs. Of course there is a great
variety of opinion, as may be expected in a country
like ours. Some few sympathize with the Northerns,
and some few with the Southerns, but far the greater
portion sympathize with neither completely, but lament
that each party should be making so much greater
an expenditure of life and property than can be
compensated for by any advantage they can dream of
obtaining.
Those who are the least favorable to the Northerns are
not so from any approbation of slavery, but from not
understanding that the war is waged in the cause of
abolition. "It was waged," they say, "ostensibly for
the restoration of the Union," and in attestation of
this, they refer to the proclamation which announced
the confiscation of slaves that were the property of
secessionists, while those who adhered to the Federal
cause should be exempt from such confiscation, which,
they say, did not savor much of zeal for abolition.
And if the other object--the restoration of the
Union--could be accomplished, which they all regard
as hopeless, they do not understand how it will tend
to the abolition of slavery. On the contrary, "if,"
say they, "the separation had been allowed to take
place peaceably, the Northerns might, as we do, have
proclaimed freedom to every slave who set foot on
their territory; which would have been a great check
to slavery, and especially to any cruel treatment of
slaves." Many who have a great dislike to slavery yet
hold that the Southerns had at least as much right
to secede as the Americans had originally to revolt
from Great Britain. And there are many who think that,
considering the dreadful distress we have suffered from
the cotton famine, we have shown great forbearance in
withstanding the temptation of recognizing the Southern
States and to break the blockade.
Then, again, there are some who are provoked at the
incessant railing at England, and threats of an
invasion of Canada, which are poured forth in some of
the American papers.
There are many, also, who consider that the present
state of things cannot continue much longer if the
Confederates continue to hold their own, as they
have done hitherto; and that a people who shall have
maintained their independence for two or three years
will be recognized by the principal European powers.
Such appears to have been the procedure of the European
powers in all similar cases, such as the revolt of the
Anglo-American and Spanish-American colonies, of the
Haytians and the Belgians. In these and other like
cases, the rule practically adopted seems to have been
to recognize the revolters, not at once, but after a
reasonable time had been allowed to see whether they
could maintain their independence; and this without
being understood to have pronounced any decision either
way as to the justice of the cause.
Moreover, there are many who say that the negroes and
people of color are far from being kindly or justly
treated in the Northern States. An emancipated slave,
at any rate, has not received good training for earning
his bread by the wages of labor; and if, in addition
to this and his being treated as an outcast, he is
excluded, as it is said, from many employments, by
the refusal of white laborers to work along with him,
he will have gained little by taking refuge in the
Northern States.
I have now laid before you the views which I conceive
to be most prevalent among us, and for which I am not
myself responsible.
For the safe and effectual emancipation of slaves,
I myself consider there is no plan so good as the
gradual one which was long ago suggested by Bishop
Hinds. What he recommended was an _ad valorem tax_ upon
slaves,--the value to be fixed by the owner, with an
option to government to purchase at that price. Thus
the slaves would be a burden to the master, and those
the most so who should be the most valuable, as being
the most intelligent and steady, and therefore the best
qualified for freedom; and it would be his interest to
train his slaves to be free laborers, and to emancipate
them, one by one, as speedily as he could with safety.
I fear, however, that the time is gone by for trying
this experiment in America.
With best wishes for the new year, believe me
Yours faithfully,
RD. WHATELY.
Among the many letters written from this side of the Atlantic regarding
the reply, was one from Nathaniel Hawthorne, in which he says:--
I read with great pleasure your article in the last
"Atlantic." If anything could make John Bull blush, I
should think it might be that; but he is a hardened
and villainous hypocrite. I always felt that he cared
nothing for or against slavery, except as it gave him
a vantage-ground on which to parade his own virtue and
sneer at our iniquity.
With best regards from Mrs. Hawthorne and myself to
yourself and family, sincerely yours,
NATH'L HAWTHORNE.
CHAPTER XVII.
FLORIDA, 1865-1869.
LETTER TO DUCHESS OF ARGYLL.--MRS. STOWE DESIRES TO
HAVE A HOME AT THE SOUTH.--FLORIDA THE BEST FIELD
FOR DOING GOOD.--SHE BUYS A PLACE AT MANDARIN.--A
CHARMING WINTER RESIDENCE.--"PALMETTO LEAVES."--EASTER
SUNDAY AT MANDARIN.--CORRESPONDENCE WITH DR.
HOLMES.--"POGANUC PEOPLE."--RECEPTIONS IN NEW ORLEANS
AND TALLAHASSEE.--LAST WINTER AT MANDARIN.
IN 1866, the terrible conflict between the North and South having
ended, Mrs. Stowe wrote the following letter to the Duchess of Argyll:--
HARTFORD, _February 19, 1866._
MY DEAR FRIEND,--Your letter was a real spring of
comfort to me, bringing refreshingly the pleasant
library at Inverary and the lovely days I spent there.
I am grieved at what you say of your dear mother's
health. I showed your letter to Mrs. Perkins, and we
both agreed in saying that _we_ should like for a time
to fill the place of maid to her, as doubtless you all
feel, too. I should so love to be with her, to read to
her, and talk to her! and oh, there is so much that
would cheer and comfort a noble heart like hers that
we could talk about. Oh, my friend, when I think of
what has been done these last few years, and of what is
now doing, I am lost in amazement. I have just, by way
of realizing it to myself, been reading "Uncle Tom's
Cabin" again, and when I read that book, scarred and
seared and burned into with the memories of an anguish
and horror that can never be forgotten, and think it
is all over now, all past, and that now the questions
debated are simply of more or less time before granting
legal suffrage to those who so lately were held only
as articles of merchandise,--when this comes over me I
think no private or individual sorrow can ever make me
wholly without comfort. If my faith in God's presence
and real, living power in the affairs of men ever grows
dim, this makes it impossible to doubt.
I have just had a sweet and lovely Christian letter
from Garrison, whose beautiful composure and
thankfulness in his hour of victory are as remarkable
as his wonderful courage in the day of moral battle.
His note ends with the words, "And who but God is to
be glorified?" Garrison's attitude is far more exalted
than that of Wendell Phillips. He acknowledges the
great deed done. He suspends his "Liberator" with
words of devout thanksgiving, and devotes himself
unobtrusively to the work yet to be accomplished for
the freedmen; while Phillips seems resolved to ignore
the mighty work that has been done, because of the
inevitable shortcomings and imperfections that beset
it still. We have a Congress of splendid men,--men
of stalwart principle and determination. We have a
President[15] honestly seeking to do right; and if he
fails in knowing just what right is, it is because he
is a man born and reared in a slave State, and acted
on by many influences which we cannot rightly estimate
unless we were in his place. My brother Henry has
talked with him earnestly and confidentially, and has
faith in him as an earnest, good man seeking to do
right. Henry takes the ground that it is unwise and
impolitic to endeavor to force negro suffrage on the
South at the point of the bayonet. His policy would be,
to hold over the negro the protection of our Freedman's
Bureau until the great laws of free labor shall begin
to draw the master and servant together; to endeavor to
soothe and conciliate, and win to act with us, a party
composed of the really good men at the South.
For this reason he has always advocated lenity of
measures towards them. He wants to get them into a
state in which the moral influence of the North can
act upon them beneficially, and to get such a state of
things that there will be a party _at the South_ to
protect the negro.
Charles Sumner is looking simply at the abstract
_right_ of the thing. Henry looks at actual
probabilities. We all know that the state of society
at the South is such that laws are a very inadequate
protection even to white men. Southern elections always
have been scenes of mob violence _when only white men
voted_.
Multitudes of lives have been lost at the polls in
this way, and if against their will negro suffrage was
forced upon them, I do not see how any one in their
senses can expect anything less than an immediate war
of races.
If negro suffrage were required as a condition of
acquiring political position, there is no doubt the
slave States would grant it; grant it nominally,
because they would know that the grant never could or
would become an actual realization. And what would then
be gained for the negro?
I am sorry that people cannot differ on such great and
perplexing public questions without impugning each
other's motives. Henry has been called a back-slider
because of the lenity of his counsels, but I cannot
but think it is the Spirit of Christ that influences
him. Garrison has been in the same way spoken of as
a deserter, because he says that a work that is done
shall be called done, and because he would not keep up
an anti-slavery society when slavery is abolished; and
I think our President is much injured by the abuse that
is heaped on him, and the selfish and unworthy motives
that are ascribed to him by those who seem determined
to allow to nobody an honest, unselfish difference in
judgment from their own.
Henry has often spoken of you and your duke as pleasant
memories in a scene of almost superhuman labor and
excitement. He often said to me: "When this is all
over,--when we have won the victory,--_then_ I will
write to the duchess." But when it was over and the
flag raised again at Sumter his arm was smitten
down with the news of our President's death! We all
appreciate your noble and true sympathy through the
dark hour of our national trial. You and yours are
almost the only friends we now have left in England.
You cannot know what it was, unless you could imagine
your own country to be in danger of death, extinction
of nationality. _That_, dear friend, is an experience
which shows us what we are and what we can feel. I am
glad to hear that we may hope to see your son in this
country. I fear so many pleasant calls will beset his
path that we cannot hope for a moment, but it would
give us _all_ the greatest pleasure to see him here.
Our dull, prosy, commonplace, though good old Hartford
could offer few attractions compared with Boston or
New York, and yet I hope he will not leave us out
altogether if he comes among us. God bless him! You are
very happy indeed in being permitted to keep all your
dear ones and see them growing up.
I want to ask a favor. Do you have, as we do, _cartes
de visite_? If you have, and could send me one of
yourself and the duke and of Lady Edith and your
eldest son, I should be so very glad to see how you
are looking now; and the dear mother, too, I should
so like to see how she looks. It seems almost like a
dream to look back to those pleasant days. I am glad
to see you still keep some memories of our goings on.
Georgie's marriage is a very happy one to us. They live
in Stockbridge, the loveliest part of Massachusetts,
and her husband is a most devoted pastor, and gives all
his time and property to the great work which he has
embraced, purely for the love of it. My other daughters
are with me, and my son, Captain Stowe, who has come
with weakened health through our struggle, suffering
constantly from the effects of a wound in his head
received at Gettysburg, which makes his returning to
his studies a hard struggle. My husband is in better
health since he resigned his professorship, and desires
his most sincere regards to yourself and the duke, and
his profound veneration to your mother. Sister Mary
also desires to be remembered to you, as do also my
daughters. Please tell me a little in your next of Lady
Edith; she must be very lovely now.
I am, with sincerest affection, ever yours,
H. B. STOWE.
Soon after the close of the war Mrs. Stowe conceived the idea of making
for herself and her family a winter home in the South, where she might
escape the rigors of Northern winters, and where her afflicted son
Frederick might enjoy an out-of-door life throughout the year. She was
also most anxious to do her share towards educating and leading to a
higher life those colored people whom she had helped so largely to set
free, and who were still in the state of profound ignorance imposed
by slavery. In writing of her hopes and plans to her brother Charles
Beecher, in 1866, she says:--
"My plan of going to Florida, as it lies in my mind, is not in any
sense a mere worldly enterprise. I have for many years had a longing to
be more immediately doing Christ's work on earth. My heart is with that
poor people whose cause in words I have tried to plead, and who now,
ignorant and docile, are just in that formative stage in which whoever
seizes has them.
"Corrupt politicians are already beginning to speculate on them as
possible capital for their schemes, and to fill their poor heads with
all sorts of vagaries. Florida is the State into which they have,
more than anywhere else, been pouring. Emigration is positively and
decidedly setting that way; but as yet it is mere worldly emigration,
with the hope of making money, nothing more.
"The Episcopal Church is, however, undertaking, under direction of the
future Bishop of Florida, a wide-embracing scheme of Christian activity
for the whole State. In this work I desire to be associated, and my
plan is to locate at some salient point on the St. John's River, where
I can form the nucleus of a Christian neighborhood, whose influence
shall be felt far beyond its own limits."
During this year Mrs. Stowe partially carried her plan into execution
by hiring an old plantation called "Laurel Grove," on the west side of
the St. John's River, near the present village of Orange Park. Here
she established her son Frederick as a cotton planter, and here he
remained for two years. This location did not, however, prove entirely
satisfactory, nor did the raising of cotton prove to be, under the
circumstances, a profitable business. After visiting Florida during
the winter of 1866-67, at which time her attention was drawn to the
beauties and superior advantages of Mandarin on the east side of the
river, Mrs. Stowe writes from Hartford, May 29, 1867, to Rev. Charles
Beecher:--
MY DEAR BROTHER,--We are now thinking seriously of a
place in Mandarin much more beautiful than any other
in the vicinity. It has on it five large date palms,
an olive tree in full bearing, besides a fine orange
grove which this year will yield about seventy-five
thousand oranges. If we get that, then I want you to
consider the expediency of buying the one next to it.
It contains about two hundred acres of land, on which
is a fine orange grove, the fruit from which last year
brought in two thousand dollars as sold at the wharf.
It is right on the river, and four steamboats pass it
each week, on their way to Savannah and Charleston.
There is on the place a very comfortable cottage, as
houses go out there, where they do not need to be built
as substantially as with us.
[Illustration: THE HOME AT MANDARIN, FLORIDA.]
I am now in correspondence with the Bishop of Florida,
with a view to establishing a line of churches along
the St. John's River, and if I settle at Mandarin, it
will be one of my stations. Will you consent to enter
the Episcopal Church and be our clergyman? You are
just the man we want. If my tasks and feelings did not
incline me toward the Church, I should still choose
it as the best system for training immature minds
such as those of our negroes. The system was composed
with reference to the wants of the laboring class of
England, at a time when they were as ignorant as our
negroes now are.
I long to be at this work, and cannot think of it
without my heart burning within me. Still I leave all
with my God, and only hope He will open the way for me
to do all that I want to for this poor people.
Affectionately yours,
H. B. STOWE.
Mrs. Stowe had some years before this joined the Episcopal Church, for
the sake of attending the same communion as her daughters, who were
Episcopalians. Her brother Charles did not, however, see fit to change
his creed, and though he went to Florida he settled a hundred and sixty
miles west from the St. John's River, at Newport, near St. Marks, on
the Gulf coast, and about twenty miles from Tallahassee. Here he lived
every winter and several summers for fifteen years, and here he left
the impress of his own remarkably sweet and lovely character upon the
scattered population of the entire region.
Mrs. Stowe in the mean time purchased the property, with its orange
grove and comfortable cottage, that she had recommended to him, and
thus Mandarin became her winter home. No one who has ever seen it can
forget the peaceful beauty of this Florida home and its surroundings.
The house, a story and a half cottage of many gables, stands on a
bluff overlooking the broad St. John's, which is five miles wide at
this point. It nestles in the shade of a grove of superb, moss-hung
live-oaks, around one of which the front piazza is built. Several fine
old orange trees also stand near the cottage, scenting the air with
the sweet perfume of their blossoms in the early spring, and offering
their golden fruit to whoever may choose to pluck it during the winter
months. Back of the house stretches the well-tended orange grove in
which Mrs. Stowe took such genuine pride and pleasure. Everywhere about
the dwelling and within it were flowers and singing birds, while the
rose garden in front, at the foot of the bluff, was the admiration of
all who saw it.
Here, on the front piazza, beneath the grand oaks, looking out on the
calm sunlit river, Professor Stowe enjoyed that absolute peace and
restful quiet for which his scholarly nature had always longed, but
which had been forbidden to the greater part of his active life. At
almost any hour of the day the well-known figure, with snow-white,
patriarchal beard and kindly face, might be seen sitting there, with a
basket of books, many of them in dead and nearly forgotten languages,
close at hand. An amusing incident of family life was as follows:
Some Northern visitors seemed to think that the family had no rights
which were worthy of a a moment's consideration. They would land at
the wharf, roam about the place, pick flowers, peer into the house
through the windows and doors, and act with that disregard of all the
proprieties of life which characterizes ill-bred people when on a
journey. The professor had been driven well-nigh distracted by these
migratory bipeds. One day, when one of them broke a branch from an
orange tree directly before his eyes, and was bearing it off in triumph
with all its load of golden fruit, he leaped from his chair, and
addressed the astonished individual on those fundamental principles of
common honesty, which he deemed outraged by this act. The address was
vigorous and truthful, but of a kind which will not bear repeating.
"Why," said the horror-stricken culprit, "I thought that this was Mrs.
Stowe's place!" "You thought it was Mrs. Stowe's place!" Then, in a
voice of thunder, "I would have you understand, sir, that I am the
proprietor and protector of Mrs. Stowe and of this place, and if you
commit any more such shameful depredations I will have you punished as
you deserve!" Thus this predatory Yankee was taught to realize that
there is a God in Israel.
In April, 1869, Mrs. Stowe was obliged to hurry North in order to visit
Canada in time to protect her English rights in "Oldtown Folks," which
she had just finished.
About this time she secured a plot of land, and made arrangements for
the erection on it of a building that should be used as a schoolhouse
through the week, and as a church on Sunday. For several years
Professor Stowe preached during the winter in this little schoolhouse,
and Mrs. Stowe conducted Sunday-school, sewing classes, singing
classes, and various other gatherings for instruction and amusement,
all of which were well attended and highly appreciated by both the
white and colored residents of the neighborhood.
Upon one occasion, having just arrived at her Mandarin home, Mrs. Stowe
writes:--
"At last, after waiting a day and a half in Charleston, we arrived here
about ten o'clock Saturday morning, just a week from the day we sailed.
The house looked so pretty, and quiet, and restful, the day was so calm
and lovely, it seemed as though I had passed away from all trouble, and
was looking back upon you all from a secure resting-place. Mr. Stowe
is very happy here, and is constantly saying how pleasant it is, and
how glad he is that he is here. He is so much improved in health that
already he is able to take a considerable walk every day.
"We are all well, contented, and happy, and we have six birds, two
dogs, and a pony. Do write more and oftener. Tell me all the little
nothings and nowheres. You can't imagine how they are magnified by the
time they have reached into this remote corner."
In 1872 she wrote a series of Florida sketches, which were published in
book form, the following year, by J. R. Osgood & Co., under the title
of "Palmetto Leaves." May 19, 1873, she writes to her brother Charles
at Newport, Fla.:--
"Although you have not answered my last letter, I cannot leave Florida
without saying good-by. I send you the 'Palmetto Leaves' and my parting
love. If I could either have brought or left my husband, I should have
come to see you this winter. The account of your roses fills me with
envy.
"We leave on the San Jacinto next Saturday, and I am making the most of
the few charming hours yet left; for never did we have so delicious a
spring. I never knew such altogether perfect weather. It is enough to
make a saint out of the toughest old Calvinist that ever set his face
as a flint. How do you think New England theology would have fared if
our fathers had been landed here instead of on Plymouth Rock?
"The next you hear of me will be at the North, where our address is
Forest Street, Hartford. We have bought a pretty cottage there, near to
Belle, and shall spend the summer there."
In a letter written in May of the following year to her son Charles, at
Harvard, Mrs. Stowe says: "I can hardly realize that this long, flowery
summer, with its procession of blooms and fruit, has been running on at
the same time with the snowbanks and sleet storms of the North. But so
it is. It is now the first of May. Strawberries and blackberries are
over with us; oranges are in a waning condition, few and far between.
Now we are going North to begin another summer, and have roses,
strawberries, blackberries, and green peas come again.
"I am glad to hear of your reading. The effect produced on you by
Jonathan Edwards is very similar to that produced on me when I took the
same mental bath. His was a mind whose grasp and intensity you cannot
help feeling. He was a poet in the intensity of his conceptions, and
some of his sermons are more terrible than Dante's 'Inferno.'"
In November, 1874, upon their return to Mandarin, she writes: "We have
had heavenly weather, and we needed it; for our house was a cave of
spider-webs, cockroaches, dirt, and all abominations, but less than a
week has brought it into beautiful order. It now begins to put on that
quaint, lively, pretty air that so fascinates me. Our weather is, as
I said, heavenly, neither hot nor cold; cool, calm, bright, serene,
and so tranquillizing. There is something indescribable about the best
weather we have down here. It does not debilitate me like the soft
October air in Hartford."
During the following February, she writes in reply to an invitation to
visit a Northern watering place later in the season: "I shall be most
happy to come, and know of nothing to prevent. I have, thank goodness,
no serial story on hand for this summer, to hang like an Old Man of
the Sea about my neck, and hope to enjoy a little season of being like
other folks. It is a most lovely day to-day, most unfallen Eden-like."
In a letter written later in the same season, March 28, 1875, Mrs.
Stowe gives us a pleasant glimpse at their preparations for the proper
observance of Easter Sunday in the little Mandarin schoolhouse. She
says: "It was the week before Easter, and we had on our minds the
dressing of the church. There my two Gothic fireboards were to be
turned into a pulpit for the occasion. I went to Jacksonville and got a
five-inch moulding for a base, and then had one fireboard sawed in two,
so that there was an arched panel for each end. Then came a rummage
for something for a top, and to make a desk of, until it suddenly
occurred to me that our old black walnut extension table had a set of
leaves. They were exactly the thing. The whole was trimmed with a
beading of yellow pine, and rubbed, and pumice-stoned, and oiled, and
I got out my tubes of paint and painted the nail-holes with Vandyke
brown. By Saturday morning it was a lovely little Gothic pulpit, and
Anthony carried it over to the schoolhouse and took away the old desk
which I gave him for his meeting-house. That afternoon we drove out
into the woods and gathered a quantity of superb Easter lilies, papaw,
sparkleberry, great fern-leaves, and cedar. In the evening the girls
went over to the Meads to practice Easter hymns; but I sat at home
and made a cross, eighteen inches long, of cedar and white lilies.
This Southern cedar is the most exquisite thing; it is so feathery and
delicate.
"Sunday morning was cool and bright, a most perfect Easter. Our little
church was full, and everybody seemed delighted with the decorations.
Mr. Stowe preached a sermon to show that Christ is going to put
everything right at last, which is comforting. So the day was one of
real pleasure, and also I trust of real benefit, to the poor souls who
learned from it that Christ is indeed risen for them."
During this winter the following characteristic letters passed between
Mrs. Stowe and her valued friend, Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes, called
forth by the sending to the latter of a volume of Mrs. Stowe's latest
stories:--
BOSTON, _January 8, 1876._
MY DEAR MRS. STOWE,--I would not write to thank you for
your most welcome "Christmas Box,"
"A box whose sweets compacted lie,"
before I had read it, and every word of it. I have
been very much taken up with antics of one kind and
another, and have only finished it this afternoon. The
last of the papers was of less comparative value to
me than to a great fraction of your immense parish of
readers, because I am so familiar with every movement
of the Pilgrims in their own chronicles.
"Deacon Pitkin's Farm" is full of those thoroughly
truthful touches of New England in which, if you are
not unrivaled, I do not know who your rival may be.
I wiped the tears from one eye in reading "Deacon
Pitkin's Farm."
I wiped the tears, and plenty of them, from both eyes,
in reading "Betty's Bright Idea." It is a most charming
and touching story, and nobody can read who has not
a heart like a pebble, without being melted into
tenderness.
How much you have done and are doing to make our New
England life wholesome and happy! If there is any
one who can look back over a literary life which has
pictured our old and helped our new civilization, it is
yourself. Of course your later books have harder work
cut out for them than those of any other writer. They
have had "Uncle Tom's Cabin" for a rival. The brightest
torch casts a shadow in the blaze of a light, and any
transcendent success affords the easiest handle for
that class of critics whose method is the one that
Dogberry held to be "odious."
I think it grows pleasanter to us to be remembered by
the friends we still have, as with each year they grow
fewer. We have lost Agassiz and Sumner from our circle,
and I found Motley stricken with threatening illness
(which I hope is gradually yielding to treatment), in
the profoundest grief at the loss of his wife, another
old and dear friend of mine. So you may be assured that
I feel most sensibly your kind attention, and send you
my heartfelt thanks for remembering me.
Always, dear Mrs. Stowe, faithfully yours,
O. W. HOLMES.
To this letter Mrs. Stowe replied as follows:--
MANDARIN, _February 23, 1876._
DEAR DOCTOR,--How kind it was of you to write me that
very beautiful note! and how I wish you were just where
I am, to see the trees laden at the same time with
golden oranges and white blossoms! I should so like
to cut off a golden cluster, leaves and all, for you.
Well, Boston seems very far away and dreamy, like some
previous state of existence, as I sit on the veranda
and gaze on the receding shores of the St. John's,
which at this point is five miles wide.
Dear doctor, how time slips by! I remember when Sumner
seemed to me a young man, and now he has gone. And
Wilson has gone, and Chase, whom I knew as a young man
in society in Cincinnati, has gone, and Stanton has
gone, and Seward has gone, and yet how lively the world
races on! A few air-bubbles of praise or lamentation,
and away sails the great ship of life, no matter over
whose grave!
Well, one cannot but feel it! To me, also, a whole
generation of friends has gone from the other side of
the water since I was there and broke kindly bread
with them. The Duchess of Sutherland, the good old
duke, Lansdowne, Ellesmere, Lady Byron, Lord and Lady
Amberly, Charles Kingsley, the good Quaker, Joseph
Sturge, all are with the shadowy train that has moved
on. Among them were as dear and true friends as I ever
had, and as pure and noble specimens of human beings
as God ever made. They are living somewhere in intense
vitality, I must believe, and you, dear doctor, must
not doubt.
I think about your writings a great deal, and one
element in them always attracts me. It is their pitiful
and sympathetic vein, the pity for poor, struggling
human nature. In this I feel that you must be very near
and dear to Him whose name is Love.
You wrote some verses once that have got into the
hymn-books, and have often occurred to me in my most
sacred hours as descriptive of the feelings with which
I bear the sorrows and carry the cares of life. They
begin,--
"Love Divine, that stooped to share."
I have not all your books down here, and am haunted by
gaps in the verses that memory cannot make good; but it
is that "Love Divine" which is my stay and comfort and
hope, as one friend after another passes beyond sight
and hearing. Please let me have it in your handwriting.
I remember a remark you once made on spiritualism.
I cannot recall the words, but you spoke of it as
modifying the sharp angles of Calvinistic belief,
as a fog does those of a landscape. I would like to
talk with you some time on spiritualism, and show
you a collection of very curious facts that I have
acquired through mediums _not_ professional. Mr. Stowe
has just been wading through eight volumes of "La
Mystique," by Goerres, professor for forty years past
in the University of Munich, first of physiology and
latterly of philosophy. He examines the whole cycle of
abnormal psychic, spiritual facts, trances, ecstasy,
clairvoyance, witchcraft, spiritualism, etc., etc., as
shown in the Romish miracles and the history of Europe.
I have long since come to the conclusion that
the marvels of spiritualism are natural, and not
supernatural, phenomena,--an uncommon working of
natural laws. I believe that the door between those
_in_ the body and those _out_ has never in any age
been entirely closed, and that occasional perceptions
within the veil are a part of the course of nature, and
therefore not miraculous. Of course such a phase of
human experience is very substantial ground for every
kind of imposture and superstition, and I have no faith
whatever in mediums who practice for money. In their
case I think the law of Moses, that forbade consulting
those who dealt with "familiar spirits," a very wise
one.
Do write some more, dear doctor. You are too well
off in your palace down there on the new land. Your
Centennial Ballad was a charming little peep; now give
us a full-fledged story. Mr. Stowe sends his best
regards, and wishes you would read "Goerres."[16] It is
in French also, and he thinks the French translation
better than the German.
