Books: The Life of Harriet Beecher Stowe
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Charles Edward Stowe >> The Life of Harriet Beecher Stowe
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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. K. LOWELL.
After the book was published in England, Mr. Buskin 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 KUSKIN.--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.
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