Flavius Josephus - "The Life of Flavius Josephus"

George Meredith - "A Reading of Life, and Other Poems"

Louisa May Alcott - "Hospital Sketches"

John Lothrop Motley - "The Rise of the Dutch Republic, 1576"

New Philadelphia Book Publisher Highlights Local Talent
Book and Publishing News from Publishers Newswire(tm)

Looking for Child to be on Cover of a New Book, 'The Model Child'
PHILADELPHIA, Pa. -- The Philadelphia literary world will celebrate the launch of two new players today, April 10th: Kay Square Press, a new publishing company focused on Philadelphia-area artists, their stories, and their art; and Kay Square's first release, 'With the Rich and Mighty: Emlen Etting of Philadelphia' (ISBN: 978-0-9815129-0-7), a critical biography by Kenneth C. Kaleta.

FlatSigned Press Alleges Don Imus Remarks Damage Legacy of President Gerald R. Ford
NEW YORK, N.Y. -- Nathan Yungerberg, an accomplished model scout and professional child photographer is launching a nation-wide casting call to find the cover model for his highly anticipated book release, 'The Model Child: A Parents Guide to the Child Modeling Industry' (ISBN: 978-0-9817018-0-6).

Books: The Life of Harriet Beecher Stowe

C >> Charles Edward Stowe >> The Life of Harriet Beecher Stowe




"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 to 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 tomorrow 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 transpired
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.

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.

[Illustration: THE DUCHESS OF SUTHERLAND]

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, ail 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.'