Yours ever truly,
H. B. STOWE.
Writing in the autumn of 1876 to her son Charles, who was at that time
abroad, studying at Bonn, Mrs. Stowe describes a most tempestuous
passage between New York and Charleston, during which she and her
husband and daughters suffered so much that they were ready to
forswear the sea forever. The great waves as they rushed, boiling
and seething, past would peer in at the little bull's-eye window of
the state-room, as if eager to swallow up ship and passengers. From
Charleston, however, they had a most delightful run to their journey's
end. She writes: "We had a triumphal entrance into the St. John's, and
a glorious sail up the river. Arriving at Mandarin, at four o'clock,
we found all the neighbors, black as well as white, on the wharf to
receive us. There was a great waving of handkerchiefs and flags,
clapping of hands and cheering, as we drew near. The house was open and
all ready for us, and we are delighted to be once more in our beautiful
Florida home."
In the following December she writes to her son: "I am again entangled
in writing a serial, a thing I never mean to do again, but the story,
begun for a mere Christmas brochure, grew so under my hands that I
thought I might as well fill it out and make a book of it. It is
the last thing of the kind I ever expect to do. In it I condense my
recollections of a bygone era, that in which I was brought up, the ways
and manners of which are now as nearly obsolete as the Old England of
Dickens's stories is.'
"I am so hampered by the necessity of writing this story, that I am
obliged to give up company and visiting of all kinds and keep my
strength for it. I hope I may be able to finish it, as I greatly desire
to do so, but I begin to feel that I am not so strong as I used to be.
Your mother is an old woman, Charley mine, and it is best she should
give up writing before people are tired of reading her.
"I would much rather have written another such a book as 'Footsteps
of the Master,' but all, even the religious papers, are gone mad on
serials. Serials they demand and will have, and I thought, since this
generation will listen to nothing but stories, why not tell them?"
The book thus referred to was "Poganuc People," that series of
delightful reminiscences of the New England life of nearly a century
ago, that has proved so fascinating to many thousands of readers.
It was published in 1878, and, as Mrs. Stowe foresaw, was her last
literary undertaking of any length, though for several years afterwards
she wrote occasional short stories and articles.
In January, 1879, she wrote from Mandarin to Dr. Holmes:--
DEAR DOCTOR,--I wish I could give to you and Mrs.
Holmes the exquisite charm of this morning. My window
is wide open; it is a lovely, fresh, sunny day, and a
great orange tree hung with golden balls closes the
prospect from my window. The tree is about thirty feet
high, and its leaves fairly glisten in the sunshine.
I sent "Poganuc People" to you and Mrs. Holmes as
being among the few who know those old days. It is
an extremely quiet story for these sensational days,
when heaven and earth seem to be racked for a thrill;
but as I get old I do love to think of those quiet,
simple times when there was not a poor person in the
parish, and the changing glories of the year were the
only spectacle. We, that is the professor and myself,
have been reading with much interest Motley's Memoir.
That was a man to be proud of, a beauty, too (by your
engraving). I never had the pleasure of a personal
acquaintance.
I feel with you that we have come into the land of
leave-taking. Hardly a paper but records the death of
some of Mr. Stowe's associates. But the river is not so
black as it seems, and there are clear days when the
opposite shore is plainly visible, and now and then
we catch a strain of music, perhaps even a gesture of
recognition. They are thinking of us, without doubt, on
the other side. My daughters and I have been reading
"Elsie Venner" again. Elsie is one of my especial
friends,--poor, dear child!--and all your theology in
that book I subscribe to with both hands.
Does not the Bible plainly tell us of a time when there
shall be no more pain? That is to be the end and crown
of the Messiah's mission, when God shall wipe all tears
away. My face is set that way, and yours, too, I trust
and believe.
Mr. Stowe sends hearty and affectionate remembrance
both to you and Mrs. Holmes, and I am, as ever, truly
yours,
H. B. STOWE.
About this time Mrs. Stowe paid a visit to her brother Charles, at
Newport, Fla., and, continuing her journey to New Orleans, was made to
feel how little of bitterness towards her was felt by the best class
of Southerners. In both New Orleans and Tallahassee she was warmly
welcomed, and tendered public receptions that gave equal pleasure to
her and to the throngs of cultivated people who attended them. She was
also greeted everywhere with intense enthusiasm by the colored people,
who, whenever they knew of her coming, thronged the railway stations in
order to obtain a glimpse of her whom they venerated above all women.
The return to her Mandarin home each succeeding winter was always
a source of intense pleasure to this true lover of nature in its
brightest and tenderest moods. Each recurring season was filled with
new delights. In December, 1879, she writes to her son, now married and
settled as a minister in Saco, Me.:--
DEAR CHILDREN,--Well, we have stepped from December
to June, and this morning is sunny and dewy, with a
fresh sea-breeze giving life to the air. I have just
been out to cut a great bunch of roses and lilies,
though the garden is grown into such a jungle that I
could hardly get about in it. The cannas, and dwarf
bananas, and roses are all tangled together, so that I
can hardly thread my way among them. I never in my life
saw anything range and run rampant over the ground as
cannas do. The ground is littered with fallen oranges,
and the place looks shockingly untidy, but so beautiful
that I am quite willing to forgive its disorder.
We got here Wednesday evening about nine o'clock, and
found all the neighbors waiting to welcome us on the
wharf. The Meads, and Cranes, and Webbs, and all the
rest were there, while the black population was in a
frenzy of joy. Your father is quite well. The sea had
its usual exhilarating effect upon him. Before we left
New York he was quite meek, and exhibited such signs of
grace and submission that I had great hopes of him. He
promised to do exactly as I told him, and stated that
he had entire confidence in my guidance. What woman
couldn't call such a spirit evidence of being prepared
for speedy translation? I was almost afraid he could
not be long for this world. But on the second day at
sea his spirits rose, and his appetite reasserted
itself. He declared in loud tones how well he felt,
and quite resented my efforts to take care of him. I
reminded him of his gracious vows and promises in the
days of his low spirits, but to no effect. The fact
is, his self-will has not left him yet, and I have now
no fear of his immediate translation. He is going to
preach for us this morning.
The last winter passed in this well-loved Southern home was that of
1883-84, for the following season Professor Stowe's health was in
too precarious a state to permit him to undertake the long journey
from Hartford. By this time one of Mrs. Stowe's fondest hopes had
been realized; and, largely through her efforts, Mandarin had been
provided with a pretty little Episcopal church, to which was attached a
comfortable rectory, and over which was installed a regular clergyman.
In January, 1884, Mrs. Stowe writes:--
"Mandarin looks very gay and airy now with its new villas, and our new
church and rectory. Our minister is perfect. I wish you could know him.
He wants only physical strength. In everything else he is all one could
ask.
"It is a bright, lovely morning, and four orange-pickers are busy
gathering our fruit. Our trees on the bluff have done better than any
in Florida.
"This winter I study nothing but Christ's life. First I read Farrar's
account and went over it carefully. Now I am reading Geikie. It keeps
my mind steady, and helps me to bear the languor and pain, of which I
have more than usual this winter."
FOOTNOTES:
[15] Andrew Johnson.
[16] _Die Christliche Mystik_, by Johann Joseph Görres, Regensburg,
1836-42.
CHAPTER XVIII.
OLDTOWN FOLKS, 1869.
PROFESSOR STOWE THE ORIGINAL OF "HARRY" IN "OLDTOWN
FOLKS."--PROFESSOR STOWE'S LETTER TO GEORGE
ELIOT.--HER REMARKS ON THE SAME.--PROFESSOR STOWE'S
NARRATIVE OF HIS YOUTHFUL ADVENTURES IN THE WORLD OF
SPIRITS.--PROFESSOR STOWE'S INFLUENCE ON MRS. STOWE'S
LITERARY LIFE.--GEORGE ELIOT ON "OLDTOWN FOLKS."
THIS biography would be signally incomplete without some mention of the
birth, childhood, early associations, and very peculiar and abnormal
psychological experiences of Professor Stowe. Aside from the fact of
Dr. Stowe's being Mrs. Stowe's husband, and for this reason entitled to
notice in any sketch of her life, however meagre, he is the original of
the "visionary boy" in "Oldtown Folks;" and "Oldtown Fireside Stories"
embody the experiences of his childhood and youth among the grotesque
and original characters of his native town.
March 26, 1882, Professor Stowe wrote the following characteristic
letter to Mrs. Lewes:--
MRS. LEWES,--I fully sympathize with you in your
disgust with Hume and the professing mediums generally.
Hume spent his boyhood in my father's native town,
among my relatives and acquaintances, and he was a
disagreeable, nasty boy. But he certainly has qualities
which science has not yet explained, and some of his
doings are as real as they are strange. My interest in
the subject of spiritualism arises from the fact of
my own experience, more than sixty years ago, in my
early childhood. I then never thought of questioning
the objective reality of all I saw, and supposed that
everybody else had the same experience. Of what this
experience was you may gain some idea from certain
passages in "Oldtown Folks."
The same experiences continue yet, but with serious
doubts as to the objectivity of the scenes exhibited. I
have noticed that people who have remarkable and minute
answers to prayer, such as Stilling, Franke, Lavater,
are for the most part of this peculiar temperament.
Is it absurd to suppose that some peculiarity in the
nervous system, in the connecting link between soul and
body, may bring some, more than others, into an almost
abnormal contact with the spirit-world (for example,
Jacob Boehme and Swedenborg), and that, too, without
correcting their faults, or making them morally better
than others? Allow me to say that I have always admired
the working of your mind, there is about it such a
perfect uprightness and uncalculating honesty. I think
you are a better Christian without church or theology
than most people are with both, though I am, and always
have been in the main, a Calvinist of the Jonathan
Edwards school. God bless you! I have a warm side for
Mr. Lewes on account of his Goethe labors.
Goethe has been my admiration for more than forty
years. In 1830 I got hold of his "Faust," and for two
gloomy, dreary November days, while riding through the
woods of New Hampshire in an old-fashioned stagecoach,
to enter upon a professorship in Dartmouth College, I
was perfectly dissolved by it.
Sincerely yours,
C. E. STOWE.
In a letter to Mrs. Stowe, written June 24, 1872, Mrs. Lewes alludes
to Professor Stowe's letter as follows: "Pray give my special thanks
to the professor for his letter. His handwriting, which does really
look like Arabic,--a very graceful character, surely,--happens to be
remarkably legible to me, and I did not hesitate over a single word.
Some of the words, as expressions of fellowship, were very precious to
me, and I hold it very good of him to write to me that best sort of
encouragement. I was much impressed with the fact--which you have told
me--that he was the original of the "visionary boy" in "Oldtown Folks;"
and it must be deeply interesting to talk with him on his experience.
Perhaps I am inclined, under the influence of the facts, physiological
and psychological, which have been gathered of late years, to give
larger place to the interpretation of vision-seeing as subjective than
the professor would approve. It seems difficult to limit--at least
to limit with any precision--the possibility of confounding sense
by impressions derived from inward conditions with those which are
directly dependent on external stimulus. In fact, the division between
within and without in this sense seems to become every year a more
subtle and bewildering problem."
In 1834, while Mr. Stowe was a professor in Lane Theological Seminary
at Cincinnati, Ohio, he wrote out a history of his youthful adventures
in the spirit-world, from which the following extracts are taken:--
[Illustration: Signature: C. S. Stowe.]
"I have often thought I would communicate to some scientific physician
a particular account of a most singular delusion under which I lived
from my earliest infancy till the fifteenth or sixteenth year of my
age, and the effects of which remain very distinctly now that I am past
thirty.
"The facts are of such a nature as to be indelibly impressed upon my
mind they appear to me to be curious, and well worth the attention of
the psychologist. I regard the occurrences in question as the more
remarkable because I cannot discover that I possess either taste or
talent for fiction or poetry. I have barely imagination enough to
enjoy, with a high degree of relish, the works of others in this
department of literature, but have never felt able or disposed to
engage in that sort of writing myself. On the contrary, my style has
always been remarkable for its dry, matter-of-fact plainness; my mind
has been distinguished for its quickness and adaptedness to historical
and literary investigations, for ardor and perseverance in pursuit of
the knowledge of facts,--_eine verständige Richtung_, as the Germans
would say,--rather than for any other quality; and the only talent of a
higher kind which I am conscious of possessing is a turn for accurate
observation of men and things, and a certain broad humor and drollery.
"From the hour of my birth I have been constitutionally feeble, as were
my parents before me, and my nervous system easily excitable. With
care, however, I have kept myself in tolerable health, and my life
has been an industrious one, for my parents were poor and I have
always been obliged to labor for my livelihood.
"With these preliminary remarks, I proceed to the curious details of
my psychological history. As early as I can remember anything, I can
remember observing a multitude of animated and active objects, which
I could see with perfect distinctness, moving about me, and could
sometimes, though seldom, hear them make a rustling noise, or other
articulate sounds; but I could never touch them. They were in all
respects independent of the sense of touch, and incapable of being
obstructed in any way by the intervention of material objects; I could
see them at any distance, and through any intervening object, with as
much ease and distinctness as if they were in the room with me, and
directly before my eyes. I could see them passing through the floors,
and the ceilings, and the walls of the house, from one apartment to
another, in all directions, without a door, or a keyhole, or crevice
being open to admit them. I could follow them with my eyes to any
distance, or directly through or just beneath the surface, or up and
down, in the midst of boards and timbers and bricks, or whatever
else would stop the motion or intercept the visibleness of all other
objects. These appearances occasioned neither surprise nor alarm,
except when they assumed some hideous and frightful form, or exhibited
some menacing gesture, for I became acquainted with them as soon as
with any of the objects of sense. As to the reality of their existence
and the harmlessness of their character, I knew no difference between
them and any other of the objects which met my eye. They were as
familiar to me as the forms of my parents and my brother; they made
up a part of my daily existence, and were as really the subjects of
my consciousness as the little bench on which I sat in the corner by
my mother's knee, or the wheels and sticks and strings with which I
amused myself upon the floor. I indeed recognized a striking difference
between them and the things which I could feel and handle, but to me
this difference was no more a matter of surprise than that which I
observed between my mother and the black woman who so often came to
work for her; or between my infant brother and the little spotted
dog Brutus of which I was so fond. There was no time, or place, or
circumstance, in which they did not occasionally make their appearance.
Solitude and silence, however, were more favorable to their appearance
than company and conversation. They were more pleased with candle-light
than the daylight. They were most numerous, distinct, and active when
I was alone and in the dark, especially when my mother had laid me in
bed and returned to her own room with the candle. At such times, I
always expected the company of my ærial visitors, and counted upon it
to amuse me till I dropped asleep. Whenever they failed to make their
appearance, as was sometimes the case, I felt lonely and discontented.
I kept up a lively conversation with them,--not by language or by
signs, for the attempt on my part to speak or move would at once break
the charm and drive them away in a fret, but by a peculiar sort of
spiritual intercommunion.
"When their attention was directed towards me, I could feel and respond
to all their thoughts and feelings, and was conscious that they could
in the same manner feel and respond to mine. Sometimes they would take
no notice of me, but carry on a brisk conversation among themselves,
principally by looks and gestures, with now and then an audible word.
In fact, there were but few with whom I was very familiar. These few
were much more constant and uniform in their visits than the great
multitude, who were frequently changing, and too much absorbed in
their own concerns to think much of me. I scarcely know how I can
give an idea of their form and general appearance, for there are no
objects in the material world with which I can compare them, and no
language adapted to an accurate description of their peculiarities.
They exhibited all possible combinations of size, shape, proportion,
and color, but their most usual appearance was with the human form
and proportion, but under a shadowy outline that seemed just ready to
melt into the invisible air, and sometimes liable to the most sudden
and grotesque changes, and with a uniform darkly bluish color spotted
with brown, or brownish white. This was the general appearance of
the multitude; but there were many exceptions to this description,
particularly among my more welcome and familiar visitors, as will be
seen in the sequel.
"Besides these rational and generally harmless beings, there was
another set of objects which never varied in their form or qualities,
and were always mischievous and terrible. The fact of their appearance
depended very much on the state of my health and feelings. If I was
well and cheerful they seldom troubled me; but when sick or depressed
they were sure to obtrude their hateful presence upon me. These were a
sort of heavy clouds floating about overhead, of a black color, spotted
with brown, in the shape of a very flaring inverted tunnel without a
nozzle, and from ten to thirty or forty feet in diameter. They floated
from place to place in great numbers, and in all directions, with a
strong and steady progress, but with a tremulous, quivering, internal
motion that agitated them in every part.
"Whenever they approached, the rational phantoms were thrown into great
consternation; and well it might be, for if a cloud touched any part of
one of the rational phantoms it immediately communicated its own color
and tremulous motion to the part it touched.
"In spite of all the efforts and convulsive struggles of the unhappy
victim, this color and motion slowly, but steadily and uninteruptedly,
proceeded to diffuse itself over every part of the body, and as fast as
it did so the body was drawn into the cloud and became a part of its
substance. It was indeed a fearful sight to see the contortions, the
agonizing efforts, of the poor creatures who had been touched by one of
these awful clouds, and were dissolving and melting into it by inches
without the possibility of escape or resistance.
"This was the only visible object that had the least power over the
phantoms, and this was evidently composed of the same material as
themselves. The forms and actions of all these phantoms varied very
much with the state of my health and animal spirits, but I never could
discover that the surrounding material objects had any influence upon
them, except in this one particular, namely, if I saw them in a neat,
well furnished room, there was a neatness and polish in their form
and motions; and, on the contrary, if I was in an unfinished, rough
apartment, there was a corresponding rudeness and roughness in my ærial
visitors. A corresponding difference was visible when I saw them in the
woods or in the meadows, upon the water or upon the ground, in the air
or among the stars.
"Every different apartment which I occupied had a different set of
phantoms, and they always had a degree of correspondence to the
circumstances in which they were seen. (It should be noted, however,
that it was not so much the place where the phantoms themselves
appeared to me to be, that affected their forms and movements, as the
place in which I myself actually was while observing them. The apparent
locality of the phantoms, it is true, had some influence, but my own
actual locality had much more.)
"Thus far I have attempted only a general outline of these curious
experiences. I will now proceed to a detailed account of several
particular incidents, for the sake of illustrating the general
statements already made. I select a few from manifestations without
number. I am able to ascertain dates from the following circumstances:--
"I was born in April, 1802, and my father died in July, 1808, after
suffering for more than a year from a lingering organic disease.
Between two and three years before his death he removed from the house
in which I was born to another at a little distance from it. What
occurred, therefore, before my father's last sickness, must have taken
place during the first five years of my life, and whatever took place
before the removal of the family must have taken place during the
first three years of my life. Before the removal of the family I slept
in a small upper chamber in the front part of the house, where I was
generally alone for several hours in the evening and morning. Adjoining
this room, and opening into it by a very small door, was a low, dark,
narrow, unfinished closet, which was open on the other side into a
ruinous, old chaise-house. This closet was a famous place for the
gambols of the phantoms, but of their forms and actions I do not now
retain any very distinct recollection. I only remember that I was very
careful not to do anything that I thought would be likely to offend
them; yet otherwise their presence caused me no uneasiness, and was not
at all disagreeable to me.
"The first incident of which I have a distinct recollection was the
following:--
"One night, as I was lying alone in my chamber with my little dog
Brutus snoring beside my bed, there came out of the closet a very
large Indian woman and a very small Indian man, with a huge bass-viol
between them. The woman was dressed in a large, loose, black gown,
secured around her waist by a belt of the same material, and on her
head she wore a high, dark gray fur cap, shaped somewhat like a lady's
muff, ornamented with a row of covered buttons in front, and open
towards the bottom, showing a red lining. The man was dressed in a
shabby, black-colored overcoat and a little round, black hat that
fitted closely to his head. They took no notice of me, but were rather
ill-natured towards each other, and seemed to be disputing for the
possession of the bass-viol. The man snatched it away and struck upon
it a few harsh, hollow notes, which I distinctly heard, and which
seemed to vibrate through my whole body, with a strange, stinging
sensation. The woman then took it and appeared to play very intently
and much to her own satisfaction, but without producing any sound that
was perceptible by me. They soon left the chamber, and I saw them go
down into the back kitchen, where they sat and played and talked with
my mother. It was only when the man took the bow that I could hear the
harsh, abrupt, disagreeable sounds of the instrument. At length they
arose, went out of the back door, and sprang upon a large heap of straw
and unthreshed beans, and disappeared with a strange, rumbling sound.
This vision was repeated night after night with scarcely any variation
while we lived in that house, and once, and once only, after the family
had removed to the other house. The only thing that seemed to me
unaccountable and that excited my curiosity was that there should be
such a large heap of straw and beans before the door every night, when
I could see nothing of it in the daytime. I frequently crept out of bed
and stole softly down into the kitchen, and peeped out of the door to
see if it was there very early in the morning.
"I attempted to make some inquiries of my mother, but as I was not as
yet very skillful in the use of language, I could get no satisfaction
out of her answers, and could see that my questions seemed to distress
her. At first she took little notice of what I said, regarding it
no doubt as the meaningless prattle of a thoughtless child. My
persistence, however, seemed to alarm her, and I suppose that she
feared for my sanity. I soon desisted from asking anything further, and
shut myself more and more within myself. One night, very soon after
the removal, when the house was still, and all the family were in bed,
these unearthly musicians once made their appearance in the kitchen of
the new house, and after looking around peevishly, and sitting with a
discontented frown and in silence, they arose and went out of the back
door, and sprang on a pile of cornstalks, and I saw them no more.
"Our new dwelling was a low-studded house of only one story, and,
instead of an upper chamber, I now occupied a bedroom that opened into
the kitchen. Within this bedroom, directly on the left hand of the
door as you entered from the kitchen, was the staircase which led to
the garret; and, as the room was unfinished, some of the boards which
inclosed the staircase were too short, and left a considerable space
between them and the ceiling. One of these open spaces was directly in
front of my bed, so that when I lay upon my pillow my face was opposite
to it. Every night, after I had gone to bed and the candle was removed,
a very pleasant-looking human face would peer at me over the top of
that board, and gradually press forward his head, neck, shoulders,
and finally his whole body as far as the waist, through the opening,
and then, smiling upon me with great good-nature, would withdraw in
the same manner in which he had entered. He was a great favorite of
mine; for though we neither of us spoke, we perfectly understood, and
were entirely devoted to, each other. It is a singular fact that the
features of this favorite phantom bore a very close resemblance to
those of a boy older than myself whom I feared and hated: still the
resemblance was so strong that I called him by the same name, Harvey.
"Harvey's visits were always expected and always pleasant; but
sometimes there were visitations of another sort, odious and frightful.
One of these I will relate as a specimen of the rest.
"One night, after I had retired to bed and was looking for Harvey,
I observed an unusual number of the tunnel-shaped tremulous clouds
already described, and they seemed intensely black and strongly
agitated. This alarmed me exceedingly, and I had a terrible feeling
that something awful was going to happen. It was not long before I saw
Harvey at his accustomed place, cautiously peeping at me through the
aperture, with an expression of pain and terror on his countenance.
He seemed to warn me to be on my guard, but was afraid to put his
head into the room lest he should be touched by one of the clouds,
which were every moment growing thicker and more numerous. Harvey soon
withdrew and left me alone. On turning my eyes towards the left-hand
wall of the room, I thought I saw at an immense distance below me the
regions of the damned, as I had heard them pictured in sermons. From
this awful world of horror the tunnel-shaped clouds were ascending,
and I perceived that they were the principal instruments of torture in
these gloomy abodes. These regions were at such an immense distance
below me that I could obtain but a very indistinct view of the
inhabitants, who were very numerous and exceedingly active. Near the
surface of the earth, and as it seemed to me but a little distance from
my bed, I saw four or five sturdy, resolute devils endeavoring to carry
off an unprincipled and dissipated man in the neighborhood, by the name
of Brown, of whom I had stood in terror for years. These devils I saw
were very different from the common representations. They had neither
red faces, nor horns, nor hoofs, nor tails. They were in all respects
stoutly built and well-dressed gentlemen. The only peculiarity that I
noted in their appearance was as to their heads. Their faces and necks
were perfectly bare, without hair or flesh, and of a uniform sky-blue
color, like the ashes of burnt paper before it falls to pieces, and of
a certain glossy smoothness.
"As I looked on, full of eagerness, the devils struggled to force Brown
down with them, and Brown struggled with the energy of desperation to
save himself from their grip, and it seemed that the human was likely
to prove too strong for the infernal. In this emergency one of the
devils, panting for breath and covered with perspiration, beckoned to
a strong, thick cloud that seemed to understand him perfectly, and,
whirling up to Brown, touched his hand. Brown resisted stoutly, and
struck out right and left at the cloud most furiously, but the usual
effect was produced,--the hand grew black, quivered, and seemed to
be melting into the cloud; then the arm, by slow degrees, and then
the head and shoulders. At this instant Brown, collecting all his
energies for one desperate effort, sprang at once into the centre of
the cloud, tore it asunder, and descended to the ground, exclaiming,
with a hoarse, furious voice that grated on my ear, 'There, I've got
out; dam'me if I haven't!' This was the first word that had been spoken
through the whole horrible scene. It was the first time I had ever
seen a cloud fail to produce its appropriate result, and it terrified
me so that I trembled from head to foot. The devils, however, did
not seem to be in the least discouraged. One of them, who seemed to
be the leader, went away and quickly returned bringing with him an
enormous pair of rollers fixed in an iron frame, such as are used in
iron-mills for the purpose of rolling out and slitting bars of iron,
except instead of being turned by machinery, each roller was turned by
an immense crank. Three of the devils now seized Brown and put his feet
to the rollers, while two others stood, one at each crank, and began to
roll him in with a steady strain that was entirely irresistible. Not
a word was spoken, not a sound was heard; but the fearful struggles
and terrified, agonizing looks of Brown were more than I could endure.
I sprang from my bed and ran through the kitchen into the room where
my parents slept, and entreated that they would permit me to spend
the remainder of the night with them. After considerable parleying
they assured me that nothing could hurt me, and advised me to go back
to bed. I replied that I was not afraid of their hurting me, but I
couldn't bear to see them acting so with C. Brown. 'Poh! poh! you
foolish boy,' replied my father, sternly. 'You've only been dreaming;
go right back to bed, or I shall have to whip you.' Knowing that there
was no other alternative, I trudged back through the kitchen with all
the courage I could muster, cautiously entered my room, where I found
everything quiet, there being neither cloud, nor devil, nor anything of
the kind to be seen, and getting into bed I slept quietly till morning.
The next day I was rather sad and melancholy, but kept all my troubles
to myself, through fear of Brown. This happened before my father's
sickness, and consequently between the four and six years of my age.
"During my father's sickness and after his death I lived with my
grandmother; and when I had removed to her house I forever lost sight
of Harvey. I still continued to sleep alone for the most part, but in
a neatly furnished upper chamber. Across the corner of the chamber,
opposite to and at a little distance from the head of my bed, there
was a closet in the form of an old-fashioned buffet. After going to
bed, on looking at the door of this closet, I could see at a great
distance from it a pleasant meadow, terminated by a beautiful little
grove. Out of this grove, and across this meadow, a charming little
female figure would advance, about eight inches high and exquisitely
proportioned, dressed in a loose black silk robe, with long, smooth
black hair parted up her head and hanging loose over her shoulders.
