[Illustration: _THE MATCH GAME._
"_I knelt down, and laid my mallet at her feet. 'Beautiful princess!'
said I, 'behold your enemies, conquered, await your sentence.'_"
(Page 349.)]
MY WIFE AND I:
OR,
HARRY HENDERSON'S HISTORY.
BY
HARRIET BEECHER STOWE,
AUTHOR OF "UNCLE TOM'S CABIN," "PINK AND WHITE," ETC.
[Illustration]
NEW-YORK:
J. B. FORD AND COMPANY.
1872.
Entered according to Act of Congress in the year 1871
BY J. W. FORD AND COMPANY,
in the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
PREFACE.
During the passage of this story through THE CHRISTIAN UNION, it has
been repeatedly taken for granted by the public press that certain of
the characters are designed as portraits of really existing individuals.
They are not. The supposition has its rise in an imperfect consideration
of the principles of dramatic composition. The novel-writer does not
profess to paint _portraits_ of any individual men and women in his
personal acquaintance. Certain characters are required for the purposes
of his story. He conceives and creates them, and they become to him real
living beings, acting and speaking in ways of their own. But on the
other hand, he is guided in this creation by his knowledge and
experience of men and women, and studies individual instances and
incidents only to assure himself of the possibility and probability of
the character he creates. If he succeeds in making the character real
and natural, people often are led to identify it with some individual of
their acquaintance. A slight incident, an anecdote, a paragraph in a
paper, often furnishes the foundation of such a character; and the work
of drawing it is like the process by which Professor Agassiz from one
bone reconstructs the whole form of an unknown fish. But to apply to
any single living person such delineation is a mistake, and might be a
great wrong both to the author and to the person designated.
For instance, it being the author's purpose to show the embarrassment of
the young champion of progressive principles, in meeting the excesses of
modern reformers, it came in her way to paint the picture of the modern
emancipated young woman of advanced ideas and free behavior. And this
character has been mistaken for the portrait of an _individual_, drawn
from actual observation. On the contrary, it was not the author's
intention to draw an individual, but simply to show the type of a class.
Facts as to conduct and behavior similar to those she has described are
unhappily too familiar to residents of New York. But in this as in other
cases the author has simply used isolated facts in the construction of a
dramatic character suited to the design of the story. If the readers of
to-day will turn back to Miss Edgeworth's _Belinda_, they will find that
this style of manners, these assumptions and mode of asserting them, are
no new things. In the character of Harriet Freke, Miss Edgeworth vividly
portrays the manners and sentiments of the modern emancipated women of
our times, who think themselves
"Ne'er so sure our passion to create,
As when they touch the brink of all we hate."
Certainly the author knows no original fully answering to the character
of Mrs. Cerulean, though she has heard such an one described; and,
doubtless, there are traits in her equally attributable to all fair
enthusiasts who mistake the influence of their own personal charms and
fascinations over the other sex, for real superiority of intellect.
There are happily several young women whose vigorous self-sustaining
career, in opening paths of usefulness alike for themselves and others,
are like that of Ida Van Arsdel; and the true experiences of a lovely
New York girl first suggested the character of Eva; yet both of them
are, in execution, strictly imaginary paintings, adapted to the story.
In short, some real character, or, in many cases, some two or three,
furnish the germs, but the germs only, out of which new characters are
developed.
In close: The author wishes to dedicate this Story to the many dear,
bright young girls whom she is so happy as to number among her choicest
friends. No matter what the critics say of it, if _they_ like it; and
she hopes from them, at least, a favorable judgment.
H. B. S.
TWIN-MOUNTAIN HOUSE, N.H.