She would come forward with a slow and regular step, becoming more
distinctly visible as she approached nearer, till she came even with
the surface of the closet door, when she would smile upon me, raise her
hands to her head and draw them down on each side of her face, suddenly
turn round, and go off at a rapid trot. The moment she turned I could
see a good-looking mulatto man, rather smaller than herself, following
directly in her wake and trotting off after her. This was generally
repeated two or three times before I went to sleep. The features of
the mulatto bore some resemblance to those of the Indian man with the
bass-viol, but were much more mild and agreeable.
* * * * *
"I awoke one bright, moonlight night, and found a large, full-length
human skeleton of an ashy-blue color in bed with me! I screamed out
with fright, and soon summoned the family around me. I refused to tell
the cause of my alarm, but begged permission to occupy another bed,
which was granted.
"For the remainder of the night I slept but little; but I saw upon
the window-stools companies of little fairies, about six inches high,
in white robes, gamboling and dancing with incessant merriment.
Two of them, a male and female, rather taller than the rest, were
dignified with a crown and sceptre. They took the kindest notice of
me, smiled upon me with great benignity, and seemed to assure me of
their protection. I was soothed and cheered by their presence, though
after all there was a sort of sinister and selfish expression in their
countenances which prevented my placing implicit confidence in them.
"Up to this time I had never doubted the real existence of these
phantoms, nor had I ever suspected that other people had not seen
them as distinctly as myself. I now, however, began to discover with
no little anxiety that my friends had little or no knowledge of the
ærial beings among whom I have spent my whole life; that my allusions
to them were not understood, and all complaints respecting them were
laughed at. I had never been disposed to say much about them, and this
discovery confirmed me in my silence. It did not, however, affect
my own belief, or lead me to suspect that my imaginations were not
realities.
"During the whole of this period I took great pleasure in walking
out alone, particularly in the evening. The most lonely fields, the
woods, and the banks of the river, and other places most completely
secluded, were my favorite resorts, for there I could enjoy the sight
of innumerable ærial beings of all sorts, without interruption.
Every object, even every shaking leaf, seemed to me to be animated
by some living soul, whose nature in some degree corresponded to its
habitation. I spent much of my life in these solitary rambles; there
were particular places to which I gave names, and visited them at
regular intervals. Moonlight was particularly agreeable to me, but most
of all I enjoyed a thick, foggy night. At times, during these walks,
I would be excessively oppressed by an indefinite and deep feeling
of melancholy. Without knowing why, I would be so unhappy as to wish
myself annihilated, and suddenly it would occur to me that my friends
at home were suffering some dreadful calamity, and so vivid would be
the impression, that I would hasten home with all speed to see what
had taken place. At such seasons I felt a morbid love for my friends
that would almost burn up my soul, and yet, at the least provocation
from them, I would fly into an uncontrollable passion and foam like a
little fury. I was called a dreadful-tempered boy; but the Lord knows
that I never occasioned pain to any animal, whether human or brutal,
without suffering untold agonies in consequence of it. I cannot, even
now, without feelings of deep sorrow, call to mind the alternate fits
of corroding melancholy, irritation, and bitter remorse which I then
endured. These fits of melancholy were most constant and oppressive
during the autumnal months.
"I very early learned to read, and soon became immoderately attached
to books. In the Bible I read the first chapters of Job, and parts
of Ezekiel, Daniel, and Revelation, with most intense delight, and
with such frequency that I could repeat large portions from memory
long before the age at which boys in the country are usually able to
read plain sentences. The first large book besides the Bible that
I remember reading was Morse's 'History of New England,' which I
devoured with insatiable greediness, particularly those parts which
relate to Indian wars and witchcraft. I was in the habit of applying
to my grandmother for explanations, and she would relate to me, while
I listened with breathless attention, long stories from Mather's
'Magnalia' or (Mag-nilly, as she used to call it), a work which I
earnestly longed to read, but of which I never got sight till after my
twentieth year. Very early there fell into my hands an old school-book,
called 'The Art of Speaking,' containing numerous extracts from Milton
and Shakespeare. There was little else in the book that interested
me, but these extracts from the two great English poets, though there
were many things in them that I did not well understand, I read again
and again, with increasing pleasure at every perusal, till I had
nearly committed them to memory, and almost thumbed the old book into
nonentity. But of all the books that I read at this period, there was
none that went to my heart like Bunyan's 'Pilgrim's Progress.' I read
it and re-read it night and day; I took it to bed with me and hugged it
to my bosom while I slept; every different edition that I could find
I seized upon and read with as eager a curiosity as if it had been a
new story throughout; and I read with the unspeakable satisfaction of
most devoutly believing that everything which 'Honest John' related
was a real verity, an actual occurrence. Oh that I could read that
most inimitable book once more with the same solemn conviction of its
literal truth, that I might once more enjoy the same untold ecstacy!
"One other remark it seems proper to make before I proceed further
to details. The appearance, and especially the motions, of my ærial
visitors were intimately connected, either as cause or effect, I cannot
determine which, with certain sensations of my own. Their countenances
generally expressed pleasure or pain, complaisance or anger, according
to the mood of my own mind: if they moved from place to place without
moving their limbs, with that gliding motion appropriate to spirits, I
felt in my stomach that peculiar tickling sensation which accompanies a
rapid, progressive movement through the air; and if they went off with
an uneasy trot, I felt an unpleasant jarring through my frame. Their
appearance was always attended with considerable effort and fatigue
on my part: the more distinct and vivid they were, the more would my
fatigue be increased; and at such times my face was always pale, and my
eyes unusually sparkling and wild. This continued to be the case after
I became satisfied that it was all a delusion of the imagination, and
it so continues to the present day."
It is not surprising that Mrs. Stowe should have felt herself impelled
to give literary form to an experience so exceptional. Still more
must this be the case when the early associations of this exceptional
character were as amusing and interesting as they are shown forth in
"Oldtown Fireside Stories."
None of the incidents or characters embodied in those sketches are
ideal. The stories are told as they came from Mr. Stowe's lips, with
little or no alteration. Sam Lawson was a real character. In 1874 Mr.
Whittier wrote to Mrs. Stowe: "I am not able to write or study much,
or read books that require thought, without suffering, but I have Sam
Lawson lying at hand, and, as Corporal Trim said of Yorick's sermon, 'I
like it hugely.'"
The power and literary value of these stories lie in the fact that they
are true to nature. Professor Stowe was himself an inimitable mimic
and story-teller. No small proportion of Mrs. Stowe's success as a
literary woman is to be attributed to him. Not only was he possessed of
a bright, quick mind, but wonderful retentiveness of memory. Mrs. Stowe
was never at a loss for reliable information on any subject as long as
the professor lived. He belonged to that extinct species, the "general
scholar." His scholarship was not critical in the modern sense of the
word, but in the main accurate, in spite of his love for the marvelous.
It is not out of place to give a little idea of his power in
character-painting, as it shows how suggestive his conversation and
letters must have been to a mind like that of Mrs. Stowe:--
NATICK, _July 14, 1839._
I have had a real good time this week writing my
oration. I have strolled over my old walking places,
and found the same old stone walls, the same old
foot-paths through the rye-fields, the same bends in
the river, the same old bullfrogs with their green
spectacles on, the same old terrapins sticking up their
heads and bowing as I go by; and nothing was wanting
but my wife to talk with to make all complete.... I
have had some rare talks with old uncle "Jaw" Bacon,
and other old characters, which you ought to have
heard. The Curtises have been flooding Uncle "Jaw's"
meadows, and he is in a great stew about it. He says:
"I took and tell'd your Uncle Izic to tell them 'ere
Curtises that if the Devil didn't git 'em far flowing
my medder arter that sort, I didn't see no use o'
havin' any Devil." "Have you talked with the Curtises
yourself?" "Yes, hang the sarcy dogs! and they took
and tell'd me that they'd take and flow clean up to my
front door, and make me go out and in in a boat." "Why
don't you go to law?" "Oh, they keep alterin' and er
tinkerin'-up the laws so here in Massachusetts that a
body can't git no damage fur flowing; they think cold
water can't hurt nobody."
Mother and Aunt Nabby each keep separate
establishments. First Aunt Nabby gets up in the morning
and examines the sink, to see whether it leaks and
rots the beam. She then makes a little fire, gets her
little teapot of bright shining tin, and puts into it a
teaspoonful of black tea, and so prepares her breakfast.
By this time mother comes creeping down-stairs, like
an old tabby-cat out of the ash-hole; and she kind o'
doubts and reckons whether or no she had better try to
git any breakfast, bein' as she's not much appetite
this mornin'; but she goes to the leg of bacon and cuts
off a little slice, reckons sh'll broil it; then goes
and looks at the coffee-pot and reckons sh'll have a
little coffee; don't exactly know whether it's good
for her, but she don't drink much. So while Aunt Nabby
is sitting sipping her tea and munching her bread and
butter with a matter-of-fact certainty and marvelous
satisfaction, mother goes doubting and reckoning round,
like Mrs. Diffidence in Doubting Castle, till you see
rising up another little table in another corner of the
room, with a good substantial structure of broiled ham
and coffee, and a boiled egg or two, with various et
ceteras, which Mrs. Diffidence, after many desponding
ejaculations, finally sits down to, and in spite of
all presentiments makes them fly as nimbly as Mr.
Ready-to-Halt did Miss Much-afraid when he footed it
so well with her on his crutches in the dance on the
occasion of Giant Despair's overthrow.
I have thus far dined alternately with mother and Aunt
Susan, not having yet been admitted to Aunt Nabby's
establishment. There are now great talkings, and
congresses and consultations of the allied powers,
and already rumors are afloat that perhaps all will
unite their forces and dine at one table, especially
as Harriet and little Hattie are coming, and there is
no knowing what might come out in the papers if there
should be anything a little odd.
Mother is very well, thin as a hatchet and smart as
a steel trap; Aunt Nabby, fat and easy as usual; for
since the sink is mended, and no longer leaks and rots
the beam, and she has nothing to do but watch it,
and Uncle Bill has joined the Washingtonians and no
longer drinks rum, she is quite at a loss for topics of
worriment.
Uncle Ike has had a little touch of palsy and is rather
feeble. He says that his legs and arms have rather
gi'n out, but his head and pluck are as good as they
ever were. I told him that our sister Kate was very
much in the same fix, whereat he was considerably
affected, and opened the crack in his great pumpkin of
a face, displaying the same two rows of great white
ivories which have been my admiration from my youth
up. He is sixty-five years of age, and has never lost
a tooth, and was never in his life more than fifteen
miles from the spot where he was born, except once, in
the ever-memorable year 1819, when I was at Bradford
Academy.
In a sudden glow of adventurous rashness he undertook
to go after me and bring me home for vacation; and he
actually performed the whole journey of thirty miles
with his horse and wagon, and slept at a tavern a whole
night, a feat of bravery on which he has never since
ceased to plume himself. I well remember that awful
night in the tavern in the remote region of North
Andover. We occupied a chamber in which were two beds.
In the unsuspecting innocence of youth I undressed
myself and got into bed as usual; but my brave and
thoughtful uncle, merely divesting himself of his coat,
put it under his pillow, and then threw himself on to
the bed with his boots on his feet, and his two hands
resting on the rim of his hat, which he had prudently
placed on the apex of his stomach as he lay on his
back. He wouldn't allow me to blow out the candle,
but he lay there with his great white eyes fixed on
the ceiling, in the cool, determined manner of a bold
man who had made up his mind to face danger and meet
whatever might befall him. We escaped, however, without
injury, the doughty landlord and his relentless sons
merely demanding pay for supper, lodging, horse-feed,
and breakfast, which my valiant uncle, betraying no
signs of fear, resolutely paid.
Mrs. Stowe has woven this incident into chapter thirty-two of "Oldtown
Folks," where Uncle Ike figures as Uncle Jacob.
Mrs. Stowe had misgivings as to the reception which "Oldtown Folks"
would meet in England, owing to its distinctively New England
character. Shortly after the publication of the book she received the
following words of encouragement from Mrs. Lewes (George Eliot), July
11, 1869:--
"I have received and read 'Oldtown Folks.' I think that few of your
readers can have felt more interest than I have felt in that picture
of an elder generation; for my interest in it has a double root,--one
in my own love for our old-fashioned provincial life, which had its
affinities with a contemporary life, even all across the Atlantic,
and of which I have gathered glimpses in different phases from my
father and mother, with their relations; the other is my experimental
acquaintance with some shades of Calvinistic orthodoxy. I think your
way of presenting the religious convictions which are not your own,
except by the way of indirect fellowship, is a triumph of insight and
true tolerance.... Both Mr. Lewes and I are deeply interested in the
indications which the professor gives of his peculiar psychological
experience, and we should feel it a great privilege to learn much more
of it from his lips. It is a rare thing to have such an opportunity of
studying exceptional experience in the testimony of a truthful and in
every way distinguished mind."
"Oldtown Folks" is of interest as being undoubtedly the last of Mrs.
Stowe's works which will outlive the generation for which it was
written. Besides its intrinsic merit as a work of fiction, it has a
certain historic value as being a faithful study of "New England life
and character in that particular time of its history which may be
called the seminal period."
Whether Mrs. Stowe was far enough away from the time and people she
attempts to describe to "make (her) mind as still and passive as
a looking-glass or a mountain lake, and to give merely the images
reflected there," is something that will in great part determine the
permanent value of this work. Its interest as a story merely is of
course ephemeral.
CHAPTER XIX.
THE BYRON CONTROVERSY, 1869-1870.
MRS. STOWE'S STATEMENT OF HER OWN CASE.--THE
CIRCUMSTANCES UNDER WHICH SHE FIRST MET LADY
BYRON.--LETTERS TO LADY BYRON.--LETTER TO DR. HOLMES
WHEN ABOUT TO PUBLISH "THE TRUE STORY OF LADY BYRON'S
LIFE" IN THE "ATLANTIC."--DR. HOLMES'S REPLY.--THE
CONCLUSION OF THE MATTER.
IT seems impossible to avoid the unpleasant episode in Mrs. Stowe's
life known as the "Byron Controversy." It will be our effort to deal
with the matter as colorlessly as is consistent with an adequate
setting forth of the motives which moved Mrs. Stowe to awaken this
unsavory discussion. In justification of her action in this matter,
Mrs. Stowe says:--
"What interest have you and I, my brother and my sister, in this short
life of ours, to utter anything but the truth? Is not truth between man
and man, and between man and woman, the foundation on which all things
rest? Have you not, every individual of you, who must hereafter give
an account yourself alone to God, an interest to know the exact truth
in this matter, and a duty to perform as respects that truth? Hear me,
then, while I tell you the position in which I stood, and what was my
course in relation to it.
"A shameless attack on my friend's memory had appeared in the
'Blackwood' of July, 1869, branding Lady Byron as the vilest of
criminals, and recommending the Guiccioli book to a Christian public
as interesting from the very fact that it was the avowed production
of Lord Byron's mistress. No efficient protest was made against
this outrage in England, and Littell's 'Living Age' reprinted the
'Blackwood' article, and the Harpers, the largest publishing house in
America, perhaps in the world, republished the book.
"Its statements--with those of the 'Blackwood,' 'Pall Mall Gazette,'
and other English periodicals--were being propagated through all
the young reading and writing world of America. I was meeting them
advertised in dailies, and made up into articles in magazines, and thus
the generation of to-day, who had no means of judging Lady Byron but by
these fables of her slanderers, were being foully deceived. The friends
who knew her personally were a small, select circle in England, whom
death is every day reducing. They were few in number compared with the
great world, and were _silent_. I saw these foul slanders crystallizing
into history, uncontradicted by friends who knew her personally, who,
firm in their own knowledge of her virtues, and limited in view as
aristocratic circles generally are, had no idea of the width of the
world they were living in, and the exigency of the crisis. When time
passed on and no voice was raised, I spoke."
It is hardly necessary to recapitulate, at any great length, facts
already so familiar to the reading public; it may be sufficient simply
to say that after the appearance in 1868 of the Countess Guiccioli's
"Recollections of Lord Byron," Mrs. Stowe felt herself called upon
to defend the memory of her friend from what she esteemed to be
falsehoods and slanders. To accomplish this object, she prepared for
the "Atlantic Monthly" of September, 1869, an article, "The True Story
of Lady Byron's Life." Speaking of her first impressions of Lady Byron,
Mrs. Stowe says:--
"I formed her acquaintance in the year 1853, during my first visit to
England. I met her at a lunch party in the house of one of her friends.
When I was introduced to her, I felt in a moment the words of her
husband:--
"'There was awe in the homage that she drew;
Her spirit seemed as seated on a throne.'"
It was in the fall of 1856, on the occasion of Mrs. Stowe's second
visit to England, as she and her sister were on their way to Eversley
to visit the Rev. C. Kingsley, that they stopped by invitation to lunch
with Lady Byron at her summer residence at Ham Common, near Richmond.
At that time Lady Byron informed Mrs. Stowe that it was her earnest
desire to receive a visit from her on her return, as there was a
subject of great importance concerning which she desired her advice.
Mrs. Stowe has thus described this interview with Lady Byron:--
"After lunch, I retired with Lady Byron, and my sister remained with
her friends. I should here remark that the chief subject of the
conversation which ensued was not entirely new to me.
"In the interval between my first and second visits to England, a lady
who for many years had enjoyed Lady Byron's friendship and confidence
had, with her consent, stated the case generally to me, giving some of
the incidents, so that I was in a manner prepared for what followed.
"Those who accuse Lady Byron of being a person fond of talking upon
this subject, and apt to make unconsidered confidences, can have known
very little of her, of her reserve, and of the apparent difficulty she
had in speaking on subjects nearest her heart. Her habitual calmness
and composure of manner, her collected dignity on all occasions, are
often mentioned by her husband, sometimes with bitterness, sometimes
with admiration. He says: 'Though I accuse Lady Byron of an excess of
self-respect, I must in candor admit that, if ever a person had excuse
for an extraordinary portion of it, she has, as in all her thoughts,
words, and deeds she is the most decorous woman that ever existed, and
must appear, what few I fancy could, a perfectly refined gentlewoman,
even to her _femme de chambre_.'
"This calmness and dignity were never more manifested than in this
interview. In recalling the conversation at this distance of time, I
cannot remember all the language used. Some particular words and forms
of expression I do remember, and those I give; and in other cases I
give my recollection of the substance of what was said.
"There was something awful to me in the intensity of repressed emotion
which she showed as she proceeded. The great fact upon which all turned
was stated in words that were unmistakable."
Mrs. Stowe goes on to give minutely Lady Byron's conversation, and
concludes by saying:--
Of course I did not listen to this story as one who
was investigating its worth. I received it as truth,
and the purpose for which it was communicated was not
to enable me to prove it to the world, but to ask
my opinion whether she should show it to the world
before leaving it. The whole consultation was upon the
assumption that she had at her command such proofs as
could not be questioned. Concerning what they were I
did not minutely inquire, only, in answer to a general
question, she said that she had letters and documents
in proof of her story. Knowing Lady Byron's strength
of mind, her clear-headedness, her accurate habits,
and her perfect knowledge of the matter, I considered
her judgment on this point decisive. I told her that
I would take the subject into consideration and give
my opinion in a few days. That night, after my sister
and myself had retired to our own apartment, I related
to her the whole history, and we spent the night in
talking it over. I was powerfully impressed with the
justice and propriety of an immediate disclosure;
while she, on the contrary, represented the fatal
consequences that would probably come upon Lady Byron
from taking such a step.
Before we parted the next day, I requested Lady Byron
to give me some memoranda of such dates and outlines
of the general story as would enable me better to keep
it in its connection, which she did. On giving me the
paper, Lady Byron requested me to return it to her
when it had ceased to be of use to me for the purpose
intended. Accordingly, a day or two after, I inclosed
it to her in a hasty note, as I was then leaving London
for Paris, and had not yet had time fully to consider
the subject. On reviewing my note I can recall that
then the whole history appeared to me like one of those
singular cases where unnatural impulses to vice are
the result of a taint of constitutional insanity. This
has always seemed to me the only way of accounting for
instances of utterly motiveless and abnormal wickedness
and cruelty. These, my first impressions, were
expressed in the hasty note written at the time:
LONDON, _November 5, 1856._
DEAREST FRIEND,--I return these. They have held mine
eyes waking. How strange! How unaccountable! Have you
ever subjected the facts to the judgment of a medical
man, learned in nervous pathology? Is it not insanity?
"Great wits to madness nearly are allied,
And thin partitions do their bounds divide."
But my purpose to-night is not to write to you fully
what I think of this matter. I am going to write to you
from Paris more at leisure.
(The rest of the letter was taken up in the final
details of a charity in which Lady Byron had been
engaged with me in assisting an unfortunate artist. It
concludes thus:)
I write now in all haste, _en route_ for Paris. As to
America, all is not lost yet. Farewell. I love you, my
dear friend, as never before, with an intense feeling
that I cannot easily express. God bless you.
H. B. S.
The next letter is as follows:--
PARIS, _December 17, 1856._
DEAR LADY BYRON,--The Kansas Committee have written
me a letter desiring me to express to Miss ---- their
gratitude for the five pounds she sent them. I am not
personally acquainted with her, and must return these
acknowledgments through you.
I wrote you a day or two since, inclosing the reply of
the Kansas Committee to you.
On that subject on which you spoke to me the last time
we were together, I have thought often and deeply.
I have changed my mind somewhat. Considering the
peculiar circumstances of the case, I could wish that
the sacred veil of silence, so bravely thrown over the
past, should never be withdrawn during the time that
you remain with us. I would say then, leave all with
some discreet friends, who, after both have passed
from earth, shall say what was due to justice. I am
led to think this by seeing how low, how unworthy, the
judgments of this world are; and I would not that what
I so much respect, love, and revere should be placed
within reach of its harpy claw, which pollutes what
it touches. The day will yet come which will bring to
light every hidden thing. "There is nothing covered
that shall not be revealed, neither hid that shall not
be known;" and so justice will not fail.
Such, my dear friend, are my thoughts; different from
what they were since first I heard that strange, sad
history. Meanwhile I love you forever, whether we meet
again on earth or not.
Affectionately yours,
H. B. S.
Before her article appeared in print, Mrs. Stowe addressed the
following letter to Dr. Holmes in Boston:--
HARTFORD, _June 26, 1869._
DEAR DOCTOR,--I am going to ask help of you, and I feel
that confidence in your friendship that leads me to be
glad that I have a friend like you to ask advice of. In
order that you may understand fully what it is, I must
go back some years and tell you about it.
When I went to England the first time, I formed a
friendship with Lady Byron which led to a somewhat
interesting correspondence. When there the second
time, after the publication of "Dred" in 1856, Lady
Byron wrote to me that she wished to have some private
confidential conversation with me, and invited me to
come spend a day with her at her country-seat near
London. I went, met her alone, and spent an afternoon
with her. The object of the visit she then explained
to me. She was in such a state of health that she
considered she had very little time to live, and
was engaged in those duties and reviews which every
thoughtful person finds who is coming deliberately, and
with their eyes open, to the boundaries of this mortal
life.
Lady Byron, as you must perceive, has all her life
lived under a weight of slanders and false imputations
laid upon her by her husband. Her own side of the story
has been told only to that small circle of confidential
friends who needed to know it in order to assist her
in meeting the exigencies which it imposed on her.
Of course it has thrown the sympathy mostly on his
side, since the world generally has more sympathy with
impulsive incorrectness than with strict justice.
At that time there was a cheap edition of Byron's
works in contemplation, meant to bring them into
circulation among the masses, and the pathos arising
from the story of his domestic misfortunes was one
great means relied on for giving it currency.
Under these circumstances some of Lady Byron's friends
had proposed the question to her whether she had not a
responsibility to society for the truth; whether she
did right to allow these persons to gain influence
over the popular mind by a silent consent to an utter
falsehood. As her whole life had been passed in the
most heroic self-abnegation and self sacrifice, the
question was now proposed to her whether one more act
of self-denial was not required of her, namely, to
declare _the truth_, no matter at what expense to her
own feelings.
For this purpose she told me she wished to recount the
whole story to a person in whom she had confidence,--a
person of another country, and out of the whole sphere
of personal and local feelings which might be supposed
to influence those in the country and station in life
where the events really happened,--in order that I
might judge whether anything more was required of her
in relation to this history.
The interview had almost the solemnity of a death-bed
confession, and Lady Byron told me the history which I
have embodied in an article to appear in the "Atlantic
Monthly." I have been induced to prepare it by the run
which the Guiccioli book is having, which is from first
to last an unsparing attack on Lady Byron's memory by
Lord Byron's mistress.
When you have read my article, I want, _not_ your
advice as to whether the main facts shall be told, for
on this point I am so resolved that I frankly say
advice would do me no good. But you might help me,
with your delicacy and insight, to make the _manner of
telling_ more perfect, and I want to do it as wisely
and well as such story can be told.
My post-office address after July 1st will be Westport
Point, Bristol Co., Mass., care of Mrs. I. M. Soule.
The proof-sheets will be sent you by the publisher.
Very truly yours,
H. B. STOWE.
In reply to the storm of controversy aroused by the publication of this
article, Mrs. Stowe made a more extended effort to justify the charges
which she had brought against Lord Byron, in a work published in 1869,
"Lady Byron Vindicated." Immediately after the publication of this
work, she mailed a copy to Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes, accompanied by
the following note:--
BOSTON, _May 19, 1869._
DEAR DOCTOR,--... In writing this book, which I now
take the liberty of sending to you, I have been in
... a "critical place." It has been a strange, weird
sort of experience, and I have had not a word to say
to anybody, though often thinking of you and wishing
I could have a little of your help and sympathy in
getting out what I saw. I think of you very much, and
rejoice to see the _hold_ your works get on England
as well as this country, and I would give more for
your opinion than that of most folks. How often I have
pondered your last letter to me, and sent it to many
(friends)! God bless you. Please accept for yourself
and your good wife, this copy.
From yours truly,
H. B. STOWE.
Mrs. Stowe also published in 1870, through Sampson Low & Son, of
London, a volume for English readers, "The History of the Byron
Controversy." These additional volumes, however, do not seem to have
satisfied the public as a whole, and perhaps the expediency of the
publication of Mrs. Stowe's first article is doubtful, even to her most
ardent admirers. The most that can be hoped for, through the mention
of the subject in this biography, is the vindication of Mrs. Stowe's
purity of motive and nobility of intention in bringing this painful
matter into notice.
While she was being on all hands effectively, and evidently in some
quarters with rare satisfaction, roundly abused for the article, and
her consequent responsibility in bringing this unsavory discussion so
prominently before the public mind, she received the following letter
from Dr. O. W. Holmes:--
BOSTON, _September 25, 1869._
MY DEAR MRS. STOWE,--I have been meaning to write to
you for some time, but in the midst of all the wild and
virulent talk about the article in the "Atlantic," I
felt as if there was little to say until the first fury
of the storm had blown over.
I think that we all perceive now that the battle is
not to be fought here, but in England. I have listened
to a good deal of talk, always taking your side in a
quiet way, backed very heartily on one occasion by
one of my most intellectual friends, reading all that
came in my way, and watching the course of opinion.
And first, it was to be expected that the Guiccioli
fanciers would resent any attack on Lord Byron, and
would highly relish the opportunity of abusing one who,
like yourself, had been identified with all those moral
enterprises which elevate the standard of humanity at
large, and of womanhood in particular. After this scum
had worked itself off, there must necessarily follow a
controversy, none the less sharp and bitter, but not
depending essentially on abuse. The first point the
recusants got hold of was the error of the two years
which contrived to run the gauntlet of so many pairs
of eyes. Some of them were made happy by mouthing and
shaking this between their teeth, as a poodle tears
round with a glove. This did not last long. No sensible
person could believe for a moment you were mistaken in
the essential character of a statement every word of
which would fall on the ear of a listening friend like
a drop of melted lead, and burn its scar deep into the
memory. That Lady Byron believed and told you the story
will not be questioned by any but fools and malignants.
Whether her belief was well founded there may be
positive evidence in existence to show affirmatively.
The fact that her statement is not peremptorily
contradicted by those most likely to be acquainted
with the facts of the case, is the one result so far
which is forcing itself into unwilling recognition. I
have seen nothing, in the various hypotheses brought
forward, which did not to me involve a greater
improbability than the presumption of guilt. Take
that, for witness, that Byron accused himself, through
a spirit of perverse vanity, of crimes he had not
committed. How preposterous! He would stain the name of
a sister, whom, on the supposition of his innocence,
he loved with angelic ardor as well as purity, by
associating it with such an infamous accusation.
Suppose there are some anomalies hard to explain in
Lady Byron's conduct. Could a young and guileless
woman, in the hands of such a man, be expected to
act in any given way, or would she not be likely to
waver, to doubt, to hope, to contradict herself, in the
anomalous position in which, without experience, she
found herself?
As to the intrinsic evidence contained in the poems,
I think it confirms rather than contradicts the
hypothesis of guilt. I do not think that Butler's
argument, and all the other attempts at invalidation of
the story, avail much in the face of the acknowledged
fact that it was told to various competent and honest
witnesses, and remains without a satisfactory answer
from those most interested.
I know your firm self-reliance, and your courage to
proclaim the truth when any good end is to be served
by it. It is to be expected that public opinion will
be more or less divided as to the expediency of this
revelation....
Hoping that you have recovered from your indisposition,
I am
Faithfully yours,
O. W. HOLMES.
While undergoing the most unsparing and pitiless criticism and brutal
insult, Mrs. Stowe received the following sympathetic words from Mrs.
Lewes (George Eliot):--
THE PRIORY, 21 NORTH BANK, _December 10, 1869._
MY DEAR FRIEND,-- ... In the midst of your trouble I
was often thinking of you, for I feared that you were
undergoing a considerable trial from the harsh and
unfair judgments, partly the fruit of hostility glad
to find an opportunity for venting itself, and partly
of that unthinking cruelty which belongs to hasty
anonymous journalism. For my own part, I should have
preferred that the Byron question should never have
been brought before the public, because I think the
discussion of such subjects is injurious socially. But
with regard to yourself, dear friend, I feel sure that,
in acting on a different basis of impressions, you were
impelled by pure, generous feeling. Do not think that
I would have written to you of this point to express a
judgment. I am anxious only to convey to you a sense
of my sympathy and confidence, such as a kiss and a
pressure of the hand could give if I were near you.
I trust that I shall hear a good account of Professor
Stowe's health, as well as your own, whenever you
have time to write me a word or two. I shall not be
so unreasonable as to expect a long letter, for the
hours of needful rest from writing become more and more
precious as the years go on, but some brief news of
you and yours will be especially welcome just now. Mr.
Lewes unites with me in high regards to your husband
and yourself, but in addition to that I have the sister
woman's privilege of saying that I am always
Your affectionate friend,
M. H. LEWES.
CHAPTER XX.
GEORGE ELIOT.
CORRESPONDENCE WITH GEORGE ELIOT.--GEORGE ELIOT'S FIRST
IMPRESSIONS OF MRS. STOWE.--MRS. STOWE'S LETTER TO MRS.
FOLLEN.--GEORGE ELIOT'S LETTER TO MRS. STOWE.--MRS.
STOWE'S REPLY.--LIFE IN FLORIDA.--ROBERT DALE OWEN AND
MODERN SPIRITUALISM.--GEORGE ELIOT'S LETTER ON THE
PHENOMENA OF SPIRITUALISM.--MRS. STOWE'S DESCRIPTION
OF SCENERY IN FLORIDA.--MRS. STOWE CONCERNING
"MIDDLEMARCH."--GEORGE ELIOT TO MRS. STOWE DURING REV.
H. W. BEECHER'S TRIAL.--MRS. STOWE CONCERNING HER LIFE
EXPERIENCE WITH HER BROTHER, H. W. BEECHER, AND HIS
TRIAL.--MRS. LEWES' LAST LETTER TO MRS. STOWE.--DIVERSE
MENTAL CHARACTERISTICS OF THESE TWO WOMEN.--MRS.
STOWE'S FINAL ESTIMATE OF MODERN SPIRITUALISM.
IT is with a feeling of relief that we turn from one of the most
disagreeable experiences of Mrs. Stowe's life to one of the most
delightful, namely, the warm friendship of one of the most eminent
women of this age, George Eliot.
There seems to have been some deep affinity of feeling that drew them
closely together in spite of diversity of intellectual tastes.
George Eliot's attention was first personally attracted to Mrs. Stowe
in 1853, by means of a letter which the latter had written to Mrs.
Follen. Speaking of this incident she (George Eliot) writes: "Mrs.
Follen showed me a delightful letter which she has just had from Mrs.
Stowe, telling all about herself. She begins by saying, 'I am a little
bit of a woman, rather more than forty, as withered and dry as a pinch
of snuff; never very well worth looking at in my best days, and now a
decidedly used-up article.' The whole letter is most fascinating, and
makes one love her."[17]
The correspondence between these two notable women was begun by Mrs.
Stowe, and called forth the following extremely interesting letter from
the distinguished English novelist:--
THE PRIORY, 21 NORTH BANK, _May 8, 1869._
MY DEAR FRIEND,--I value very highly the warrant to
call you friend which your letter has given me. It
lay awaiting me on our return the other night from a
nine weeks' absence in Italy, and it made me almost
wish that you could have a momentary vision of the
discouragement,--nay, paralyzing despondency--in which
many days of my writing life have been passed, in order
that you might fully understand the good I find in such
sympathy as yours, in such an assurance as you give me
that my work has been worth doing. But I will not dwell
on any mental sickness of mine. The best joy your words
give me is the sense of that sweet, generous feeling in
you which dictated them. I shall always be the richer
because you have in this way made me know you better. I
must tell you that my first glimpse of you as a woman
came through a letter of yours, and charmed me very
much. The letter was addressed to Mrs. Follen, and
one morning I called on her in London (how many years
ago!); she was kind enough to read it to me, because it
contained a little history of your life, and a sketch
of your domestic circumstances. I remember thinking
that it was very kind of you to write that long letter,
in reply to inquiries of one who was personally unknown
to you; and, looking back with my present experience,
I think it was kinder than it then appeared, for at
that time you must have been much oppressed with the
immediate results of your fame. I remember, too, that
you wrote of your husband as one who was richer in
Hebrew and Greek than in pounds or shillings; and as an
ardent scholar has always been a character of peculiar
interest to me, I have rarely had your image in my mind
without the accompanying image (more or less erroneous)
of such a scholar by your side. I shall welcome the
fruit of his Goethe studies, whenever it comes.
I have good hopes that your fears are groundless as
to the obstacles your new book ("Oldtown Folks") may
find here from its thorough American character. Most
readers who are likely to be really influenced by
writing above the common order will find that special
aspect an added reason for interest and study; and
I dare say you have long seen, as I am beginning to
see with new clearness, that if a book which has any
sort of exquisiteness happens also to be a popular,
widely circulated book, the power over the social mind
for any good is, after all, due to its reception by a
few appreciative natures, and is the slow result of
radiation from that narrow circle. I mean that you can
affect a few souls, and that each of these in turn may
affect a few more, but that no exquisite book tells
properly and directly on a multitude, however largely
it may be spread by type and paper. Witness the things
the multitude will say about it, if one is so unhappy
as to be obliged to hear their sayings. I do not
write this cynically, but in pure sadness and pity.
Both traveling abroad and staying at home among our
English sights and sports, one must continually feel
how slowly the centuries work toward the moral good of
men, and that thought lies very close to what you say
as to your wonder or conjecture concerning my religious
point of view. I believe that religion, too, has to
be modified according to the dominant phases; that
a religion more perfect than any yet prevalent must
express less care of personal consolation, and the more
deeply awing sense of responsibility to man springing
from sympathy with that which of all things is most
certainly known to us,--the difficulty of the human
lot. Letters are necessarily narrow and fragmentary,
and when one writes on wide subjects, are likely to
create more misunderstanding than illumination. But I
have little anxiety in writing to you, dear friend and
fellow-laborer; for you have had longer experience than
I as a writer, and fuller experience as a woman, since
you have borne children and known a mother's history
from the beginning. I trust your quick and long-taught
mind as an interpreter little liable to mistake me.
When you say, "We live in an orange grove, and are
planting many more," and when I think you must have
abundant family love to cheer you, it seems to me
that you must have a paradise about you. But no list
of circumstances will make a paradise. Nevertheless,
I must believe that the joyous, tender humor of your
books clings about your more immediate life, and
makes some of that sunshine for yourself which you
have given to us. I see the advertisement of "Oldtown
Folks," and shall eagerly expect it. That and every
other new link between us will be reverentially valued.
With great devotion and regard,
Yours always,
M. L. LEWES.
Mrs. Stowe writes from Mandarin to George Eliot:--
MANDARIN, _February 8, 1872._
DEAR FRIEND,--It is two years nearly since I had your
last very kind letter, and I have never answered,
because two years of constant and severe work have made
it impossible to give a drop to anything beyond the
needs of the hour. Yet I have always thought of you,
loved you, trusted you all the same, and read every
little scrap from your writing that came to hand.
One thing brings you back to me. I am now in Florida
in my little hut in the orange orchard, with the broad
expanse of the blue St. John's in front, and the
waving of the live-oaks, with their long, gray mosses,
overhead, and the bright gold of oranges looking
through dusky leaves around. It is like Sorrento,--so
like that I can quite dream of being there. And when I
get here I enter another life. The world recedes; I am
out of it; it ceases to influence; its bustle and noise
die away in the far distance; and here is no winter, an
open-air life,--a quaint, rude, wild wilderness sort of
life, both rude and rich; but when I am here I write
more letters to friends than ever I do elsewhere. The
mail comes only twice a week, and then is the event
of the day. My old rabbi and I here set up our tent,
he with German, and Greek, and Hebrew, devouring all
sorts of black-letter books, and I spinning ideal webs
out of bits that he lets fall here and there.
I have long thought that I would write you again when I
got here, and so I do. I have sent North to have them
send me the "Harper's Weekly," in which your new story
is appearing, and have promised myself leisurely to
devour and absorb every word of it.
While I think of it I want to introduce to you a friend
of mine, a most noble man, Mr. Owen, for some years our
ambassador at Naples, now living a literary and scholar
life in America. His father was Robert Dale Owen, the
theorist and communist you may have heard of in England
some years since.
Years ago, in Naples, I visited Mr. Owen for the
first time, and found him directing his attention
to the phenomena of spiritism. He had stumbled upon
some singular instances of it accidentally, and he
had forthwith instituted a series of researches and
experiments on the subject, some of which he showed me.
It was the first time I had ever seriously thought of
the matter, and he invited my sister and myself to see
some of the phenomena as exhibited by a medium friend
of theirs who resided in their family. The result at
the time was sufficiently curious, but I was interested
in his account of the manner in which he proceeded,
keeping records of every experiment with its results,
in classified orders. As the result of his studies
and observations, he has published two books, one
"Footfalls on the Boundary of Another World," published
in 1860, and latterly, "The Debatable Land Between this
World and the Next." I regard Mr. Owen as one of the
few men who are capable of entering into an inquiry of
this kind without an utter drowning of common sense,
and his books are both of them worth a fair reading. To
me they present a great deal that is intensely curious
and interesting, although I do not admit, of course,
all his deductions, and think he often takes too much
for granted. Still, with every abatement there remains
a residuum of fact, which I think both curious and
useful. In a late letter to me he says:--
"There is no writer of the present day whom I more
esteem than Mrs. Lewes, nor any one whose opinion of my
work I should more highly value."
I believe he intends sending them to you, and I hope
you will read them. Lest some of the narratives should
strike you, as such narratives did me once, as being a
perfect Arabian Nights' Entertainment, I want to say
that I have accidentally been in the way of confirming
some of the most remarkable by personal observation....
In regard to all this class of subjects, I am of the
opinion of Goethe, that "it is just as absurd to deny
the facts of spiritualism now as it was in the Middle
Ages to ascribe them to the Devil." I think Mr. Owen
attributes too much value to his facts. I do not think
the things contributed from the ultra-mundane sphere
are particularly valuable, apart from the evidence they
give of continued existence after death.
I do not think there is yet any evidence to warrant
the idea that they are a supplement or continuation of
the revelations of Christianity, but I do regard them
as an interesting and curious study in psychology,
and every careful observer like Mr. Owen ought to be
welcomed to bring in his facts. With this I shall
send you my observations on Mr. Owen's books, from
the "Christian Union." I am perfectly aware of the
frivolity and worthlessness of much of the revealings
purporting to come from spirits. In my view, the worth
or worthlessness of them has nothing to do with the
question of fact.
Do invisible spirits speak in any wise,--wise or
foolish?--is the question _a priori_? I do not know
of any reason why there should not be as many foolish
virgins in the future state as in this. As I am a
believer in the Bible and Christianity, I don't need
these things as confirmations, and they are not likely
to be a religion to me. I regard them simply as I do
the phenomena of the Aurora Borealis, or Darwin's
studies on natural selection, as curious studies into
nature. Besides, I think some day we shall find a law
by which all these facts will fall into their places.
I hope now this subject does not bore you: it certainly
is one that seems increasingly to insist on getting
itself heard. It is going on and on, making converts,
who are many more than dare avow themselves, and for my
part I wish it were all brought into the daylight of
inquiry.
Let me hear from you if ever you feel like it. I know
too well the possibilities and impossibilities of a
nature like yours to ask more, but it can do you no
harm to know that I still think of you and love you as
ever.
Faithfully yours,
H. B. STOWE.
THE PRIORY, 21 NORTH BANK, REGENT'S PARK, _March 4, 1872._
DEAR FRIEND,--I can understand very easily that the
two last years have been full for you of other and
more imperative work than the writing of letters not
absolutely demanded either by charity or business. The
proof that you still think of me affectionately is very
welcome now it has come, and more cheering because it
enables me to think of you as enjoying your retreat
in your orange orchard,--your western Sorrento--the
beloved rabbi still beside you. I am sure it must be
a great blessing to you to bathe in that quietude, as
it always is to us when we go out of reach of London
influences and have the large space of country days to
study, walk, and talk in....
When I am more at liberty I will certainly read Mr.
Owen's books, if he is good enough to send them to me.
I desire on all subjects to keep an open mind, but
hitherto the various phenomena, reported or attested
in connection with ideas of spirit intercourse and so
on, have come before me here in the painful form of the
lowest charlatanerie....
But apart from personal contact with people who get
money by public exhibitions as mediums, or with
semi-idiots such as those who make a court for a Mrs.
----, or other feminine personages of that kind, I
would not willingly place any barriers between my mind
and any possible channel of truth affecting the human
lot. The spirit in which you have written in the paper
you kindly sent me is likely to touch others, and
arouse them at least to attention in a case where you
have been deeply impressed....
Yours with sincere affection,
M. L. LEWES.
(Begun April 4th.)
MANDARIN, FLORIDA, _May 11, 1872._
MY DEAR FRIEND,--I was very glad to get your dear
little note,--sorry to see by it that you are not in
your full physical force. Owing to the awkwardness
and misunderstanding of publishers, I am not reading
"Middlemarch," as I expected to be, here in these
orange shades: they don't send it, and I am too far
out of the world to get it. I felt, when I read your
letters, how glad I should be to have you here in our
Florida cottage, in the wholly new, wild, woodland
life. Though resembling Italy in climate, it is wholly
different in the appearance of nature,--the plants, the
birds, the animals, all different. The green tidiness
and culture of England here gives way to a wild and
rugged savageness of beauty. Every tree bursts forth
with flowers; wild vines and creepers execute delirious
gambols, and weave and interweave in interminable
labyrinths. Yet here, in the great sandy plains back
of our house, there is a constant wondering sense
of beauty in the wild, wonderful growths of nature.
First of all, the pines--high as the stone pines of
Italy--with long leaves, eighteen inches long, through
which there is a constant dreamy sound, as if of
dashing waters. Then the live-oaks and the water-oaks,
narrow-leaved evergreens, which grow to enormous size,
and whose branches are draped with long festoons of the
gray moss. There is a great, wild park of these trees
back of us, which, with the dazzling, varnished green
of the new spring leaves and the swaying drapery of
moss, looks like a sort of enchanted grotto. Underneath
grow up hollies and ornamental flowering shrubs, and
the yellow jessamine climbs into and over everything
with fragrant golden bells and buds, so that sometimes
the foliage of a tree is wholly hidden in its embrace.
This wild, wonderful, bright and vivid growth, that
is all new, strange, and unknown by name to me, has a
charm for me. It is the place to forget the outside
world, and live in one's self. And if you were here,
we would go together and gather azaleas, and white
lilies, and silver bells, and blue iris. These flowers
keep me painting in a sort of madness. I have just
finished a picture of white lilies that grow in the
moist land by the watercourses. I am longing to begin
on blue iris. Artist, poet, as you are by nature, you
ought to see all these things, and if you would come
here I would take you in heart and house, and you
should have a little room in our cottage. The history
of the cottage is this: I found a hut built close to
a great live-oak twenty-five feet in girth, and with
overarching boughs eighty feet up in the air, spreading
like a firmament, and all swaying with mossy festoons.
We began to live here, and gradually we improved the
hut by lath, plaster, and paper. Then we threw out
a wide veranda all round, for in these regions the
veranda is the living-room of the house. Ours had to be
built around the trunk of the tree, so that our cottage
has a peculiar and original air, and seems as if it
were half tree, or a something that had grown out of
the tree. We added on parts, and have thrown out gables
and chambers, as a tree throws out new branches, till
our cottage is like nobody else's, and yet we settle
into it with real enjoyment. There are all sorts of
queer little rooms in it, and we are accommodating at
this present a family of seventeen souls. In front,
the beautiful, grand St. John's stretches five miles
from shore to shore, and we watch the steamboats plying
back and forth to the great world we are out of. On
all sides, large orange trees, with their dense shade
and ever-vivid green, shut out the sun so that we can
sit, and walk, and live in the open air. Our winter
here is only cool, bracing out-door weather, without
snow. No month without flowers blooming in the open
air, and lettuce and peas in the garden. The summer
range is about 90°, but the sea-breezes keep the air
delightfully fresh. Generally we go North, however, for
three months of summer. Well, I did not mean to run on
about Florida, but the subject runs away with me, and I
want you to visit us in spirit if not personally.
My poor rabbi!--he sends you some Arabic, which I fear
you cannot read: on diablerie he is up to his ears in
knowledge, having read all things in all tongues, from
the Talmud down....
Ever lovingly yours,
H. B. STOWE.
[Illustration: H B Stowe]
BOSTON, _September 26, 1872._
MY DEAR FRIEND,--I think when you see my name again
so soon, you will think it rains, hails, and snows
notes from this quarter. Just now, however, I am in
this lovely, little nest in Boston, where dear Mrs.
Fields, like a dove, "sits brooding on the charmed
wave." We are both wishing we had you here with us,
and she has not received any answer from you as yet
in reply to the invitation you spoke of in your last
letter to me. It seems as if you must have written,
and the letter somehow gone astray, because I know,
of course, you would write. Yesterday we were both out
of our senses with mingled pity and indignation at
that dreadful stick of a Casaubon,--and think of poor
Dorothea dashing like a warm, sunny wave against so
cold and repulsive a rock! He is a little too dreadful
for anything: there does not seem to be a drop of warm
blood in him, and so, as it is his misfortune and
not his fault, to be cold-blooded, one must not get
angry with him. It is the scene in the garden, after
the interview with the doctor, that rests on our mind
at this present. There was such a man as he over in
Boston, high in literary circles, but I fancy his wife
wasn't like Dorothea, and a vastly proper time they had
of it, treating each other with mutual reverence, like
two Chinese mandarins.
My love, what I miss in this story is just what we
would have if you would come to our tumble-down, jolly,
improper, but joyous country,--namely, "jollitude."
You write and live on so high a plane! It is all
self-abnegation. We want to get you over here, and into
this house, where, with closed doors, we sometimes
make the rafters ring with fun, and say anything and
everything, no matter what, and won't be any properer
than we's a mind to be. I am wishing every day you
could see our America,--travel, as I have been doing,
from one bright, thriving, pretty, flowery town to
another, and see so much wealth, ease, progress,
culture, and all sorts of nice things. This dovecot
where I now am is the sweetest little nest imaginable;
fronting on a city street, with back windows opening on
a sea view, with still, quiet rooms filled with books,
pictures, and all sorts of things, such as you and
Mr. Lewes would enjoy. Don't be afraid of the ocean,
now! I've crossed it six times, and assure you it is
an overrated item. Froude is coming here--why not you?
Besides, we have the fountain of eternal youth here,
that is, in Florida, where I live, and if you should
come you would both of you take a new lease of life,
and what glorious poems, and philosophies, and whatnot,
we should have! My rabbi writes, in the seventh heaven,
an account of your note to him. To think of his
setting-off on his own account when I was away!
Come now, since your answer to dear Mrs. Fields is yet
to come; let it be a glad yes, and we will clasp you to
our heart of hearts.
Your ever loving,
H. B. S.
During the summer of 1874, while Mrs. Stowe's brother, the Rev. Henry
Ward Beecher, was the victim of a most revolting, malicious, and
groundless attack on his purity, Mrs. Lewes wrote the following words
of sympathy:--
MY DEAR FRIEND,--The other day I had a letter from
Mrs. Fields, written to let me know something of you
under that heavy trouble, of which such information as
I have had has been quite untrustworthy, leaving me
in entire incredulity in regard to it except on this
point, that you and yours must be suffering deeply.
Naturally I thought most of you in the matter (its
public aspects being indeterminate), and many times
before our friend's letter came I had said to Mr.
Lewes: "What must Mrs. Stowe be feeling!" I remember
Mrs. Fields once told me of the wonderful courage and
cheerfulness which belonged to you, enabling you to
bear up under exceptional trials, and I imagined you
helping the sufferers with tenderness and counsel, but
yet, nevertheless, I felt that there must be a bruising
weight on your heart. Dear, honored friend, you who are
so ready to give warm fellowship, is it any comfort to
you to be told that those afar off are caring for you
in spirit, and will be happier for all good issues that
may bring you rest?
I cannot, dare not, write more in my ignorance, lest
I should be using unreasonable words. But I trust in
your not despising this scrap of paper which tells you,
perhaps rather for my relief than yours, that I am
always in grateful, sweet remembrance of your goodness
to me and your energetic labors for all.
It was two years or more before Mrs. Stowe replied to these words of
sympathy.
Orange-blossom time, MANDARIN, _March 18, 1876._
MY DEAR FRIEND,--I always think of you when the orange
trees are in blossom; just now they are fuller than
ever, and so many bees are filling the branches that
the air is full of a sort of still murmur. And now I am
beginning to hear from you every month in Harper's. It
is as good as a letter. "Daniel Deronda" has succeeded
in awaking in my somewhat worn-out mind an interest.
So many stories are tramping over one's mind in every
modern magazine nowadays that one is macadamized, so to
speak. It takes something unusual to make a sensation.
This does excite and interest me, as I wait for each
number with eagerness. I wish I could endow you with
our long winter weather,--not winter, except such as
you find in Sicily. We live here from November to
June, and my husband sits outdoors on the veranda
and reads all day. We emigrate in solid family: my
two dear daughters, husband, self, and servants come
together to spend the winter here, and so together to
our Northern home in summer. My twin daughters relieve
me from all domestic care; they are lively, vivacious,
with a real genius for practical life. We have around
us a little settlement of neighbors, who like ourselves
have a winter home here, and live an easy, undress,
picnic kind of life, far from the world and its cares.
Mr. Stowe has been busy on eight volumes of Görres on
the mysticism of the Middle Ages.[18] This Görres was
Professor of Philosophy at Munich, and he reviews the
whole ground of the shadow-land between the natural and
the supernatural,--ecstacy, trance, prophecy, miracles,
spiritualism, the stigmata, etc. He was a devout Roman
Catholic, and the so-called facts that he reasons on
seem to me quite amazing; and yet the possibilities
that lie between inert matter and man's living,
all-powerful, immortal soul may make almost anything
credible. The soul at times can do anything with
matter. I have been busying myself with Sainte-Beuve's
seven volumes on the Port Royal development. I like him
(Sainte-Beuve). His capacity of seeing, doing justice
to all kinds of natures and sentiments, is wonderful. I
am sorry he is no longer our side the veil.
There is a redbird (cardinal grosbeak) singing in
the orange trees fronting my window, so sweetly and
insistently as to almost stop my writing. I hope, dear
friend, you are well--better than when you wrote last.
It was very sweet and kind of you to write what you
did last. I suppose it is so long ago you may have
forgotten, but it was a word of tenderness and sympathy
about my brother's trial; it was womanly, tender, and
sweet, such as at heart you are. After all, my love of
you is greater than my admiration, for I think it more
and better to be really a woman worth loving than to
have read Greek and German and written books. And in
this last book I read, I feel more with you in some
little, fine points,--they stare at me as making an
amusing exhibition. For, my dear, I feel myself at
last as one who has been playing and picnicking on the
shores of life, and waked from a dream late in the
afternoon to find that everybody almost has gone over
to the beyond. And the rest are sorting their things
and packing their trunks, and waiting for the boat to
come and take them.
It seems now but a little time since my brother Henry
and I were two young people together. He was my two
years junior, and nearest companion out of seven
brothers and three sisters. I taught him drawing and
heard his Latin lessons, for you know a girl becomes
mature and womanly long before a boy. I saw him through
college, and helped him through the difficult love
affair that gave him his wife; and then he and my
husband had a real German, enthusiastic love for each
other, which ended in making me a wife. Ah! in those
days we never dreamed that he, or I, or any of us, were
to be known in the world. All he seemed then was a
boy full of fun, full of love, full of enthusiasm for
protecting abused and righting wronged people, which
made him in those early days write editorials, and wear
arms and swear himself a special policeman to protect
the poor negroes in Cincinnati, where we then lived,
when there were mobs instigated by the slaveholders of
Kentucky.
Then he married, and lived a missionary life in the new
West, all with a joyousness, an enthusiasm, a chivalry,
which made life bright and vigorous to us both. Then
in time he was called to Brooklyn, just as the crisis
of the great anti-slavery battle came on, and the
Fugitive Slave Law was passed. I was then in Maine,
and I well remember one snowy night his riding till
midnight to see me, and then our talking, till near
morning, what we could do to make headway against the
horrid cruelties that were being practiced against the
defenseless blacks. My husband was then away lecturing,
and my heart was burning itself out in indignation and
anguish. Henry told me then that he meant to fight that
battle in New York; that he would have a church that
would stand by him to resist the tyrannic dictation
of Southern slaveholders. I said: "I, too, have begun
to do something; I have begun a story, trying to
set forth the sufferings and wrongs of the slaves."
"That's right, Hattie," he said; "finish it, and I
will scatter it thick as the leaves of Vallambrosa,"
and so came "Uncle Tom," and Plymouth Church became a
stronghold where the slave always found refuge and a
strong helper. One morning my brother found sitting on
his doorstep poor old Paul Edmonson, weeping; his two
daughters, of sixteen and eighteen, had passed into
the slave warehouse of Bruin & Hill, and were to be
sold. My brother took the man by the hand to a public
meeting, told his story for him, and in an hour raised
the two thousand dollars to redeem his children. Over
and over again, afterwards, slaves were redeemed at
Plymouth Church, and Henry and Plymouth Church became
words of hatred and fear through half the Union. From
that time until we talked together about the Fugitive
Slave Law, there was not a pause or stop in the battle
till we had been through the war and slavery had been
wiped out in blood. Through all he has been pouring
himself out, wrestling, burning, laboring everywhere,
making stump speeches when elections turned on the
slave question, and ever maintaining that the cause
of Christ was the cause of the slave. And when all
was over, it was he and Lloyd Garrison who were sent
by government once more to raise our national flag
on Fort Sumter. You must see that a man does not
so energize without making many enemies. Half of
our Union has been defeated, a property of millions
annihilated by emancipation, a proud and powerful slave
aristocracy reduced to beggary, and there are those
who never saw our faces that, to this hour, hate him
and me. Then he has been a progressive in theology.
He has been a student of Huxley, and Spencer, and
Darwin,--enough to alarm the old school,--and yet
remained so ardent a supernaturalist as equally to
repel the radical destructionists in religion. He and I
are Christ-worshippers, adoring Him as the Image of the
Invisible God and all that comes from believing this.
Then he has been a reformer, an advocate of universal
suffrage and woman's rights, yet not radical enough to
please that reform party who stand where the Socialists
of France do, and are for tearing up all creation
generally. Lastly, he has had the misfortune of a
popularity which is perfectly phenomenal. I cannot give
you any idea of the love, worship, idolatry, with which
he has been overwhelmed. He has something magnetic
about him that makes everybody crave his society,--that
makes men follow and worship him. I remember being at
his house one evening in the time of early flowers, and
in that one evening came a box of flowers from Maine,
another from New Jersey, another from Connecticut,--all
from people with whom he had no personal acquaintance,
who had read something of his and wanted to send him
some token. I said, "One would think you were a _prima
donna_. What does make people go on so about you?"
My brother is hopelessly generous and confiding. His
inability to believe evil is something incredible, and
so has come all this suffering. You said you hoped
I should be at rest when the first investigating
committee and Plymouth Church cleared my brother almost
by acclamation. Not so. The enemy have so committed
themselves that either they or he must die, and there
has followed two years of the most dreadful struggle.
First, a legal trial of six months, the expenses
of which on his side were one hundred and eighteen
thousand dollars, and in which he and his brave wife
sat side by side in the court-room, and heard all that
these plotters, who had been weaving their webs for
three years, could bring. The foreman of the jury was
offered a bribe of ten thousand dollars to decide
against my brother. He sent the letter containing the
proposition to the judge. But with all their plotting,
three fourths of the jury decided against them, and
their case was lost. It was accepted as a triumph
by my brother's friends; a large number of the most
influential clergy of all denominations so expressed
themselves in a public letter, and it was hoped the
thing was so far over that it might be lived down and
overgrown with better things.
But the enemy, intriguing secretly with all those
parties in the community who wish to put down a public
and too successful man, have been struggling to bring
the thing up again for an ecclesiastical trial. The
cry has been raised in various religious papers that
Plymouth Church was in complicity with crime,--that
they were so captivated with eloquence and genius that
they refused to make competent investigation. The six
months' legal investigation was insufficient; a new
trial was needed. Plymouth Church immediately called a
council of ministers and laymen, in number representing
thirty-seven thousand Congregational Christians, to
whom Plymouth Church surrendered her records,--her
conduct,--all the facts of the case, and this great
council unanimously supported the church and ratified
her decision; recognizing the fact that, in all the
investigations hitherto, nothing had been proved
against my brother. They at his request, and that of
Plymouth Church, appointed a committee of five to whom
within sixty days any one should bring any facts that
they could prove, or else forever after hold their
peace. It is thought now by my brother's friends that
this thing must finally reach a close. But you see
why I have not written. This has drawn on my life--my
heart's blood. He is myself; I know you are the kind of
woman to understand me when I say that I felt a blow at
him more than at myself. I, who know his purity, honor,
delicacy, know that he has been from childhood of an
ideal purity,--who reverenced his conscience as his
king, whose glory was redressing human wrong, who spake
no slander, no, nor listened to it.
Never have I known a nature of such strength, and
such almost childlike innocence. He is of a nature
so sweet and perfect that, though I have seen him
thunderously indignant at moments, I never saw him
fretful or irritable,--a man who continuously, in
every little act of life, is thinking of others, a
man that all the children on the street run after,
and that every sorrowful, weak, or distressed person
looks to as a natural helper. In all this long history
there has been no circumstance of his relation to any
woman that has not been worthy of himself,--pure,
delicate, and proper; and I know all sides of it, and
certainly should not say this if there were even a
misgiving. Thank God, there is none, and I can read my
New Testament and feel that by all the beatitudes my
brother is blessed.
His calmness, serenity, and cheerfulness through all
this time has uplifted us all. Where he was, there was
no anxiety, no sorrow. My brother's power to console
is something peculiar and wonderful. I have seen him
at death-beds and funerals, where it would seem as if
hope herself must be dumb, bring down the very peace of
Heaven and change despair to trust. He has not had less
power in his own adversity. You cannot conceive how
he is beloved, by those even who never saw him,--old,
paralytic, distressed, neglected people, poor
seamstresses, black people, who have felt these arrows
shot against their benefactor as against themselves,
and most touching have been their letters of sympathy.
From the first, he has met this in the spirit of
Francis de Sales, who met a similar plot,--by silence,
prayer, and work, and when urged to defend himself said
"God would do it in his time." God was the best judge
how much reputation he needed to serve Him with.
In your portrait of Deronda, you speak of him as one
of those rare natures in whom a private wrong bred
no bitterness. "The sense of injury breeds, not the
will to inflict injuries, but a hatred of all injury;"
and I must say, through all this conflict my brother
has been always in the spirit of Him who touched and
healed the ear of Malchus when he himself was attacked.
His friends and lawyers have sometimes been aroused
and sometimes indignant with his habitual caring for
others, and his habit of vindicating and extending
even to his enemies every scrap and shred of justice
that might belong to them. From first to last of this
trial, he has never for a day intermitted his regular
work. Preaching to crowded houses, preaching even in
his short vacations at watering places, carrying on
his missions which have regenerated two once wretched
districts of the city, editing a paper, and in short
giving himself up to work. He cautioned his church not
to become absorbed in him and his trials, to prove
their devotion by more faithful church work and a
wider charity; and never have the Plymouth missions
among the poor been so energetic and effective. He
said recently, "The worst that can befall a man is to
stop thinking of God and begin to think of himself;
if trials make us self-absorbed, they hurt us." Well,
dear, pardon me for this outpour. I loved you--I love
you--and therefore wanted you to know just what I felt.
Now, dear, this is over, don't think you must reply to
it or me. I know how much you have to do,--yes, I know
all about an aching head and an overtaxed brain. This
last work of yours is to be your best, I think, and I
hope it will bring you enough to buy an orange grove in
Sicily, or somewhere else, and so have lovely weather
such as we have.
Your ancient admirer,[19] who usually goes to bed at
eight o'clock, was convicted by me of sitting up after
eleven over the last installment of "Daniel Deronda,"
and he is full of it. We think well of Guendoline, and
that she isn't much more than young ladies in general
so far.
Next year, if I can possibly do it, I will send you
some of our oranges. I perfectly long to have you enjoy
them.
Your very loving H. B. STOWE.
P. S. I am afraid I shall write you again when I
am reading your writings, they are so provokingly
suggestive of things one wants to say.
H. B. S.
In her reply to this letter Mrs. Lewes says, incidentally: "Please
offer my reverential love to the Professor, and tell him I am
ruthlessly proud of having kept him out of his bed. I hope that both
you and he will continue to be interested in my spiritual children."
After Mr. Lewes's death, Mrs. Lewes writes to Mrs. Stowe:--
THE PRIORY, 21 NORTH BANK, _April 10, 1879._
MY DEAR FRIEND,--I have been long without sending you
any sign (unless you have received a message from me
through Mrs. Fields), but my heart has been going out
to you and your husband continually as among the chief
of the many kind beings who have given me their tender
fellow-feeling in my last earthly sorrow.... When your
first letter came, with the beautiful gift of your
book,[20] I was unable to read any letters, and did not
for a long time see what you had sent me. But when I
did know, and had read your words of thankfulness at
the great good you have seen wrought by your help, I
felt glad, for your sake first, and then for the sake
of the great nation to which you belong. The hopes
of the world are taking refuge westward, under the
calamitous conditions, moral and physical, in which we
of the elder world are getting involved....
Thank you for telling me that you have the comfort of
seeing your son in a path that satisfies your best
wishes for him. I like to think of your having family
joys. One of the prettiest photographs of a child that
I possess is one of your sending to me....
Please offer my reverential, affectionate regards to
your husband, and believe me, dear friend,
Yours always gratefully,
M. L. LEWES.
As much as has been said with regard to spiritualism in these pages,
the subject has by no means the prominence that it really possessed in
the studies and conversations of both Professor and Mrs. Stowe.
Professor Stowe's very remarkable psychological development, and the
exceptional experiences of his early life, were sources of conversation
of unfailing interest and study to both.
Professor Stowe had made an elaborate and valuable collection of the
literature of the subject, and was, as Mrs. Stowe writes, "over head
and ears in _diablerie_."
It is only just to give Mrs. Stowe's views on this perplexing theme
more at length, and as the mature reflection of many years has caused
them to take form.
In reference to professional mediums, and spirits that peep, rap, and
mutter, she writes:--
"Each friend takes away a portion of ourselves. There was some part
of our being related to him as to no other, and we had things to say
to him which no other would understand or appreciate. A portion of
our thoughts has become useless and burdensome, and again and again,
with involuntary yearning, we turn to the stone at the door of the
sepulchre. We lean against the cold, silent marble, but there is no
answer,--no voice, neither any that regardeth.
"There are those who would have us think that in _our_ day this doom
is reversed; that there are those who have the power to restore to us
the communion of our lost ones. How many a heart, wrung and tortured
with the anguish of this fearful silence, has throbbed with strange,
vague hopes at the suggestion! When we hear sometimes of persons of the
strongest and clearest minds becoming credulous votaries of certain
spiritualist circles, let us not wonder: if we inquire, we shall
almost always find that the belief has followed some stroke of death;
it is only an indication of the desperation of that heart-hunger which
in part it appeases.
"Ah, _were_ it true! Were it indeed so that the wall between the
spiritual and material is growing thin, and a new dispensation
germinating in which communion with the departed blest shall be among
the privileges and possibilities of this our mortal state! Ah, were
it so that when we go forth weeping in the gray dawn, bearing spices
and odors which we long to pour forth for the beloved dead, we should
indeed find the stone rolled away and an angel sitting on it!
"But for us the stone must be rolled away by an _unquestionable_ angel,
whose countenance is as the lightning, who executes no doubtful juggle
by pale moonlight or starlight, but rolls back the stone in fair, open
morning, and sits on it. Then we could bless God for his mighty gift,
and with love, and awe, and reverence take up that blessed fellowship
with another life, and weave it reverently and trustingly into the web
of our daily course.
"But no such angel have we seen,--no such sublime, unquestionable,
glorious manifestation. And when we look at what is offered to us,
ah! who that had a friend in heaven could wish them to return in such
wise as this? The very instinct of a sacred sorrow seems to forbid
that our beautiful, our glorified ones should stoop lower than even to
the medium of their cast-off bodies, to juggle, and rap, and squeak,
and perform mountebank tricks with tables and chairs; to recite over
in weary sameness harmless truisms, which we were wise enough to say
for ourselves; to trifle, and banter, and jest, or to lead us through
endless moonshiny mazes. Sadly and soberly we say that, if this be
communion with the dead, we had rather be without it. We want something
a little in advance of our present life, and not below it. We have read
with some attention weary pages of spiritual communication purporting
to come from Bacon, Swedenborg, and others, and long accounts from
divers spirits of things seen in the spirit land, and we can conceive
of no more appalling prospect than to have them true.
"If the future life is so weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable as we
might infer from these readings, one would have reason to deplore an
immortality from which no suicide could give an outlet. To be condemned
to such eternal prosing would be worse than annihilation.
"Is there, then, no satisfaction for this craving of the soul? There
is One who says: "I am he that liveth and was dead, and behold I am
alive for evermore, and I have the keys of hell and of death;" and this
same being said once before: "He that loveth me shall be loved of my
Father, and I will love him and will manifest myself unto him." This
is a promise direct and personal; not confined to the first apostles,
but stated in the most general way as attainable by any one who loves
and does the will of Jesus. It seems given to us as some comfort for
the unavoidable heart-breaking separations of death that there should
be, in that dread unknown, one all-powerful Friend with whom it is
possible to commune, and from whose spirit there may come a response to
us. Our Elder Brother, the partaker of our nature, is not only in the
spirit land, but is all-powerful there. It is he that shutteth and no
man openeth, and openeth and no man shutteth. He whom we have seen in
the flesh, weeping over the grave of Lazarus, is he who hath the keys
of hell and of death. If we cannot commune with our friends, we can at
least commune with Him to whom they are present, who is intimately with
them as with us. He is the true bond of union between the spirit world
and our souls; and one blest hour of prayer, when we draw near to Him
and feel the breadth, and length, and depth, and heighth of that love
of his that passeth knowledge, is better than all those incoherent,
vain, dreamy glimpses with which longing hearts are cheated.
"They who have disbelieved all spiritual truth, who have been
Sadduceeic doubters of either angel or spirit, may find in modern
spiritualism a great advance. But can one who has ever really had
communion with Christ, who has said with John, "Truly our fellowship is
with the Father and the Son,"--can such an one be satisfied with what
is found in the modern circle?
"For Christians who have strayed into these inclosures, we cannot but
recommend the homely but apt quotation of old John Newton:--
"'What think ye of Christ is the test
To try both your word and your scheme.'
"In all these so-called revelations, have there come any echoes of
the _new song_ which no man save the redeemed from earth could learn;
any unfoldings of that love that passeth knowledge,--anything, in
short, such as spirits might utter to whom was unveiled that which eye
hath not seen nor ear heard, neither hath entered the heart of man to
conceive? We must confess that all those spirits that yet have spoken
appear to be living in quite another sphere from John or Paul.
"Let us, then, who long for communion with spirits, seek nearness to
Him who has promised to speak and commune, leaving forever this word to
his church:--
"'I will not leave you comfortless. I will come to you.'"
FOOTNOTES:
[17] George Eliot's Life, edited by J. W. Cross, vol. i.
[18] _Die Christliche Mystik._
[19] Professor Stowe.
[20] _Uncle Tom's Cabin_, new edition, with introduction.
CHAPTER XXI.
CLOSING SCENES, 1870-1889.
LITERARY LABORS.--COMPLETE LIST OF PUBLISHED
BOOKS.--FIRST READING TOUR.--PEEPS BEHIND
THE CURTAIN.--SOME NEW ENGLAND CITIES.--A
LETTER FROM MAINE.--PLEASANT AND UNPLEASANT
READINGS.--SECOND TOUR.--A WESTERN JOURNEY.--VISIT
TO OLD SCENES.--CELEBRATION OF SEVENTIETH
BIRTHDAY.--CONGRATULATORY POEMS FROM MR. WHITTIER AND
DR. HOLMES.--LAST WORDS.
BESIDES the annual journeys to and from Florida, and her many interests
in the South, Mrs. Stowe's time between 1870 and 1880 was largely
occupied by literary and kindred labors. In the autumn of 1871 we find
her writing to her daughters as follows regarding her work:--
"I have at last finished all my part in the third book of mine that is
to come out this year, to wit 'Oldtown Fireside Stories,' and you can
have no idea what a perfect luxury of rest it is to be free from all
literary engagements, of all kinds, sorts, or descriptions. I feel like
a poor woman I once read about,--
"'Who always was tired,
'Cause she lived in a house
Where help wasn't hired,'
and of whom it is related that in her dying moments,
"'She folded her hands
With her latest endeavor,
Saying nothing, dear nothing,
Sweet nothing forever.'
"I am in about her state of mind. I luxuriate in laziness. I do not
want to do anything or go anywhere. I only want to sink down into lazy
enjoyment of living."
She was certainly well entitled to a rest, for never had there been a
more laborious literary life. In addition to the twenty-three books
already written, she had prepared for various magazines and journals
an incredible number of short stories, letters of travel, essays,
and other articles. Yet with all she had accomplished, and tired as
she was, she still had seven books to write, besides many more short
stories, before her work should be done. As her literary life did not
really begin until 1852, the bulk of her work has been accomplished
within twenty-six years, as will be seen from the following list of her
books, arranged in the chronological order of their publication:--
1833. An Elementary Geography.
1843. The Mayflower.
1852. Uncle Tom's Cabin.
1853. Key to Uncle Tom's Cabin.
1854. Sunny Memories.
1856. Dred.
1858. Our Charley.
1859. Minister's Wooing.
1862. Pearl of Orr's Island.
1863. Agnes of Sorrento.
1864. House and Home Papers.
1865. Little Foxes.
1866. Nina Gordon (Formerly "Dred").
1867. Religious Poems.
1867. Queer Little People.
1868. The Chimney Corner.
1868. Men of Our Times.
1869. Oldtown Folks.
1870. Lady Byron Vindicated.
1871. The History of the Byron Controversy (London).
1870. Little Pussy Willow.
1871. Pink and White Tyranny.
1871. Old Town Fireside Stories.
1872. My Wife and I.
1873. Palmetto Leaves.
1873. Library of Famous Fiction.
1875. We and Our Neighbors.
1876. Betty's Bright Idea.
1877. Footsteps of the Master.
1878. Bible Heroines.
1878. Poganuc People.
1881. A Dog's Mission.
In 1872 a new and remunerative field of labor was opened to Mrs. Stowe,
and though it entailed a vast amount of weariness and hard work, she
entered it with her customary energy and enthusiasm. It presented
itself in the shape of an offer from the American Literary (Lecture)
Bureau of Boston to deliver a course of forty readings from her own
works in the principal cities of the New England States. The offer was
a liberal one, and Mrs. Stowe accepted it on condition that the reading
tour should be ended in time to allow her to go to her Florida home
in December. This being acceded to, she set forth and gave her first
reading in Bridgeport, Conn., on the evening of September 19, 1872.
The following extracts from letters written to her husband while on
this reading tour throw some interesting gleams of light on the scenes
behind the curtain of the lecturer's platform. From Boston, October
3d, she writes: "Have had a most successful but fatiguing week. Read
in Cambridgeport to-night, and Newburyport to-morrow night." Two weeks
later, upon receipt of a letter from her husband, in which he fears he
has not long to live, she writes from Westfield, Mass:--
"I have never had a greater trial than being forced to stay away from
you now. I would not, but that my engagements have involved others in
heavy expense, and should I fail to fulfill them, it would be doing a
wrong.
"God has given me strength as I needed it, and I never read more to my
own satisfaction than last night.
"Now, my dear husband, please do _want_, and try, to remain with us yet
a while longer, and let us have a little quiet evening together before
either of us crosses the river. My heart cries out for a home with you;
our home together in Florida. Oh, may we see it again! Your ever loving
wife."
From Fitchburg, Mass., under date of October 29th, she writes:--
"In the cars, near Palmer, who should I discover but Mr. and Mrs. J. T.
Fields, returning from a Western trip, as gay as a troubadour. I took
an empty seat next to them, and we had a jolly ride to Boston. I drove
to Mr. Williams's house, where I met the Chelsea agent, who informed
me that there was no hotel in Chelsea, but that they were expecting to
send over for me. So I turned at once toward 148 Charles Street, where
I tumbled in on the Fields before they had got their things off. We had
a good laugh, and I received a hearty welcome. I was quickly installed
in my room, where, after a nice dinner, I curled up for my afternoon
nap. At half-past seven the carriage came for me, and I was informed
that I should not have a hard reading, as they had engaged singers
to take part. So, when I got into the carriage, who should I find,
beshawled, and beflowered, and betoggled in blue satin and white lace,
but our old friend ---- of Andover concert memory, now become Madame
Thingumbob, of European celebrity. She had studied in Italy, come out
in Milan, sung there in opera for a whole winter, and also in Paris and
London.
"Well, she sings very sweetly and looks very nice and pretty. Then we
had a little rosebud of a Chelsea girl who sang, and a pianist. I read
'Minister's Housekeeper' and Topsy, and the audience was very jolly and
appreciative. Then we all jogged home."
The next letter finds Mrs. Stowe in Maine, and writing in the cars
between Bangor and Portland. She says:--
MY DEAR HUSBAND,--Well, Portland and Bangor are over,
and the latter, which I had dreaded as lonesome and
far off, turned out the pleasantest of any place I
have visited yet. I stayed at the Fays; he was one of
the Andover students, you remember; and found a warm,
cosy, social home. In the evening I met an appreciative
audience, and had a delightful reading. I read Captain
Kittridge, apparently to the great satisfaction of the
people, who laughed heartily at his sea stories, and
the "Minister's Housekeeper" with the usual success,
also Eva and Topsy.
One woman, totally deaf, came to me afterwards and
said: "Bless you. I come jist to see you. I'd rather
see you than the Queen." Another introduced her little
girl named Harriet Beecher Stowe, and another, older,
named Eva. She said they had traveled fifty miles to
hear me read. An incident like that appeals to one's
heart, does it not?
The people of Bangor were greatly embarrassed by the
horse disease; but the mayor and his wife walked over
from their house, a long distance off, to bring me
flowers, and at the reading he introduced me. I had
an excellent audience notwithstanding that it rained
tremendously, and everybody had to walk because there
were no horses. The professors called on me, also
Newman Smith, now a settled minister here.
Everybody is so anxious about you, and Mr. Fay made
me promise that you and I should come and spend a
week with them next summer. Mr. Howard, in Portland,
called upon me to inquire for you, and everybody was so
delighted to hear that you were getting better.
It stormed all the time I was in Portland and Bangor,
so I saw nothing of them. Now I am in a palace car
riding alongside the Kennebec, and recalling the
incidents of my trip. I certainly had very satisfactory
houses; and these pleasant little visits, and meetings
with old acquaintance, would be well worth having,
even though I had made nothing in a pecuniary sense.
On the whole it is as easy a way of making money as
I have ever tried, though no way of making money is
perfectly easy,--there must be some disagreeables. The
lonesomeness of being at a hotel in dull weather is
one, and in Portland it seems there is nobody now to
invite us to their homes. Our old friends there are
among the past. They have gone on over the river. I
send you a bit of poetry that pleases me. The love of
the old for each other has its poetry. It is something
sacred and full of riches. I long to be with you, and
to have some more of our good long talks.
The scenery along this river is very fine. The oaks
still keep their leaves, though the other trees are
bare; but oaks and pines make a pleasant contrast. We
shall stop twenty minutes at Brunswick, so I shall get
a glimpse of the old place.
Now we are passing through Hallowell, and the Kennebec
changes sides. What a beautiful river! It is now full
of logs and rafts. Well, I must bring this to a close.
Good-by, dear, with unchanging love. Ever your wife.
From South Framingham, Mass., she writes on November 7th:--
Well, my dear, here I am in E.'s pretty little house.
He has a pretty wife, a pretty sister, a pretty baby,
two nice little boys, and a lovely white cat. The last
is a perfect beauty! a Persian, from a stock brought
over by Dr. Parker, as white as snow, with the softest
fur, a perfect bunch of loving-kindness, all purr and
felicity. I had a good audience last evening, and
enjoyed it. My audiences, considering the horse disease
and the rains, are amazing. And how they do laugh! We
get into regular gales.
E. has the real country minister turn-out: horse and
buggy, and such a nice horse too. The baby is a beauty,
and giggles, and goos, and shouts inquiries with the
rising inflection, in the most inspiring manner.
_November 13._ Wakefield. I read in Haverhill last
night. It was as usual stormy. I had a good audience,
but not springy and inspiriting like that at Waltham.
Some audiences seem to put spring into one, and some
to take it out. This one seemed good but heavy. I had
to lift them, while in Framingham and Waltham they
lifted me.
The Lord bless and keep you. It grieves me to think
you are dull and I not with you. By and by we will be
together and stay together. Good-by dear. Your ever
loving wife,
H. B. S.
_November 24._ "I had a very pleasant reading in
Peabody. While there visited the library and saw the
picture of the Queen that she had painted expressly
for George Peabody. It was about six inches square,
enameled on gold, and set in a massive frame of solid
gold and velvet. The effect is like painting on ivory.
At night the picture rolls back into a safe, and great
doors, closed with a combination lock, defend it. It
reminded me of some of the foreign wonders we have seen.
"Well, my course is almost done, and if I get through
without any sickness, cold, or accident, how wonderful
it will seem. I have never felt the near, kind presence
of our Heavenly Father so much as in this. 'He giveth
strength to the faint, and to them of no might He
increaseth strength.' I have found this true all my
life."
From Newport she writes on November 26th:--
"It was a hard, tiring, disagreeable piece of business to read in New
London. Had to wait three mortal hours in Palmer. Then a slow, weary
train, that did not reach New London until after dark. There was then
no time to rest, and I was so tired that it did seem as though I could
not dress. I really trembled with fatigue. The hall was long and
dimly lighted, and the people were not seated compactly, but around in
patches. The light was dim, except for a great flaring gas jet arranged
right under my eyes on the reading desk, and I did not see a creature
whom I knew. I was only too glad when it was over and I was back again
at my hotel. There I found that I must be up at five o'clock to catch
the Newport train.
"I started for this place in the dusk of a dreary, foggy morning.
Traveled first on a ferry, then in cars, and then in a little cold
steamboat. Found no one to meet me, in spite of all my writing, and so
took a carriage and came to the hotel. The landlord was very polite to
me, said he knew me by my trunk, had been to our place in Mandarin,
etc. All I wanted was a warm room, a good bed, and unlimited time to
sleep. Now I have had a three hours' nap, and here I am, sitting by
myself in the great, lonely hotel parlor.
"Well, dear old man, I think lots of you, and only want to end
all this in a quiet home where we can sing 'John Anderson, my Jo'
together. I check off place after place as the captive the days of his
imprisonment. Only two more after to-night. Ever your loving wife."
Mrs. Stowe made one more reading tour the following year, and this time
it was in the West. On October 28, 1873, she writes from Zanesville,
Ohio, to her son at Harvard:--
You have been very good to write as often as you have,
and your letters, meeting me at different points, have
been most cheering. I have been tired, almost to the
last degree. Read two successive evenings in Chicago,
and traveled the following day for thirteen hours, a
distance of about three hundred miles, to Cincinnati.
We were compelled to go in the most uncomfortable
cars I ever saw, crowded to overflowing, a fiend of a
stove at each end burning up all the air, and without
a chance to even lay my head down. This is the grand
route between Chicago and Cincinnati, and we were on it
from eight in the morning until nearly ten at night.
Arrived at Cincinnati we found that George Beecher had
not received our telegram, was not expecting us, had no
rooms engaged for us, and that we could not get rooms
at his boarding-place. After finding all this out we
had to go to the hotel, where, about eleven o'clock, I
crept into bed with every nerve aching from fatigue.
The next day was dark and rainy, and I lay in bed most
of it; but when I got up to go and read I felt only
half rested, and was still so tired that it seemed as
though I could not get through.
Those who planned my engagements failed to take, into
account the fearful distances and wretched trains out
here. On none of these great Western routes is there a
drawing-room car. Mr. Saunders tried in every way to
get them to put one on for us, but in vain. They are
all reserved for the night trains; so that there is no
choice except to travel by night in sleeping cars, or
take such trains as I have described in the daytime.
I had a most sympathetic audience in Cincinnati; they
all seemed delighted and begged me to come again. The
next day George took us for a drive out to Walnut
Hills, where we saw the seminary buildings, the house
where your sisters were born, and the house in which
we afterwards lived. In the afternoon we had to leave
and hurry away to a reading in Dayton. The next evening
another in Columbus, where we spent Sunday with an old
friend.
By this time I am somewhat rested from the strain of
that awful journey; but I shall never again undertake
such another. It was one of those things that have to
be done once, to learn not to do it again. My only
reading between Columbus and Pittsburgh is to be here
in Zanesville, a town as black as Acheron, and where
one might expect to see the river Styx.
Later. I had a nice audience and a pleasant reading
here, and to-day we go on to Pittsburgh, where I read
to-morrow night.
I met the other day at Dayton a woman who now has
grandchildren; but who, when I first came West, was a
gay rattling girl. She was one of the first converts
of brother George's seemingly obscure ministry in the
little new town of Chillicothe. Now she has one son
who is a judge of the supreme court, and another in
business. Both she and they are not only Christians,
but Christians of the primitive sort, whose religion
is their all; who triumph and glory in tribulation,
knowing that it worketh patience. She told me, with
a bright sweet calm, of her husband killed in battle
the first year of the war, of her only daughter and
two grandchildren dying in the faith, and of her own
happy waiting on God's will, with bright hopes of a
joyful reunion. Her sons are leading members of the
Presbyterian Church, and most active in stirring up
others to make their profession a reality, not an
empty name. When I thought that all this came from the
conversion of one giddy girl, when George seemed to be
doing so little, I said, "Who can measure the work of
a faithful minister?" It is such living witnesses that
maintain Christianity on earth.
Good-by. We shall soon be home now, and preparing for
Florida. Always your own loving mother,
H. B. S.
Mrs. Stowe never undertook another reading tour, nor, after this one,
did she ever read again for money, though she frequently contributed
her talent in this direction to the cause of charity.
The most noteworthy event of her later years was the celebration of
the seventieth anniversary of her birthday. That it might be fittingly
observed, her publishers, Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin & Co. of Boston,
arranged a reception for her in form of a garden party, to which they
invited the _literati_ of America. It was held on June 14, 1882, at
"The Old Elms," the home of Ex-Governor Claflin of Massachusetts, in
Newtonville, one of Boston's most beautiful suburbs. Here the assembly
gathered to do honor to Mrs. Stowe, that lovely June afternoon,
comprised two hundred of the most distinguished and best known among
the literary men and women of the day.
From three until five o'clock was spent socially. As the guests arrived
they were presented to Mrs. Stowe by Mr. H. O. Houghton, and then they
gathered in groups in the parlors, on the verandas, on the lawn, and in
the refreshment room. At five o'clock they assembled in a large tent
on the lawn, when Mr. Houghton, as host, addressed to his guest and
her friends a few words of congratulation and welcome. He closed his
remarks by saying:--
"And now, honored madam, as
"'When to them who sail
Beyond the Cape of Hope, and now are past
Mozambic, off at sea northeast winds blow
Sabean odors from the spicy shore
Of Arabie the blest,'
so the benedictions of the lowly and the blessings of all conditions
of men are brought to you to-day on the wings of the wind, from every
quarter of the globe; but there will be no fresher laurels to crown
this day of your rejoicing than are brought by those now before
you, who have been your co-workers in the strife; who have wrestled
and suffered, fought and conquered, with you; who rank you with the
Miriams, the Deborahs, and the Judiths of old; and who now shout back
the refrain, when you utter the inspired song:--
"'Sing ye to the Lord, for he hath triumphed gloriously.'
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
'The Almighty Lord hath disappointed them by the hand of a woman.'"
In reply to this Mrs. Stowe's brother, Henry Ward Beecher, said: "Of
course you all sympathize with me to-day, but, standing in this place,
I do not see your faces more clearly than I see those of my father and
my mother. Her I only knew as a mere babe-child. He was my teacher and
my companion. A more guileless soul than he, a more honest one, more
free from envy, from jealousy, and from selfishness, I never knew.
Though he thought he was great by his theology, everybody else knew he
was great by his religion. My mother is to me what the Virgin Mary is
to a devout Catholic. She was a woman of great nature, profound as a
philosophical thinker, great in argument, with a kind of intellectual
imagination, diffident, not talkative,--in which respect I take
after her,--the woman who gave birth to Mrs. Stowe, whose graces and
excellences she probably more than any of her children--we number but
thirteen--has possessed. I suppose that in bodily resemblance, perhaps,
she is not like my mother, but in mind I presume she is most like her.
I thank you for my father's sake and for my mother's sake for the
courtesy, the friendliness, and the kindness which you give to Mrs.
Stowe."
The following poem from John Greenleaf Whittier was then read:--
"Thrice welcome from the Land of Flowers
And golden-fruited orange bowers
To this sweet, green-turfed June of ours!
To her who, in our evil time,
Dragged into light the nation's crime
With strength beyond the strength of men,
And, mightier than their sword, her pen;
To her who world-wide entrance gave
To the log cabin of the slave,
Made all his wrongs and sorrows known,
And all earth's languages his own,--
North, South, and East and West, made all
The common air electrical,
Until the o'ercharged bolts of heaven
Blazed down, and every chain was riven!
"Welcome from each and all to her
Whose Wooing of the Minister
Revealed the warm heart of the man
Beneath the creed-bound Puritan,
And taught the kinship of the love
Of man below and God above;
To her whose vigorous pencil-strokes
Sketched into life her Oldtown Folks,
Whose fireside stories, grave or gay,
In quaint Sam Lawson's vagrant way,
With Old New England's flavor rife,
Waifs from her rude idyllic life,
Are racy as the legends old
By Chaucer or Boccaccio told;
To her who keeps, through change of place
And time, her native strength and grace,
Alike where warm Sorrento smiles,
Or where, by birchen-shaded isles
Whose summer winds have shivered o'er
The icy drift of Labrador,
She lifts to light the priceless Pearl
Of Harpswell's angel-beckoned girl.
To her at threescore years and ten
Be tributes of the tongue and pen,
Be honor, praise, and heart thanks given,
The loves of earth, the hopes of heaven!
"Ah, dearer than the praise that stirs
The air to-day, our love is hers!
She needs no guaranty of fame
Whose own is linked with Freedom's name.
Long ages after ours shall keep
Her memory living while we sleep;
The waves that wash our gray coast lines,
The winds that rock the Southern pines
Shall sing of her; the unending years
Shall tell her tale in unborn ears.
And when, with sins and follies past,
Are numbered color-hate and caste,
White, black, and red shall own as one,
The noblest work by woman done."
It was followed by a few words from Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes,
who also read the subjoined as his contribution to the chorus of
congratulation:--
"If every tongue that speaks her praise
For whom I shape my tinkling phrase
Were summoned to the table,
The vocal chorus that would meet
Of mingling accents harsh or sweet,
From every land and tribe, would beat
The polyglots of Babel.
"Briton and Frenchman, Swede and Dane,
Turk, Spaniard, Tartar of Ukraine,
Hidalgo, Cossack, Cadi,
High Dutchman and Low Dutchman, too,
The Russian serf, the Polish Jew,
Arab, Armenian, and Mantchoo
Would shout, 'We know the lady.'
"Know her! Who knows not Uncle Tom
And her he learned his gospel from,
Has never heard of Moses;
Full well the brave black hand we know
That gave to freedom's grasp the hoe
That killed the weed that used to grow
Among the Southern roses.
"When Archimedes, long ago,
Spoke out so grandly, '_Dos pou sto_,--
Give me a place to stand on,
I'll move your planet for you, now,'--
He little dreamed or fancied how
The _sto_ at last should find its _pou_
For woman's faith to land on.
"Her lever was the wand of art,
Her fulcrum was the human heart,
Whence all unfailing aid is;
She moved the earth! Its thunders pealed
Its mountains shook, its temples reeled,
The blood-red fountains were unsealed,
And Moloch sunk to Hades.
"All through the conflict, up and down
Marched Uncle Tom and Old John Brown,
One ghost, one form ideal;
And which was false and which was true,
And which was mightier of the two,
The wisest sibyl never knew,
For both alike were real.
"Sister, the holy maid does well
Who counts her beads in convent cell,
Where pale devotion lingers;
But she who serves the sufferer's needs,
Whose prayers are spelt in loving deeds,
May trust the Lord will count her beads
As well as human fingers.
"When Truth herself was Slavery's slave
Thy hand the prisoned suppliant gave
The rainbow wings of fiction.
And Truth who soared descends to-day
Bearing an angel's wreath away,
Its lilies at thy feet to lay
With heaven's own benediction."
Poems written for the occasion by Mrs. A. D. T. Whitney, Miss Elizabeth
Stuart Phelps, Mr. J. T. Trowbridge, Mrs. Allen (Mrs. Stowe's
daughter), Mrs. Annie Fields, and Miss Charlotte F. Bates, were also
read, and speeches were made by Judge Albion W. Tourgée and others
prominent in the literary world.
Letters from many noted people, who were prevented from being present
by distance or by other engagements, had been received. Only four of
them were read, but they were all placed in Mrs. Stowe's hands. The
exercises were closed by a few words from Mrs. Stowe herself. As she
came to the front of the platform the whole company rose, and remained
standing until she had finished. In her quiet, modest, way, and yet so
clearly as to be plainly heard by all, she said:--
"I wish to say that I thank all my friends from my heart,--that is
all. And one thing more,--and that is, if any of you have doubt, or
sorrow, or pain, if you doubt about this world, just remember what
God has done; just remember that this great sorrow of slavery has
gone, gone by forever. I see it every day at the South. I walk about
there and see the lowly cabins. I see these people growing richer and
richer. I see men very happy in their lowly lot; but, to be sure, you
must have patience with them. They are not perfect, but have their
faults, and they are serious faults in the view of white people. But
they are very happy, that is evident, and they do know how to enjoy
themselves,--a great deal more than you do. An old negro friend in our
neighborhood has got a new, nice two-story house, and an orange grove,
and a sugar-mill. He has got a lot of money, besides. Mr. Stowe met
him one day, and he said, 'I have got twenty head of cattle, four head
of "hoss," forty head of hen, and I have got ten children, all _mine,
every one mine_.' Well, now, that is a thing that a black man could not
say once, and this man was sixty years old before he could say it. With
all the faults of the colored people, take a man and put him down with
nothing but his hands, and how many could say as much as that? I think
they have done well.
"A little while ago they had at his house an evening festival for their
church, and raised fifty dollars. We white folks took our carriages,
and when we reached the house we found it fixed nicely. Every one of
his daughters knew how to cook. They had a good place for the festival.
Their suppers were spread on little white tables with nice clean cloths
on them. People paid fifty cents for supper. They got between fifty and
sixty dollars, and had one of the best frolics you could imagine. They
had also for supper ice-cream, which they made themselves.
"That is the sort of thing I see going on around me. Let us never
doubt. Everything that ought to happen is going to happen."
* * * * *
Mrs. Stowe's public life ends with the garden party, and little more
remains to be told. She had already, in 1880, begun the task of
selection from the great accumulation of letters and papers relating
to her life, and writes thus to her son in Saco, Maine, regarding the
work:--
_September 30, 1880._
MY DEAR CHARLEY,--My mind has been with you a great
deal lately. I have been looking over and arranging
my papers with a view to sifting out those that are
not worth keeping, and so filing and arranging those
that are to be kept, that my heirs and assigns may
with the less trouble know where and what they are. I
cannot describe (to you) the peculiar feelings which
this review occasions. Reading old letters--when so
many of the writers are gone from earth, seems to me
like going into the world of spirits--letters full of
the warm, eager, anxious, busy life, that is _forever_
past. My own letters, too, full of by-gone scenes in
my early life and the childish days of my children.
It is affecting to me to recall things that strongly
moved me years ago, that filled my thoughts and made
me anxious when the occasion and emotion have wholly
vanished from my mind. But I thank God there is _one_
thing running through all of them from the time I was
thirteen years old, and that is the intense unwavering
sense of Christ's educating, guiding presence and care.
It is _all_ that remains now. The romance of my youth
is faded, it looks to me now, from my years, so _very_
young--those days when my mind only lived in _emotion_,
and when my letters never were dated, because they were
only histories of the _internal_, but now that I am no
more and never can be young in this world, now that the
friends of those days are almost all in eternity, what
remains?
Through life and through death, through sorrowing, through sinning,
Christ shall suffice me as he hath sufficed.
Christ is the end and Christ the beginning,
The beginning and end of all is Christ.
[Illustration: THE LATER HARTFORD HOME.]
I was passionate in my attachments in those far back
years, and as I have looked over files of old letters,
they are all gone (except one, C. Van Rensselaer),
Georgiana May, Delia Bacon, Clarissa Treat, Elisabeth
Lyman, Sarah Colt, Elisabeth Phenix, Frances Strong,
Elisabeth Foster. I have letters from them all, but
they have been long in spirit land and know more about
how it is there than I do. It gives me a sort of dizzy
feeling of the shortness of life and nearness of
eternity when I see how many that I have traveled with
are gone within the veil. Then there are all my own
letters, written in the first two years of marriage,
when Mr. Stowe was in Europe and I was looking forward
to motherhood and preparing for it--my letters when my
whole life was within the four walls of my nursery,
my thoughts absorbed by the developing character of
children who have now lived their earthly life and gone
to the eternal one,--my two little boys, each in their
way good and lovely, whom Christ has taken in youth,
and my little one, my first Charley, whom He took away
before he knew sin or sorrow,--then my brother
George and sister Catherine, the one a companion of my
youth, the other the mother who assumed the care of
me after I left home in my twelfth year--and they are
gone. Then my blessed father, for many years so true an
image of the Heavenly Father,--in all my afflictions he
was afflicted, in all my perplexities he was a sure and
safe counselor, and he too is gone upward to join the
angelic mother whom I scarcely knew in this world, who
has been to me only a spiritual presence through life.
In 1882 Mrs. Stowe writes to her son certain impressions derived from
reading the "Life and Letters of John Quincy Adams," which are given as
containing a retrospect of the stormy period of her own life-experience.
"Your father enjoys his proximity to the Boston library. He is now
reading the twelve or fourteen volumes of the life and diary of John
Q. Adams. It is a history of our country through all the period of
slavery usurpation that led to the war. The industry of the man in
writing is wonderful. Every day's doings in the house are faithfully
daguerreotyped,--all the mean tricks, contrivances of the slave-power,
and the pusillanimity of the Northern members from day to day recorded.
Calhoun was then secretary of state. Under his connivance even the
United States census was falsified, to prove that freedom was bad for
negroes. Records of deaf, dumb, and blind, and insane colored people
were distributed in Northern States, and in places where John Q. Adams
had means of _proving_ there were no negroes. When he found that these
falsified figures had been used with the English embassador as reasons
for admitting Texas as a slave State, the old man called on Calhoun,
and showed him the industriously collected _proofs_ of the falsity of
this census. He says: 'He writhed like a trodden rattlesnake, but said
the census was full of mistakes; but one part balanced another,--it
was not worth while to correct them.' His whole life was an incessant
warfare with the rapidly advancing spirit of slavery, that was coiling
like a serpent around everything.
"At a time when the Southerners were like so many excited tigers
and rattlesnakes,--when they bullied, and scoffed, and sneered, and
threatened, this old man rose every day in his place, and, knowing
every parliamentary rule and tactic of debate, found means to make
himself heard. Then he presented a petition from _negroes_, which
raised a storm of fury. The old man claimed that the right of petition
was the right of every human being. They moved to expel him. By the
rules of the house a man, before he can be expelled, may have the
floor to make his defense. This was just what he wanted. He held the
floor for _fourteen days_, and used his wonderful powers of memory and
arrangement to give a systematic, scathing history of the usurpations
of slavery; he would have spoken fourteen days more, but his enemies,
finding the thing getting hotter and hotter, withdrew their motion, and
the right of petition was gained.
"What is remarkable in this journal is the minute record of going to
church every Sunday, and an analysis of the text and sermon. There
is something about these so simple, so humble, so earnest. Often
differing from the speaker--but with gravity and humility--he seems
always to be so self-distrustful; to have such a sense of sinfulness
and weakness, but such trust in God's fatherly mercy, as is most
beautiful to see. Just the record of his Sunday sermons, and his
remarks upon them, would be most instructive to a preacher. He was a
regular communicant, and, beside, attended church on Christmas and
Easter,--I cannot but love the old man. He died without seeing even the
dawn of liberty which God has brought; but oh! I am sure he sees it
from above. He died in the Capitol, in the midst of his labors, and the
last words he said were, 'This is the last of earth; I am content.' And
now, I trust, he is with God.
"All, all are gone. All that raged; all that threatened; all the
cowards that yielded; truckled, sold their country for a mess of
pottage; all the _men_ that stood and bore infamy and scorn for the
truth; all are silent in dust; the fight is over, but eternity will
never efface from their souls whether they did well or ill--whether
they fought bravely or failed like cowards. In a sense, our lives
are irreparable. If we shrink, if we fail, if we choose the fleeting
instead of the eternal, God may forgive us; but there must be an
eternal regret! This man lived for humanity when hardest bestead; for
truth when truth was unpopular; for Christ when Christ stood chained
and scourged in the person of the slave."
In the fall of 1887 she writes to her brother Rev. Dr. Edward Beecher
of Brooklyn, N. Y.:--
49 FOREST STREET, HARTFORD, CONN., _October 11, 1887._
DEAR BROTHER,--I was delighted to receive your kind
letter. _You_ were my earliest religious teacher; your
letters to me while a school-girl in Hartford gave
me a high Christian aim and standard which I hope I
have never lost. Not only did they do me good, but
also my intimate friends, Georgiana May and Catherine
Cogswell, to whom I read them. The simplicity, warmth,
and childlike earnestness of those school days I love
to recall. I am the _only one living_ of that circle
of early friends. _Not one_ of my early schoolmates is
living,--and now Henry, younger by a year or two than
I, has gone--my husband also.[21] I often think, _Why_
am I spared? Is there yet anything for me to do? I am
thinking with my son Charles's help of writing a review
of my life, under the title, "Pebbles from the Shores
of a Past Life."
Charlie told me that he has got all written up to my
twelfth or thirteenth year, when I came to be under
sister Catherine's care in Hartford. I am writing daily
my remembrances from that time. You were then, I think,
teacher of the Grammar School in Hartford....
So, my dear brother, let us keep good heart; no evil
can befall us. Sin alone is evil, and from that Christ
will keep us. Our journey is _so_ short!
I feel about all things now as I do about the things
that happen in a hotel, after my trunk is packed to go
home. I may be vexed and annoyed ... but what of it! I
am going home soon.
Your affectionate sister,
HATTIE.
To a friend she writes a little later:--
"I have thought much lately of the possibility of my leaving you all
and going home. I am come to that stage of my pilgrimage that is within
sight of the River of Death, and I feel that now I must have all in
readiness day and night for the messenger of the King. I have sometimes
had in my sleep strange perceptions of a vivid spiritual life near to
and with Christ, and multitudes of holy ones, and the joy of it is like
no other joy,--it cannot be told in the language of the world. What I
have then I _know_ with absolute certainty, yet it is so unlike and
above anything we conceive of in this world that it is difficult to
put it into words. The inconceivable loveliness of Christ! It seems
that about Him there is a sphere where the enthusiasm of love is the
calm habit of the soul, that without words, without the necessity of
demonstrations of affection, heart beats to heart, soul answers soul,
we respond to the Infinite Love, and we feel his answer in us, and
there is no need of words. All seemed to be busy coming and going on
ministries of good, and passing each gave a thrill of joy to each as
Jesus, the directing soul, the centre of all, "over all, in all, and
through all," was working his beautiful and merciful will to redeem and
save. I was saying as I awoke:--
"''Tis joy enough, my all in all,
At thy dear feet to lie.
Thou wilt not let me lower fall,
And none can higher fly.'
"This was but a glimpse; but it has left a strange sweetness in my
mind."
FOOTNOTE:
[21] Professor Stowe died August, 1886.
INDEX.
ABBOTT, Mr. and Mrs. Jacob, 292.
Aberdeen, reception in, 221.
Abolition, English meetings in favor of, 389.
Abolition sentiment, growth of, 87.
Abolitionism made fashionable, 253.
Adams, John Quincy, crusade of, against slavery, 509;
holds floor of Congress fourteen days, 510;
his religious life and trust, 511;
died without seeing dawn of liberty, 511;
life and letters of, 510.
"Agnes of Sorrento," first draft of, 374;
date of, 490;
Whittier's praise of, 503.
"Alabama Planter," savage attack of, on H. B. S., 187.
Albert, Prince, Mrs. Stowe's letter to, 160;
his reply, 164;
meeting with, 271;
death, 368.
America, liberty in, 193;
Ruskin on, 354.
American novelist, Lowell on the, 330.
Andover, Mass., beauty of, 186;
Stowe family settled in, 188.
Anti-slavery cause: result of English demonstrations, 252;
letters to England, 160;
feeling dreaded in South, 172;
movement in Cincinnati, 81;
in Boston, 145;
Beecher family all anti-slavery men, 152.
"Arabian Nights," H. B. S.'s delight in, 9.
Argyll, Duke and Duchess of 229, 232;
warmth of, 239;
H. B. S. invited to visit, 270, 271;
death of father of Duchess, 368.
Argyll, Duchess of, letter from H. B. S. to, on England's attitude
during our Civil War, 368;
on _post bellum_ events, 395.
"Atlantic Monthly," contains "Minister's Wooing," 327;
Mrs. Stowe's address to women of England, 375;
"The True Story of Lady Byron's Life," 447, 453.
BAILEY, Gamaliel, Dr., editor of "National Era," 157.
Bangor, readings in, 493.
Bates, Charlotte Fiske, reads a poem at Mrs. Stowe's seventieth
birthday, 505.
Baxter's "Saints' Rest," has a powerful effect on H. B. S., 32.
Beecher, Catherine, eldest sister of H. B. S., 1;
her education of H. B. S., 22;
account of her own birth, 23;
strong influence over Harriet, 22;
girlhood of, 23;
teacher at New London, 23;
engagement, 23;
drowning of her lover, 23;
soul struggles after Prof. Fisher's death, 25, 26;
teaches in his family, 25;
publishes article on Free Agency, 26;
opens school at Hartford, 27;
solution of doubts while teaching, 28, 29;
her conception of Divine Nature, 28;
school at Hartford described by H. B. S., 29;
doubts about Harriet's conversion, 35;
hopes for "Hartford Female Seminary," 37;
letter to Edward about Harriet's doubts, 38;
note on Harriet's letter, 43;
new school at Cincinnati, 53, 64, _et seq._;
visits Cincinnati with father, 54;
impressions of city, 54;
homesickness, 62;
at water cure, 113;
a mother to sister Harriet, 509;
letters to H. B. S. to, on her religious depression, 37;
on religious doubts, 322.
Beecher, Charles, brother of H. B. S., 2;
in college, 56;
goes to Florida, 402;
letters from H. B. S., on mother's death, 2-4, 49.
Beecher, Edward, Dr., brother of H. B. S., 1;
influence over her, 22, 25;
indignation against Fugitive Slave Act, 144;
efforts to arouse churches, 265;
letters from H. B. S. to, on early religious struggles, 36, 37;
on her feelings, 39;
on views of God, 42, 43, 44, 48;
on death of friends and relatives, and the writing of her life
by her son Charles, 512.
Beecher, Esther, aunt of H. B. S., 53, 56, 57.
Beecher family, famous reunion of, 89;
circular letter to, 99.
Beecher, Frederick, H. B. S.'s half-brother, death of, 13.
Beecher, George, brother of H. B. S., 1;
visit to, 45;
enters Lane as student, 53;
music and tracts, 58;
account of journey to Cincinnati, 59;
sudden death, 108;
H. B. S. meets at Dayton one of his first converts, 499;
his letters cherished, 508.
Beecher, George, nephew of H. B. S., visit to, 498.
Beecher, Mrs. George, letter from H. B. S. to, describing new home,
133.
Beecher, Harriet E. first; death of, 1;
second, (H. B. S.) birth of, 1.
Beecher, Mrs. Harriet Porter, H. B. S.'s stepmother, 11;
personal appearance and character of, 11, 12;
pleasant impressions of new home and children, 12;
at Cincinnati, 62.
Beecher, Henry Ward, brother of H. B. S., birth of, 1;
anecdote of, after mother's death, 2;
first school, 8;
conception of Divine Nature, 28;
in college, 55;
H. B. S. attends graduation, 73;
editor of Cincinnati "Journal," 81;
sympathy with anti-slavery movement, 84, 85, 87;
at Brooklyn, 130;
saves Edmonson's daughters, 178;
H. B. S. visits, 364;
views on Reconstruction, 397;
George Eliot on Beecher trial, 472;
his character as told by H. B. S., 475;
love for Prof. Stowe, 475;
his youth and life in West, 476;
Brooklyn and his anti-slavery fight, 476;
Edmonsons and Plymouth Church, 477;
his loyalty and energy, 477;
his religion, 477;
popularity and personal magnetism, 478;
terrible struggle in the Beecher trial, 478;
bribery of jury, but final triumph, 479;
ecclesiastical trial of, 479;
committee of five appointed to bring facts, 479;
his ideal purity and innocence, 480;
power at death-beds and funerals, 480;
beloved by poor and oppressed, 481;
meets accusations by silence, prayer, and work, 481;
his thanks and speech at Stowe Garden Party, 501;
tribute to father, mother, and sister Harriet, 502;
death, 512.
Beecher, Isabella, H. B. S.'s half-sister, birth of, 13;
goes to Cincinnati, 53.
Beecher, James, H. B. S.'s half-brother, 45;
goes to Cincinnati, 53;
begins Sunday-school, 63.
Beecher, Rev. Dr. Lyman, H. B. Stowe's father, 1;
"Autobiography and Correspondence of," 2, 89;
verdict on his wife's remarkable piety, 3;
pride in his daughter's essay, 14;
admiration of Walter Scott, 25;
sermon which converts H. B. S., 33, 34;
accepts call to Hanover Street Church, Boston, 35;
president of Lane Theological Seminary, 53;
first journey to Cincinnati, 53;
removal and westward journey, 56 _et seq._;
removes family to Cincinnati, 56;
Beecher reunion, 89;
powerful sermons on slave question, 152;
his sturdy character, H. W. Beecher's eulogy upon, 502;
death and reunion with H. B. S's mother, 509.
Beecher, Mary, sister of H. B. S., 1;
married, 55;
letter to, 61;
accompanies sister to Europe, 269;
letters from H. B. S. to, on love for New England, 61;
on visit to Windsor, 235.
Beecher, Roxanna Foote, mother of H. B. S., 1;
her death, 2;
strong, sympathetic nature, 2;
reverence for the Sabbath, 3;
sickness, death, and funeral, 4;
influence in family strong even after death, 5;
character described by H. W. Beecher, 502;
H. B. S.'s resemblance to, 502.
Beecher, William, brother of H. B. S., 1;
licensed to preach, 56.
Bell, Henry, English inventor of steamboat, 215.
Belloc, Mme., translates "Uncle Tom," 247.
Belloc, M., to paint portrait of H. B. S., 241.
Bentley, London publisher, offers pay for "Uncle Tom's Cabin," 202.
"Betty's Bright Idea," date of, 491.
Bible, 48;
Uncle Tom's, 262;
use and influence of, 263.
"Bible Heroines," date of, 491.
Bibliography of H. B. S., 490.
Biography, H. B. S.'s remarks on writing and understanding, 126.
Birney, J. G., office wrecked, 81 _et seq._;
H. B. S.'s sympathy with, 84.
Birthday, seventieth, celebration of by Houghton, Mifflin & Co.,
500.
Blackwood's attack on Lady Byron, 448.
Blantyre, Lord, 230.
Bogue, David, 189-191.
Boston opens doors to slave-hunters, 144.
Boston Library, Prof. Stowe enjoys proximity to, 509.
Bowdoin College calls Prof. Stowe, 125, 129.
Bowen, H. C., 181.
Bruce, John, of Litchfield Academy, H. B. S.'s tribute to, 14;
lectures on Butler's "Analogy," 32.
Brigham, Miss, character of, 46.
Bright, John, letter to H. B. S. on her "Appeal to English Women,"
389.
Brooklyn, Mrs. Stowe's visit to brother Henry in, 130;
visit in 1852, when she helps the Edmonson slave family, 178-180;
Beecher, H. W. called to, 476;
Beecher trial in, 478.
Brown and the phantoms, 431.
Brown, John, bravery of, 380.
Browning, Mrs., on life and love, 52.
Browning, E. B., letter to H. B. S., 356;
death of, 368, 370.
Browning, Robert and E. B, friendship with, 355.
Brunswick, Mrs. Stowe's love of, 184;
revisited, 324.
Buck, Eliza, history of as slave, 201.
Bull, J. D. and family, make home for H. B. S. while at school in
Hartford, 30, 31.
Bunsen, Chevalier, 233.
Bunyan's "Pilgrim's Progress," Prof. Stowe's love of, 437.
Burritt, Elihu, writes introduction to "Uncle Tom's Cabin," 192;
calls on Mrs. Stowe, 223.
Butler's "Analogy," study of, by H. B. S., 32.
"Byron Controversy," 445;
history of, 455;
George Eliot on, 458;
Dr. Holmes on, 455.
Byron, Lady, 239;
letters from, 274, 281;
makes donation to Kansas sufferers, 281;
on power of words, 361;
death of, 368, 370;
her character assailed, 446;
her first meeting with H. B. S., 447;
dignity and calmness, 448;
memoranda and letters about Lord Byron shown to Mrs. Stowe, 450;
solemn interview with H. B. S., 453;
letters to H. B. S. from, 274, 282;
on "The Minister's Wooing," 343;
farewell to, 313, 339;
her confidences, 440;
Mrs. Stowe's counsels to, 451.
Byron, Lord, Mrs. Stowe on, 339;
she suspects his insanity, 450;
cheap edition of his works proposed, 453;
Recollections of, by Countess Guiccioli, 446;
his position as viewed by Dr. Holmes, 457;
evidence of his poems for and against him, 457.
"CABIN, The," literary centre, 185.
Cairnes, Prof., on the "Fugitive Slave Law," 146.
Calhoun falsifies census, 509.
Calvinism, J. R. Lowell's sympathy with, 335.
Cambridgeport, H. B. S. reads in, 491.
Carlisle, Lord, praises "Uncle Tom's Cabin," 164;
Mrs. Stowe's reply, 164;
writes introduction to "Uncle Tom," 192;
H. B. S. dines with, 228;
farewell to, 248;
letter from H. B. S. to on moral effect of slavery, 164;
letter to H. B. S. from, 218.
Cary, Alice and Phoebe, 157.
Casaubon and Dorothea, criticism by H. B. S. on, 471.
Catechisms, Church and Assembly, H. B. S.'s early study of, 6, 7.
Chapman, Mrs. Margaret Weston, 310.
Charpentier of Paris, publishes "Uncle Tom's Cabin," 192;
eulogy of that work, 242.
Chase, Salmon P., 69, 85.
Chelsea, H. B. S. reads in, 492.
Chicago, readings in, 498.
Children of H. B. S., picture of three eldest, 90;
appeal to, by H. B. S. 157;
described by H. B. S., 198;
letters to, from H. B. S. on European voyage and impressions, 205;
on life in London, 228;
on meeting at Stafford House, 232;
on Vesuvius, 301, 416.
"Chimney Corner, The," date of, 490.
Cholera epidemic in Cincinnati, 120.
Christ, life of, little understood, 127;
communion with Him possible, 487;
love and faith in, 513;
study of his life, 418;
his presence all that remains now, 507;
his promises comfort the soul for separations by death, 486.
"Christian Union," contains observations by H. B. S. on spiritualism
and Mr. Owen's books, 465.
Christianity and spiritualism, 487.
Church, the, responsible for slavery, 151.
Cincinnati, Lyman Beecher accepts call to, 53;
Catherine Beecher's impressions of, 54, 55;
Walnut Hills and Seminary, 54, 55;
famine in, 100;
cholera, 119;
sympathetic audience in, 498.
Civil War, Mrs. Stowe on causes of, 363.
Clarke & Co. on English success of "Uncle Tom's Cabin," 190;
offer author remuneration, 202.
Clay, Henry, and his compromise, 143.
Cogswell, Catherine Ledyard, school-friend of H. B. S., 31.
College of Teachers, 79.
Collins professorship, 129.
Colored people, advance of, 255.
Confederacy, A. H. Stephens on object of, 381.
Courage and cheerfulness of H. B. S., 473.
Cranch, E. P., 69.
Cruikshank illustrates "Uncle Tom's Cabin," 192.
"DANIEL DERONDA," appears, in "Harper's," 473;
his nature like H. W. Beecher's, 481;
admiration of Prof. Stowe for, 482.
Da Vinci's Last Supper, H. B. S.'s impressions of, 305.
Death of youngest-born of H. B. S., 124;
anguish at, 198.
Death, H. B. S. within sight of the River of, 513.
"Debatable Land between this World and the Next," 464.
Declaration of Independence, H. B. S.'s feeling about, 11;
death-knell to slavery, 141.
Degan, Miss, 32, 41, 46.
Democracy and American novelists, Lowell on, 329.
"De Profundis," motive of Mrs. Browning's, 357.
De Staël, Mme., and Corinne, 67.
Dickens, first sight of, 226;
J. R. Lowell on, 328.
"Dog's Mission, A," date of, 491.
Domestic service, H. B. S.'s trouble with, 200.
Doubters and disbelievers may find comfort in spiritualism, 487.
Doubts, religious, after death of eldest son, 321.
Douglass, Frederick, 254;
letters from H. B. S. to, on slavery, 149.
Drake, Dr., family physician, 63;
one of founders of "College of Teachers," 79.
"Dred," 266;
Sumner's letter on, 268;
Georgiana May on, 268;
English edition of, 270;
presented to Queen Victoria, 271;
her interest in, 277, 285;
demand for, in Glasgow, 273;
Duchess of Sutherland's copy, 276;
Low's sales of, 278, 279;
"London Times," on, 278;
English reviews on, severe, 279;
"Revue des Deux Mondes" on, 290;
Miss Martineau on, 309;
Prescott on, 311;
Lowell on, 334;
now "Nina Gordon," publication of, 490.
Dudevant, Madame. See Sand, George.
Dufferin, Lord and Lady, their love of American literature, 284,
285.
Dundee, meeting at, 222.
Dunrobin Castle, visit to, 276.
E----, letter from H. B. S. to, on breakfast at the Trevelyans',
234.
"Earthly Care a Heavenly Discipline," 131.
East Hampton, L. I., birthplace of Catherine Beecher, 23.
Eastman, Mrs., writes a Southern reply to "Uncle Tom's Cabin," 163.
Edgeworth, Maria, 247.
Edinburgh, H. B. S. in, 216;
return to, 222.
Edmonson slave family; efforts to save, 179;
Mrs. Stowe educates and supports daughters, 179;
raises money to free mother and two slave children, 180.
Edmonson, death of Mary, 238.
Education, H. B. S.'s interest in, 72, 73.
Edwards, Jonathan, the power of, 406;
his treatise on "The Will," refuted by Catherine Beecher, 26.
Eliot, George, 419;
a good Christian, 420;
on psychical problems, 421;
on "Oldtown Folks," 443;
her despondency in "writing life" and longing for sympathy, 460;
on power of fine books, 461;
on religion, 462;
desires to keep an open mind on all subjects, 467;
on impostures of spiritualism, 467;
lack of "jollitude" in "Middlemarch," 471;
invited to visit America, 471;
sympathy with H. B. S. in Beecher trial, 472;
proud of Stowes' interest in her "spiritual children," 482;
on death of Mr. Lewes and gratitude for sympathy of H. B. S., 483;
a "woman worth loving," H. B. S.'s love for greater than her
admiration, 475;
letters from H. B. S. to, on spiritualism, 463;
describes Florida nature and home, 468;
reply to letter of sympathy giving facts in the Beecher case, 473;
from Professor Stowe on spiritualism, 419;
letter to H. B. S. from, 421;
with sympathy on abuse called out by the Byron affair, 458;
on effect of letter of H. B. S. to Mrs. Follen upon her mind, 460;
on joy of sympathy, 460;
reply to letter on spiritualism, 466;
sympathy with her in the Beecher trial, 472.
Elmes, Mr., 57.
"Elms, The Old," H. B. S.'s seventieth birthday celebrated at, 500.
"Elsie Venner," Mrs. Stowe's praise of, 360, 362, 415.
Emancipation, Proclamation of, 384.
Emmons, Doctor, the preaching of, 25.
England and America compared, 177.
England, attitude of, in civil war, grief at, 369;
help of to America on slave question, 166, 174.
English women's address on slavery, 374;
H. B. S.'s reply in the "Atlantic Monthly," 374.
Europe, first visit to, 189;
second visit to, 268;
third visit to, 343.
FAITH in Christ, 513.
Famine in Cincinnati, 100.
Fiction, power of, 216.
Fields, Mrs. Annie, in Boston, 470;
her tribute to Mrs. Stowe's courage and cheerfulness, 473;
George Eliot's mention of, 483;
her poem read at seventieth birthday, 505.
Fields, Jas. T., Mr. and Mrs., visit of H. B. S. to, 492.
Fisher, Prof. Alexander Metcalf, 23;
engagement to Catherine Beecher, 23;
sails for Europe, 23, 24;
his death by drowning in shipwreck of Albion, 24;
Catherine Beecher's soul struggles, over his future fate, 25;
influence of these struggles depicted in "The Minister's
Wooing," 25.
Florence, Mrs. Stowe's winter in, 349.
Florida, winter home in Mandarin, 401;
like Sorrento, 463;
wonderful growth of nature, 468;
how H. B. S.'s house was built, 469;
her happy life in, 474;
longings for, 482;
her enjoyment of happy life of the freedmen in, 506.
Flowers, love of, 405, 406, 416, 469;
painting, 469.
Follen, Mrs., 197;
letter from H. B. S. to, on her biography, 197.
Foote, Harriet, aunt of H. B. S., 5;
energetic English character, 6;
teaches niece catechism, 6, 7.
Foote, Mrs. Roxanna, grandmother of H. B. S., first visit to, 5-7;
visit to in 1827, 38.
"Footfalls on the Boundary of Another World," 464.
"Footsteps of the Master," published, 491.
"Fraser's Magazine" on "Uncle Tom's Cabin," 168;
Helps's review of "Uncle Tom's Cabin," 175.
"Free Agency," Catherine Beecher's refutation of Edwards on "The
Will," 26.
French critics, high standing of, 291.
Friends, love for, 51;
death of, 410;
death of old, whose letters are cherished, 508;
death of, takes away a part of ourselves, 485.
Friendship, opinion of, 50.
Fugitive Slave Act, suffering caused by, 144;
Prof. Cairnes on, 146;
practically repealed, 384.
Future life, glimpses of, leave strange sweetness, 513.
Future punishment, ideas of, 340.
GARRISON, W. L., to Mrs. Stowe on "Uncle Tom's Cabin," 161;
in hour of victory, 396;
his "Liberator," 261;
sent with H. W. Beecher to raise flag on Sumter, 477;
letters to H. B. S. from, on "Uncle Tom's Cabin," 161;
on slavery, 251-262;
on arousing the church, 265.
Gaskell, Mrs., at home, 312.
Geography, school, written by Mrs. Stowe, 65 _note_, 158.
Germany's tribute to "Uncle Tom's Cabin," 195.
Gladstone, W. E., 233.
Glasgow, H. B. S. visits, 210;
Anti-slavery Society of, 174, 189, 213.
Glasgow Anti-slavery Society, letter from H. B. S. to, 251.
God, H. B. S.'s views of, 30, 42, 43, 46, 47;
trust in, 112, 132, 148, 341;
doubts and final trust in, 321, 396;
his help in time of need, 496.
Goethe and Mr. Lewes, 420;
Prof. Stowe's admiration of, 420.
Goldschmidt, Madame. See Lind, Jenny.
Görres on spiritualism and mysticism, 412, 474.
Grandmother, letter from H. B. S. to, on breaking up of Litchfield
home, 35;
on school life in Hartford, 41.
Granville, Lord, 233.
"Gray's Elegy," visit to scene of, 236.
Guiccioli, Countess, "Recollections of Lord Byron," 446.
HALL, Judge James, 68, 69.
Hallam, Arthur Henry, 235.
Hamilton and Manumission Society, 141.
Harper & Brothers reprint Guiccioli's "Recollections of Byron," 446.
Hartford, H. B. S. goes to school at, 21;
the Stowes make their home at, 373.
Harvey, a phantom, 430.
Hawthorne, Nathaniel, 353;
letter on, 187;
on slavery, 394;
letter to H. B. S. on, from English attitude towards America, 394.
Health, care of, 115.
Heaven, belief in, 59.
Helps, Arthur, on "Uncle Tom's Cabin," 175;
meets H. B. S., 229;
letter from H. B. S. to, on "Uncle Tom's Cabin," 175.
Henry, Patrick, on slavery, 141.
Hentz, Mrs. Caroline Lee, 69, 80.
Higginson, T. W., letter to H. B. S. from, on "Uncle Tom's Cabin,"
162.
"History, The, of the Byron Controversy," 490.
Holmes, O. W., correspondence with, 360, _et seq._;
attacks upon, 361;
H. B. S. asks advice from, about manner of telling facts in
relation to Byron Controversy, 452, 454;
sends copy of "Lady Byron Vindicated" to, 454;
on facts of case, 455;
on sympathy displayed in his writings, 411;
poem on H. B. S.'s seventieth birthday, 503;
tribute to Uncle Tom, 504;
letters from H. B. S. to, 359, 410;
on "Poganuc People," 414;
asking advice about Byron Controversy and article for "Atlantic
Monthly," 452;
letters to H. B. S. from, 360, 409;
on facts in the Byron Controversy, 456.
Houghton, Mifflin & Co., celebrate H. B. S.'s seventieth birthday, 500.
Houghton, H. O., presents guests to H. B. S., on celebration of
seventieth birthday, 500;
address of welcome by, 501.
"House and Home Papers" published, 490.
Howitt, Mary, calls on H. B. S., 231.
Human life, sacredness of, 193.
Human nature in books and men, 328.
Hume and mediums, 419.
Humor of Mrs. Stowe's books, George Eliot on, 462.
Husband and wife, sympathy between, 105.
IDEALISM _versus_ Realism, Lowell on, 334.
"Independent," New York, work for, 186;
Mrs. Browning reads Mrs. Stowe in, 357.
Inverary Castle, H. B. S.'s, visit to, 271.
Ireland's gift to Mrs. Stowe, 248.
JEFFERSON, Thomas, on slavery, 141.
Jewett, John P., of Boston, publisher of "Uncle Tom's Cabin," 158.
KANSAS Nebraska Bill, 255;
urgency of question, 265.
"Key to Uncle Tom's Cabin" projected, 174;
written, 188; contains facts, 203;
read by Pollock, 226;
by Argyll, 239;
sickness caused by, 252;
sale, 253;
facts woven into "Dred," 266;
date of in chronological list, 490.
Kingsley, Charles, upon effect of "Uncle Tom's Cabin," 196;
visit to, 286;
letters to H. B. S. from, on "Uncle Tom's Cabin," 196, 218.
Kossuth, on freedom, 195;
Mrs. Stowe calls upon, 237.
LABOUCHERE, Lady Mary, visit to, 283.
"Lady Byron Vindicated," 454;
date, 490.
Letters, circular, writing of, a custom in the Beecher family, 99;
H. B. S.'s love of, 62, 63;
H. B. S.'s peculiar emotions on re-reading old, 507.
Lewes, G. H., George Eliot's letter after death of, 483.
Lewes, Mrs. G. H. See Eliot, George, 325.
"Library of Famous Fiction," date of, 491.
"Liberator," The, 261;
and Bible, 263;
suspended after the close of civil war, 396.
Lincoln and slavery, 380;
death of, 398.
Lind, Jenny, liberality of, 181;
H. B. S. attends concert by, 182;
letter to H. B. S. from, on her delight in "Uncle Tom's Cabin,"
183;
letters from H. B. S. to, with appeal for slaves, 183, 184.
Litchfield, birthplace of H. B. S., 1;
end of her child-life in, 21;
home at broken up, 35.
Literary labors, early, 15-21;
prize story, 68;
club essays, 69-71;
contributor to "Western Monthly Magazine," 81;
school geography, 65;
described in letter to a friend, 94;
price for, 103;
fatigue caused by, 489;
length of time passed in, with list of books written, 490.
Literary work _versus_ domestic duties, 94 _et seq._, 139;
short stories--"New Year's Story" for "N. Y. Evangelist," 146;
"A Scholar's Adventures in the Country" for "Era," 146.
Literature, opinion of, 44.
"Little Pussy Willow," date of, 491.
Liverpool, warm reception of H. B. S. at, 207.
London poor and Southern slaves, 175.
London, first visit to, 225;
second visit to, 281.
Longfellow, H. W., congratulations of, on "Uncle Tom's Cabin," 161;
letter on, 187;
Lord Granville's likeness to, 233;
letters to H. B. S. from, on "Uncle Tom's Cabin," 161.
Love, the impulse of life, 51, 52.
Lovejoy, J. P., murdered, 143, 145;
aided by Beechers, 152.
Low, Sampson, on success of "Uncle Tom's Cabin" abroad, 189.
Low, Sampson & Co. publish "Dred," 269;
their sales, 279.
Lowell, J. R., Duchess of Sutherland's interest in, 277;
less known in England than he should be, 285;
on "Uncle Tom," 327;
on Dickens and Thackeray, 327, 334;
on "The Minister's Wooing," 330, 333;
on idealism, 334;
letter to H. B. S. from, on "The Minister's Wooing," 333.
MACAULAY, 233, 234.
McClellan, Gen., his disobedience to the President's commands, 367.
"Magnalia," Cotton Mather's, a mine of wealth to H. B. S., 10;
Prof. Stowe's interest in, 427.
Maine law, curiosity about in England, 229.
Mandarin, Mrs. Stowe at, 403;
like Sorrento, 463;
how her house was built, 469;
her happy out-door life in, relieved from domestic care, 474;
longings for home at, 492;
freedmen's happy life in South, 506.
Mann, Horace, makes a plea for slaves, 159.
Martineau, Harriet, letter to H. B. S. from, 208.
May, Georgiana, school and life-long friend of H. B. S., 31, 32;
Mrs. Sykes, 132;
her ill-health and farewell to H. B. S., 268;
letters from H. B. S. to, 44, 49, 50;
account of westward journey, 56;
on labor in establishing school, 65, 66;
on education, 72;
just before her marriage to Mr. Stowe, 76;
on her early married life and housekeeping, 89;
on birth of her son, 101;
describing first railroad ride, 106;
on her children, 119;
her letter to Mrs. Foote, grandmother of H. B. S., 38;
letters to H. B. S. from, 161, 268.
"Mayflower, The," 103, 158;
revised and republished, 251;
date of, 490.
Melancholy, 118, 341;
a characteristic of Prof. Stowe in childhood, 436.
"Men of Our Times," date of, 410.
"Middlemarch," H. B. S. wishes to read, 468;
character of Casaubon in, 471.
Milman, Dean, 234.
Milton's hell, 303.
"Minister's Wooing, The," soul struggles of Mrs. Marvyn,
foundation of incident, 25;
idea of God in, 29;
impulse for writing, 52;
appears in "Atlantic Monthly," 326;
Lowell, J. R. on, 327, 330, 333;
Whittier on, 327;
completed, 332;
Ruskin on, 336;
undertone of pathos, 339;
visits England in relation to, 343;
date of, 490;
"reveals warm heart of man" beneath the Puritan in Whittier's
poem, 502.
Missouri Compromise, 142, 257;
repealed, 379.
Mohl, Madame, and her _salon_, 291.
Money-making, reading as easy a way as any of, 494.
Moral aim in novel-writing, J. R. Lowell on, 333.
"Mourning Veil, The," 327.
"Mystique La," on spiritualism, 412.
NAPLES and Vesuvius, 302.
"National Era," its history, 157;
work for, 186.
Negroes, petition from, presented by J. Q. Adams, 510.
New England, Mrs. Stowe's knowledge of, 332;
in "The Minister's Wooing," 333;
life pictured in "Oldtown Folks," 444.
New London, fatigue of reading at, 496.
Newport, tiresome journey to, on reading tour, 497.
Niagara, impressions of, 75.
Normal school for colored teachers, 203.
"North American Review" on "Uncle Tom's Cabin," 254.
North _versus_ South, England on, 388, 391.
Norton, C. E., Ruskin on the proper home of, 354.
"OBSERVER, New York," denunciation of "Uncle Tom's Cabin," 168, 172.
"Oldtown Fireside Stories," 438;
strange spiritual experiences of Prof. Stowe, 438;
Sam Lawson a real character, 439;
relief after finishing, 489;
date of in chronological list, 491;
in Whittier's poem on seventieth birthday "With Old New England's
flavor rife," 503.
"Oldtown Folks," 404;
Prof. Stowe original of "Harry" in, 421;
George Eliot on its reception in England, 443, 461, 463;
picture of N. E. life, 444;
date of, 490;
Whittier's praise of, "vigorous pencil-strokes" in poem on
seventieth birthday, 503.
Orthodoxy, 335.
"Our Charley," date of, 490.
Owen, Robert Dale, his "Footfalls on the Boundary of Another World"
and "The Debatable Land between this World and the Next," 464;
H. B. S. wishes George Eliot to meet, 464.
PALMERSTON, Lord, meeting with, 232.
"Palmetto Leaves" published, 405;
date, 491.
Papacy, The, 358.
Paris, first visit to, 241;
second visit, 286.
Park, Professor Edwards A., 186.
Parker, Theodore, on the Bible and Jesus, 264.
Paton, Bailie, host of Mrs. Stowe, 211.
Peabody, pleasant reading in, 496;
Queen Victoria's picture at, 496.
"Pearl of Orr's Island, The," 186, 187;
first published, 327;
Whittier's favorite, 327;
date of, 490.
"Pebbles from the Shores of a Past Life," a review of her life
proposed to be written by H. B. S. with aid of son Charles,
512.
Phantoms seen by Professor Stowe, 425.
Phelps, Elizabeth Stuart, writes poem on H. B. S.'s seventieth
birthday, 505.
"Philanthropist, The," anti-slavery paper, 81, 87.
Phillips, Wendell, attitude of after war, 396.
"Pink and White Tyranny," date of, 491.
Plymouth Church, saves Edmonson's daughters, 179;
slavery and, 477;
clears Henry Ward Beecher by acclamation, 478;
calls council of Congregational ministers and laymen, 479;
council ratifies decision of Church, 479;
committee of five appointed to bring facts which could be
proved, 479;
missions among poor particularly effective at time of trial, 481.
"Poganuc People," 413;
sent to Dr. Holmes, 414;
date of, 491.
Pollock, Lord Chief Baron, 226.
Poor, generosity of touches H. B. S., 219.
Portland, H. B. S.'s friends there among the past, 494;
her readings in, 493.
Portraits of Mrs. Stowe, 231;
Belloc to paint, 241;
untruth of, 288.
Poverty in early married life, 198.
Prescott, W. H., letter to H. B, S. from, on "Dred," 311.
"Presse, La," on "Dred," 291.
Providential aid in sickness, 113.
"QUEER Little People," date of, 490.
READING and teaching, 139.
Religion and humanity, George Eliot on, 462.
"Religious poems," date of, 490.
"Revue des Deux Mondes" on "Dred," 290.
Riots in Cincinnati and anti-slavery agitation, 85.
Roenne, Baron de, visits Professor Stowe, 102.
Roman politics in 1861, 358.
Rome, H. B. S.'s journey to, 294;
impressions of, 300.
Ruskin, John, letters to H. B. S. from, on "The Minister's
Wooing," 336;
on his dislike of America, but love for American friends, 354.
Ruskin and Turner, 313.
SAINT-BEUVE, H. B. S.'s liking for, 474.
Sales, Francis de, H. W. Beecher compared with, 481.
Salisbury, Mr., interest of in "Uncle Tom's Cabin," 191.
Salons, French, 289.
Sand, George, reviews "Uncle Tom's Cabin," 196.
Scotland, H. B. S.'s first visit to, 209.
Scott, Walter, Lyman Beecher's opinion of, when discussing
novel-reading, 25;
monument in Edinburgh, 217.
Sea, H. B. S.'s nervous horror of, 307.
Sea-voyages, H. B. S. on, 205.
Semi-Colon Club, H. B. S. becomes a member of, 68.
Shaftesbury, Earl of, letter of, to Mrs. Stowe, 170.
Shaftesbury, Lord, to H. B. S., letter from, 170;
letter from H. B. S. to, 170;
America and, 369.
Skinner, Dr., 57.
Slave, aiding a fugitive, 93.
Slave-holding States on English address, 378;
intensity of conflict in, 379.
Slavery, H. B. S.'s first notice of, 71;
anti-slavery agitation, 81;
death-knell of, 141;
Jefferson, Washington, Hamilton, and Patrick Henry on, 141;
growth of, 142;
résumé of its history, 143;
responsibility of church for, 151;
Lord Carlisle's opinion on, 164;
moral effect of, 165;
sacrilege of, 193;
its past and future, 194;
its injustice, 255;
its death-blow; 370;
English women's appeal against, 375;
J. Q. Adams' crusade against, 509;
gone forever, 506.
Slaves, H. B. S.'s work for and sympathy with, 152;
family sorrows of, 318.
Smith, Anna, helper to Mrs. S., 115;
_note_, 200.
Soul, immortality of, H. B. S.'s essay written at age of twelve:
first literary production, 15-21;
Addison's remarks upon, 18;
Greek and Roman idea of immortality, 20;
light given by Gospel, 20, 21;
Christ on, 109.
South, England's sympathy with the, 370, 386.
South Framingham, good audience at reading in, 495.
"Souvenir, The," 105.
Spiritualism, Mrs. Stowe on, 350, 351, 464;
Mrs. Browning on, 356;
Holmes, O. W., on, 411;
"La Mystique" and Görres on, 412, 474;
Professor Stowe's strange experiences in, 420, 423;
George Eliot on psychical problems of, 421;
on "Charlatanerie" connected with, 467;
Robert Dale Owen on, 464;
Goethe on, 465;
H. B. S.'s letter to George Eliot on, 466;
her mature views on, 485;
a comfort to doubters and disbelievers, 487;
from Christian standpoint, 487.
Stafford House meeting, 233.
Stephens, A. H., on object of Confederacy, 381.
Storrs, Dr. R. S., 181.
Stowe, Calvin E., 56;
death of first wife, 75;
his engagement to Harriet E. Beecher, 76;
their marriage, 76, 77;
his work in Lane Seminary, 79;
sent by the Seminary to Europe on educational matters, 80;
returns, 88;
his Educational Report presented, 89;
aids a fugitive slave, 93;
strongly encourages his wife in her literary aspirations, 102,
105;
care of the sick students in Lane Seminary, 107;
is "house-father" during his wife's illness and absence, 113;
goes to water cure after his wife's return from the same, 119;
absent from Cincinnati home at death of youngest child, 124;
accepts the Collins Professorship at Bowdoin, 125;
gives his mother his reasons for leaving Cincinnati, 128;
remains behind to finish college work, while wife and three
children leave for Brunswick, Me., 129;
resigns his professorship at Bowdoin, and accepts a call to
Andover, 184;
accompanies his wife to Europe, 205;
his second trip with wife to Europe, 269;
sermon after his son's death, 322;
great sorrow at his bereavement, 324;
goes to Europe for the fourth time, 345;
resigns his position at Andover, 373;
in Florida, 403;
failing health, 417;
his letter to George Eliot, 420;
H. B. S. uses his strange experiences in youth as material for
her picture of "Harry" in "Oldtown Folks," 421;
the psychological history of his strange child-life, 423;
curious experiences with phantoms, and good and bad spirits, 427;
visions of fairies, 435;
love of reading, 437;
his power of character-painting shown in his description of a
visit to his relatives, 439;
George Eliot's mental picture of his personality, 461;
enjoys life and study in Florida, 463;
his studies on Prof. Görres' book, "Die Christliche Mystik," and
its relation to his own spiritual experience, 474;
love for Henry Ward Beecher returned by latter, 475;
absorbed in "Daniel Deronda," 482;
"over head and ears in _diablerie_," 484;
fears he has not long to live, 491;
dull at wife's absence on reading tour, 496;
enjoys proximity to Boston Library, and "Life of John Quincy
Adams," 509;
death, 512 and _note_;
letters from H. B. S. to, 80, 106;
on her illness, 112, 114, 117;
on cholera epidemic in Cincinnati, 120;
on sickness, death of son Charley, 122;
account of new home, 133;
on her writings and literary aspirations, 146;
on success of "Uncle Tom's Cabin," 162;
on her interest in the Edmonson slave family, 180;
on life in London, 238;
on visit to the Duke of Argyle, 271;
from Dunrobin Castle, 275;
on "Dred," 282;
other letters from abroad, 282;
on life in Paris, 286;
on journey to Rome, 294;
on impressions of Rome, 300;
on Swiss journey, 348;
from Florence, 349;
from Paris, 353;
on farewell to her soldier son, 364;
visit to Duchess of Argyle, 366;
on her reading tour, 491;
on his health and her enforced absence from him, 492;
on reading, at Chelsea, 492;
at Bangor and Portland, 493;
at South Framingham and Haverhill, 495;
Peabody, 496;
fatigue at New London reading, 496;
letters from to H. B. S. on visit to his relatives and
description of home life, 440;
to mother on reasons for leaving the West, 128;
to George Eliot, 420;
to son Charles, 345.
Stowe, Charles E., seventh child of H. B. S., birth of, 139;
at Harvard, 406;
at Bonn, 412;
letter from Calvin E. Stowe to, 345;
letter from H. B. S. to, on her school life, 29;
on "Poganuc People," 413;
on her readings in the West, 497;
on selection of papers and letters for her biography, 507;
on interest of herself and Prof. Stowe in life and anti-slavery
career of John Quincy Adams, 509.
Stowe, Eliza Tyler (Mrs. C. E.), death of, 75;
twin daughter of H. B. S., 88.
Stowe, Frederick William, second son of H. B. S., 101;
enlists in First Massachusetts, 364;
made lieutenant for bravery, 366;
mother's visit to, 367;
severely wounded, 372;
subsequent effects of the wound, never entirely recovers, his
disappearance and unknown fate, 373;
ill-health after war, Florida home purchased for his sake, 399.
Stowe, Georgiana May, daughter of H. B. S., birth of, 108;
family happy in her marriage, 399;
letter from H. B. S. to, 340.
Stowe, Harriet Beecher, birth and parentage of, 1;
first memorable incident, the death of her mother, 2;
letter to her brother Charles on her mother's death, 2;
incident of the tulip bulbs and mother's gentleness, 2;
first journey a visit to her grandmother, 5;
study of catechisms under her grandmother and aunt, 6;
early religious and Biblical reading, 8;
first school at the age of five, 8;
hunger after mental food, 9;
joyful discovery of "The Arabian Nights," in the bottom of a
barrel of dull sermons, 9;
reminiscences of reading in father's library, 10;
impression made by the Declaration of Independence, 11;
appearance and character of her stepmother, 11, 12;
healthy, happy child-life, 13;
birth of her half-sister Isabella and H. B. S.'s care of infant,
14;
early love of writing, 14;
her essay selected for reading at school exhibitions, 14;
her father s pride in essay, 15;
subject of essay, arguments for belief in the Immortality of the
Soul, 15-21;
end of child-life in Litchfield, 21;
goes to sister Catherine's school at Hartford, 29;
describes Catherine Beecher's school in letter to son, 29;
her home with the Bulls, 30, 31;
school friends, 31, 32;
takes up Latin, her study of Ovid and Virgil, 32;
dreams of being a poet and writes "Cleon," a drama, 32;
her conversion, 33, 34;
doubts of relatives and friends, 34, 35;
connects herself with First Church, Hartford, 36;
her struggle with rigid theology, 36;
her melancholy and doubts, 37, 38;
necessity of cheerful society, 38;
visit to grandmother, 38;
return to Hartford, 41;
interest in painting lessons, 41;
confides her religious doubts to her brother Edward, 42;
school life in Hartford, 46;
peace at last, 49;
accompanies her father and family to Cincinnati, 53;
describes her journey, 56;
yearnings for New England home, 60;
ill-health and depression, 64;
her life in Cincinnati and teaching at new school established by
her sister Catherine and herself, 65;
wins prize for short story, 68;
joins "Semicolon Club," 68;
slavery first brought to her personal notice, 71;
attends Henry Ward Beecher's graduation, 73;
engagement, 76;
marriage, 76;
anti-slavery agitation, 82;
sympathy with Birney, editor of anti-slavery paper in Cincinnati,
84;
birth of twin daughters, 88;
of her third child, 89;
reunion of the Beecher family, 89;
housekeeping _versus_ literary work, 93;
birth of second son, 101;
visits Hartford, 102;
literary work encouraged, 102, 105;
sickness in Lane Seminary, 107;
death of brother George, 108;
birth of third daughter, 108;
protracted illness and poverty, 110;
seminary struggles, 110;
goes to water cure, 113;
returns home, 118;
birth of sixth child, 118;
bravery in cholera epidemic, 120;
death of youngest child Charles, 123;
leaves Cincinnati, 125;
removal to Brunswick, 126;
getting settled, 134;
husband arrives, 138;
birth of seventh child, 139;
anti-slavery feeling aroused by letters from Boston, 145;
"Uncle Tom's Cabin," first thought of, 145;
writings for papers, 147;
"Uncle Tom's Cabin" appears as a serial, 156;
in book form, 159;
its wonderful success, 160;
praise from Longfellow, Whittier, Garrison, Higginson, 161;
letters from English nobility, 164, _et seq._;
writes "Key to Uncle Tom's Cabin," 174, 188;
visits Henry Ward in Brooklyn, 178;
raises money to free Edmondson family, 181;
home-making at Andover, 186;
first trip to Europe, 189, 205;
wonderful success of "Uncle Tom's Cabin" abroad, 189;
her warm reception at Liverpool, 207;
delight in Scotland, 209;
public reception and tea-party at Glasgow, 212;
warm welcome from Scotch people, 214;
touched by the "penny offering" of the poor for the slaves, 219;
Edinburgh soirée, 219;
meets English celebrities at Lord Mayor's dinner in London, 226;
meets English nobility, 229;
Stafford House, 232;
breakfast at Lord Trevelyan's, 234;
Windsor, 235;
presentation of bracelet, 233;
of inkstand, 240;
Paris, first visit to, 241;
_en route_ for Switzerland, 243;
Geneva and Chillon, 244;
Grindelwald to Meyringen, 245;
London, _en route_ for America, 247;
work for slaves in America, 250;
correspondence with Garrison, 261, _et seq._;
"Dred," 266;
second visit to Europe, 268;
meeting with Queen Victoria, 270;
visits Inverary Castle, 271;
Dunrobin Castle, 275;
Oxford and London, 280;
visits the Laboucheres, 283;
Paris, 289;
_en route_ to Rome, 294;
Naples and Vesuvius, 301;
Venice and Milan, 305;
homeward journey and return, 306, 314;
death of oldest son, 315;
visits Dartmouth, 319;
receives advice from Lowell on "The Pearl of Orr's Island," 327;
"The Minister's Wooing," 327, 330, 334;
third trip to Europe, 342;
Duchess of Sutherland's warm welcome, 346;
Switzerland, 348;
Florence, 349;
Italian journey, 352;
return to America, 353;
letters from Ruskin, Mrs. Browning, Holmes, 353, 362;
bids farewell to her son, 364;
at Washington, 366;
her son wounded at Gettysburg, 372;
his disappearance, 373;
the Stowes remove to Hartford, 373;
Address to women of England on slavery, 374;
winter home in Florida, 401;
joins the Episcopal Church, 402;
erects schoolhouse and church in Florida, 404;
"Palmetto, Leaves," 405;
"Poganuc People," 413;
warm reception at South, 415;
last winter in Florida, 417;
writes "Oldtown Folks," 404;
her interest in husband's strange spiritual experiences, 438;
H. B. S. justifies her action in Byron Controversy, 445;
her love and faith in Lady Byron, 449;
reads Byron letters, 450;
counsels silence and patience to Lady Byron, 451;
writes "True Story of Lady Byron's Life," 447, 453;
publishes "Lady Byron Vindicated," 454;
"History of the Byron Controversy," 455;
her purity of motive in this painful matter, 455;
George Eliot's sympathy with her in Byron matter, 458;
her friendship with George Eliot dates from letter shown by Mrs.
Follen, 459, 460;
describes Florida life and peace to George Eliot, 463;
her interest in Mr. Owen and spiritualism, 464;
love of Florida life and nature, 468;
history of Florida home, 469;
impressions of "Middlemarch," 471;
invites George Eliot to come to America, 472;
words of sympathy on Beecher trial from George Eliot, and Mrs.
Stowe's reply, 473;
her defense of her brother's purity of life, 475;
Beecher trial drawn on her heart's blood, 480;
her mature views on spiritualism, 484;
her doubts of ordinary manifestations, 486;
soul-cravings after dead friends satisfied by Christ's promises,
486;
chronological list of her books, 490;
accepts offer from N. E. Lecture Bureau to give readings from
her works, 491;
gives readings in New England, 491, _et seq._;
warm welcome in Maine, 493;
sympathetic audiences in Massachusetts, 495;
fatigue of traveling and reading at New London, 496;
Western reading tour, 497;
"fearful distances and wretched trains," 498;
seventieth anniversary of birthday celebrated by Houghton,
Mifflin & Co., 500;
H. O. Houghton's welcome, 501;
H. W. Beecher's reply and eulogy on sister, 502;
Whittier's poem at seventieth birthday, 502;
Holmes' poem, 503;
other poems of note written for the occasion, 505;
Mrs. Stowe's thanks, 505;
joy in the future of the colored race, 506;
reading old letters and papers, 507;
her own letters to Mr. Stowe and letters from friends, 508;
interest in Life of John Quincy Adams and his crusade against
slavery, 510;
death of husband, 512 and _note_;
of Henry Ward Beecher, 512;
thinks of writing review of her life aided by son, under title
of "Pebbles from the Shores of a Past Life," 512;
her feelings on the nearness of death, but perfect trust in
Christ, 513; glimpses
of the future life leave a strange sweetness in her mind, 513.
Stowe, Harriet Beecher, twin daughter of H. B. S., 88.
Stowe, Henry Ellis, first son of H. B. S., 89;
goes to Europe, 269;
returns to enter Dartmouth, 278;
death of, 315;
his character, 317;
his portrait, 320;
mourning for, 341, 350.
Stowe, Samuel Charles, sixth child of H. B. S., birth of, 118;
death of, 124;
anguish at loss of, 198;
early death of, 508.
Study, plans for a, 104.
Sturge, Joseph, visit to, 223.
Suffrage, universal, H. W. Beecher advocate of, 477.
Sumner, Charles, on "Uncle Tom's Cabin," 196;
letter to H. B. S. from, 268.
Sumter, Fort, H. W. Beecher raises flag on, 477.
"Sunny Memories," 251;
date of, 491.
Sutherland, Duchess of, 188, 218;
friend to America, 228;
at Stafford House presents gold bracelet, 233;
visit to, 274, 276;
fine character, 277;
sympathy with on son's death, 319;
warm welcome to H. B. S., 346;
death of, 410;
letters from H. B. S. to, on "Key to Uncle Tom's Cabin," 188;
on death of eldest son, 315.
Sutherland, Lord, personal appearance of, 232.
Swedenborg, weary messages from spirit-world of, 486.
Swiss Alps, visit to, 244;
delight in, 246.
Swiss interest in "Uncle Tom," 244.
Switzerland, H. B. S. in, 348.
Sykes, Mrs. See May, Georgiana.
TALFOURD, Mr. Justice, 226.
Thackeray, W. M., Lowell on, 328.
Thanksgiving Day in Washington, freed slaves celebrate, 387.
"Times, London," on "Uncle Tom's Cabin," 168;
on Mrs. Stowe's new dress, 237;
on "Dred," 278;
Miss Martineau's criticism on, 310.
Titcomb, John, aids H. B. S. in moving, 137.
Tourgée, Judge A. W., his speech at seventieth birthday, 505.
Trevelyan, Lord and Lady, 231;
breakfast to Mrs. Stowe, 234.
Triqueti, Baron de, models bust of H. B. S., 289.
Trowbridge, J. T., writes on seventieth birthday, 505.
"True Story of Lady Byron's Life, The," in "Atlantic Monthly," 447.
Tupper, M. F., calls on H. B. S., 231.
"Uncle Tom's Cabin," description of Augustine St. Clair's mother's
influence a simple reproduction of Mrs. Lyman Beecher's
influence, 5;
written under love's impulse, 52;
fugitives' escape, foundation of story, 93;
popular conception of author of, 127;
origin and inspiration of, 145;
Prof. Cairnes on, 146;
Uncle Tom's death, conception of, 148;
letter to Douglas about facts, 149;
appears in the "Era," 149, 156;
came from heart, 153;
a religious work, object of, 154;
its power, 155;
begins a serial in "National Era," 156;
price paid by "Era," 158;
publisher's offer, 158;
first copy of books sold, 159;
wonderful success, 160;
praise from Longfellow, Whittier, Garrison, and Higginson, 161,
162;
threatening letters, 163;
Eastman's, Mrs., rejoinder to, 163;
reception in England, "Times," on, 168;
political effect of, 168, 169;
book under interdict in South, 172;
"Key to Uncle Tom's Cabin," 174, 188;
Jenny Lind's praise of, 183;
attack upon, 187;
Sampson Low upon its success abroad, 189;
first London publisher, 189;
number of editions sold in Great Britain and abroad, 190;
dramatized in U.S. and London, 192;
European edition, preface to, 192;
fact not fiction, 193;
translations of, 195;
German tribute to, 195;
George Sand's review, 196;
remuneration for, 202;
written with heart's blood, 203;
Swiss interest in, 244, 245;
Mme. Belloc translates, 247;
"North American Review" on, 254;
in France, 291;
compared with "Dred," 285, 309;
J. R. Lowell on, 327, 330;
Mrs. Stowe rereads after war, 396;
later books compared with, 409;
H. W. Beecher's approval of, 476;
new edition with introduction sent to George Eliot, 483;
date of, 490;
Whittier's mention of, in poem on seventieth birthday, 502;
Holmes' tribute to, in poem on same occasion, 504.
UPHAM, Mrs., kindness to H. B. S., 133;
visit to, 324.
VENICE, 304.
Victoria, Queen, H. B. S.'s interview with, 270;
gives her picture to Geo. Peabody, 496.
Vizetelly, Henry, first London publisher of "Uncle Tom's Cabin,"
189, 191.
WAKEFIELD, reading at, 495.
Walnut Hills, picture of, 65;
and old home revisited, 499.
Waltham, audience inspires reader, 496.
Washington, Mrs. Stowe visits soldier son at, 366.
Washington on slavery, 141.
Water cure, H. B. S. at, 113.
"We and our Neighbors," date of, 491.
Webster, Daniel, famous speech of, 143.
Weld, Theodore D. in the anti-slavery movement, 81.
Western travel, discomforts of, 498.
Whately, Archbishop, letter to H. B. S. from, 391.
Whitney, A. D. T., writes poem on seventieth birthday, 505.
Whitney, Eli, and the cotton gin, 142.
Whittier's "Ichabod," a picture of Daniel Webster, 143.
Whittier, J. G., 157;
letter to W. L. Garrison from, on "Uncle Tom's Cabin," 161;
letter to H. B. S. from, on "Uncle Tom's Cabin," 162;
on "Pearl of Orr's Island," 327;
on "Minister's Wooing," 327;
poem on H. B. S's seventieth birthday, 502.
Windsor, visit to, 235.
Womanhood, true, H. B. S. on intellect _versus_ heart, 475.
Woman's rights, H. W. Beecher, advocate of, 478.
Women of America, Appeal from H. B. S. to, 255.
Women's influence, power of, 258.
ZANESVILLE, description of, 499.
_A LIST OF THE WORKS OF HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.
NOVELS, STORIES, SKETCHES, AND POEMS, BY HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.
_It is the great happiness of Mrs. Stowe not only to have written many
delightful books, but to have written one book which will be always
famous not only as the most vivid picture of an extinct evil system,
but as one of the most powerful influences in overthrowing it. . . . No
book was ever more a historical event than "Uncle Tom's Cabin." . . .
If all whom she has charmed and quickened should unite to sing her
praises, the birds of summer would be outdone._--GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS.
_UNCLE TOM'S CABIN._ A Story of American Slavery. 12mo,
$2.00.
New _Popular Edition_ from new plates. With account
of the writing of this story by Mrs. STOWE, and
frontispiece. 16mo, $1.00.
_Holiday Edition._ With an Introduction of more
than thirty pages by Mrs. STOWE, describing the
circumstances under which the story was written, and
a Bibliography of the various editions and languages
in which the work has appeared, by GEORGE BULLEN,
of the British Museum. With more than one hundred
illustrations, and red-line border. 8vo, full gilt,
$3.00; half calf, $5.00; morocco, or tree calf, $6.00.
The publication of this remarkable story was an event in American
history as well as in American literature. It fixed the eyes of the
nation and of the civilized world on the evils of slavery, presenting
these so vividly and powerfully that the heart and conscience of
mankind were thenceforth enlisted against them. But, aside from
its graphic portrayal of slavery, "Uncle Tom's Cabin" is a story
of thrilling power, and abounds in humorous delineations of negro
and Yankee character. Its extraordinary annual sale of thousands of
copies, and its translation into numerous foreign languages, attest its
universal and permanent interest.
_DRED (NINA GORDON)._ A Story of Slavery. New Edition
from new plates. 12mo, $1.50.
This volume was originally published under the title "Dred." It has a
close connection with "Uncle Tom's Cabin," the object of both being to
picture life at the South as it was under the régime of slavery.
"Uncle Tom" and "Dred" will assure Mrs. Stowe a
place in that high rank of novelists who can give
us a national life in all its phases, popular and
aristocratic, humorous and tragic, political and
religious.--_Westminster Review_ (London).
_AGNES OF SORRENTO._ An Italian Romance. 12mo, $1.50.
In this story a plot of rare interest is wrought out, amid the glowing
scenery of Italy, with the author's well-known dramatic skill.
_THE PEARL OF ORR'S ISLAND._ 12mo, $1.50.
The scene of this charming tale is laid upon the coast of Maine. The
author's familiar knowledge of New England rural life renders the
volume especially attractive.
A story of singular pathos and beauty.--_North American
Review._
_THE MINISTER'S WOOING._ 12mo, $1.50.
In this volume Mrs. Stowe has reproduced the New England of two
generations ago. It deals with the noblest and most rugged traits of
New England character.
_MY WIFE AND I_; or, Harry Henderson's History. New
Edition. Illustrated. 12mo, $1.50.
This book first appeared as a serial in the _Christian Union_, New
York. The author dedicates it to "the many dear, bright young girls
whom she is so happy as to number among her choicest friends."
_WE AND OUR NEIGHBORS._ New Edition. Illustrated. 12mo,
$1.50.
This is a sequel to "My Wife and I."
_POGANUC PEOPLE._ Their Loves and Lives. New Edition.
Illustrated. 12mo, $1.50.
A story of a New England town, its men and its manners.
_OLD TOWN FOLKS._ 12mo, $1.50.
Full to repletion of delicate sketches of very original
characters, and clever bits of dialogue, and vivid
descriptions of natural scenery.--_The Spectator_
(London).
_SAM LAWSON'S OLDTOWN FIRESIDE STORIES._ Illustrated.
New Edition, enlarged. 12mo, $1.50.
CONTENTS: The Ghost in the Mill; The Sullivan Looking-Glass; The
Minister's Housekeeper; The Widow's Bandbox; Captain Kidd's Money;
"Mis' Elderkin's Pitcher"; The Ghost in the Cap'n Brown House; Colonel
Eph's Shoe-Buckles; The Bull-Fight; How to Fight the Devil; Laughin' in
Meetin'; The Toothacre's Ghost Story; The Parson's Horse Race; Oldtown
Fireside Talks of the Revolution; A Student's Sea Story.
These stories will prove a mine of genuine fun;
pictures of a time, place, and state of society which
are like nothing on this side of the world, and
which, we suppose, are becoming rapidly erased.--_The
Athenæum_ (London).
_THE MAYFLOWER, AND OTHER SKETCHES._ 12mo, $1.50.
A series of New England sketches, many of which have become household
stories throughout the land.
The above eleven 12mo volumes, uniform, in box, $16.00.
_LITTLE PUSSY WILLOW, ETC._ Illustrated. Square 12mo, $1.25.
_A DOG'S MISSION, ETC._ Illustrated. Square 12mo, $1.25.
_QUEER LITTLE PEOPLE._ Illustrated. Square 12mo, $1.25.
These three Juvenile books, $3.75.
Three collections of delightful stories--the best of reading for young
folks.
_PALMETTO LEAVES._ Sketches of Florida. Illustrated. 16mo, $1.50.
Any one who wishes a delightful excursion to the land
of flowers has only to turn over these "Palmetto
Leaves" and he has it.--_New York Observer._
_HOUSE AND HOME PAPERS_. 16mo, $1.50.
CONTENTS: The Ravages of a Carpet; Home-Keeping _versus_ House-Keeping;
What is a Home? The Economy of the Beautiful; Raking up the Fire;
The Lady who does her own Work; What can be got in America; Economy;
Servants; Cookery; Our House; Home Religion.
An invaluable volume, and one which should be owned and
consulted by every one who has a house, or who wants a
home.--_The Congregationalist_ (Boston.)
_LITTLE FOXES._ Common Household Faults. 16mo, $1.50.
The foxes are,--Fault-Finding, Irritability,
Repression, Persistence, Intolerance, Discourtesy,
Exactingness. Mrs. Stowe has made essays as
entertaining as stories, enlivened with wit,
seasoned with sense, glowing with the most kindly
feeling.--_Hartford Press._
_THE CHIMNEY CORNER._ 16mo, $1.50.
A series of papers on Woman's Rights and Duties, Health, Amusements,
Entertainment of Company, Dress, Fashion, Self-Discipline, etc. The
genial, practical wisdom of these subjects gives this volume great
value.
These three Household Books, uniform, in box, $4.50.
_RELIGIOUS POEMS._ Illustrated. 16mo, $1.50.
All characterized by the genius of Mrs. Stowe.... In
all, there is a profound appreciation of the _inner
life_ of religion,--a wrestling for nearness to
God.--_American Christian Review._
_FLOWERS AND FRUIT_, selected from the Writings of
Harriet Beecher Stowe. 16mo, $1.00.
A charming little book ... full of sweet passages,
and bright, discerning, wise, and in the best sense
of the term, witty sayings of our greatest American
novelist.--_Chicago Advance._
_DIALOGUES AND SCENES FROM THE WRITINGS OF MRS. STOWE._
For use in School Entertainments. Selected by EMILY
WEAVER. In Riverside Literature Series, extra number
_E_. 16mo, paper, 15 cents, _net_.
The selections are from some of Mrs. Stowe's most
true-to-life scenes,--full of pathos and mirth.... Nine
most charming dialogues.--_School Journal_ (New York).
*** _For sale by all Booksellers. Sent, post-paid, on receipt of price
by the Publishers_,
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY,
4 PARK STREET, BOSTON; 11 EAST 17TH STREET, NEW YORK.
* * * * *
Transcriber's Notes:
Punctuation errors repaired.
Page 146, repeated word "the" removed from text. Original read (make
the the whole nation)
Page 179, "propect" changed to "prospect" (over the prospect of raising)
Page 205, "everywere" changed to "everywhere" (affection that
everywhere)
Page 205, "Frith" changed to "Firth" (of Solway Firth and)
Page 416, "neigbors" changed to "neighbors" (all the neigbors waiting)
Page 437, "nonenity" changed to "nonentity" (old book into nonentity)
Page 438, "aerial" changed to "ærial" (of my ærial visitors)
Page 505, "Tourgee" changed to "Tourgée" (Tourgée and others prominent)
Page 516, Stowe, Catherine, page reference added to (visits Cincinnati
with father, 54;)
Page 522, Lowell, J. R. "interesti n" changed to "interest in"
(Sutherland's interest in, 277)
*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Life of Harriet Beecher Stowe
- Compiled From Her Letters and Journals by Her Son Charles Edward Stowe" ***
Copyright 2023 LibraryBlog. All rights reserved.