_October, 1871._
CONTENTS:
PAGE
I. THE AUTHOR DEFINES HIS POSITION 1
II. MY CHILD-WIFE 5
III. OUR CHILD-EDEN 17
IV. MY SHADOW-WIFE 32
V. I START FOR COLLEGE 43
VI. MY DREAM-WIFE 52
VII. THE VALLEY OF HUMILIATION 66
VIII. THE BLUE MISTS 76
IX. AN OUTLOOK INTO LIFE 84
X. COUSIN CAROLINE 99
XI. WHY DON'T YOU TAKE HER? 113
XII. I LAY THE FIRST STONE IN MY FOUNDATION 126
XIII. BACHELOR CHAMBERS 136
XIV. HAPS AND MISHAPS 144
XV. I MEET A VISION 154
XVI. THE GIRL OF OUR PERIOD 166
XVII. I AM INTRODUCED INTO SOCIETY 182
XVIII. THE YOUNG LADY PHILOSOPHER 193
XIX. FLIRTATION 204
XX. I BECAME A FAMILY FRIEND 216
XXI. I DISCOVER THE BEAUTIES OF FRIENDSHIP 226
XXII. I AM INTRODUCED TO THE ILLUMINATI 234
XXIII. I RECEIVE A MORAL SHOWER-BATH 240
XXIV. AUNT MARIA 247
XXV. A DISCUSSION OF THE WOMEN QUESTION 257
XXVI. COUSIN CAROLINE AGAIN 272
XXVII. EASTER LILIES 280
XXVIII. ENCHANTMENT AND DISENCHANTMENT 290
XXIX. A NEW OPENING 307
XXX. PERTURBATIONS 319
XXXI. THE FATES 327
XXXII. THE GAME OF CROQUET 336
XXXIII. THE MATCH GAME 345
XXXIV. LETTER FROM EVA VAN ARSDEL 351
XXXV. DOMESTIC CONSULTATIONS 360
XXXVI. WEALTH _versus_ LOVE 366
XXXVII. FURTHER CONSULTATIONS 373
XXXVIII. MAKING LOVE TO ONE'S FATHER-IN-LAW 379
XXXIX. ACCEPTED AND ENGAGED 388
XL. CONGRATULATIONS, ETC. 396
XLI. THE EXPLOSION 401
XLII. THE TALK OVER THE PRAYER BOOK 409
XLIII. BOLTON 417
XLIV. THE WEDDING JOURNEY 421
XLV. MY WIFE'S WARDROBE 429
XLVI. LETTERS FROM NEW YORK 435
XLVII. AUNT MARIA'S DICTUM 441
XLVIII. OUR HOUSE 448
XLIX. PICNICKING IN NEW YORK 453
L. NEIGHBORS 458
LI. MY WIFE PROJECTS HOSPITALITIES 464
LII. PREPARATIONS FOR OUR DINNER PARTY 468
LIII. THE HOUSE-WARMING 471
_ILLUSTRATIONS._
I. THE MATCH GAME Frontispiece.
II. MY CHILD-WIFE 5
III. MATRIMONIAL PROPOSITIONS 15
IV. UNCLE JACOB'S ADVICE 47
V. MY DREAM-WIFE 64
VI. THE UMBRELLA 159
VII. THE ADVANCED WOMAN OF THE PERIOD 240
VIII. BOLTON'S ASYLUM 275
CHAPTER I.
THE AUTHOR DEFINES HIS POSITION.
It appears to me that the world is returning to its second childhood,
and running mad for Stories. Stories! Stories! Stories! everywhere;
stories in every paper, in every crevice, crack and corner of the house.
Stories fall from the pen faster than leaves of autumn, and of as many
shades and colorings. Stories blow over here in whirlwinds from England.
Stories are translated from the French, from the Danish, from the
Swedish, from the German, from the Russian. There are serial stories for
adults in the _Atlantic_, in the _Overland_, in the _Galaxy_, in
_Harper's_, in _Scribner's_. There are serial stories for youthful
pilgrims in _Our Young Folks_, the _Little Corporal_, "_Oliver Optic_,"
the _Youth's Companion_, and very soon we anticipate newspapers with
serial stories for the nursery. We shall have those charmingly
illustrated magazines, the _Cradle_, the _Rocking Chair_, the _First
Rattle_, and the _First Tooth_, with successive chapters of "Goosy Goosy
Gander," and "Hickory Dickory Dock," and "Old Mother Hubbard," extending
through twelve, or twenty-four, or forty-eight numbers.
I have often questioned what Solomon would have said if he had lived in
our day. The poor man, it appears, was somewhat _blasé_ with the
abundance of literature in his times, and remarked that much study was
weariness to the flesh. Then, printing was not invented, and "books"
were all copied by hand, in those very square Hebrew letters where each
letter is about as careful a bit of work as a grave-stone. And yet, even
with all these restrictions and circumscriptions, Solomon rather testily
remarked, "Of making many books there is no end!" What would he have
said had he looked over a modern publisher's catalogue?
It is understood now that no paper is complete without its serial story,
and the spinning of these stories keeps thousands of wheels and spindles
in motion. It is now understood that whoever wishes to gain the public
ear, and to propound a new theory, must do it in a serial story. Hath
any one in our day, as in St. Paul's, a psalm, a doctrine, a tongue, a
revelation, an interpretation--forthwith he wraps it up in a serial
story, and presents it to the public. We have prison discipline,
free-trade, labor and capital, woman's rights, the temperance question,
in serial stories. We have Romanism and Protestantism, High Church, and
Low Church and no Church, contending with each other in serial stories,
where each side converts the other, according to the faith of the
narrator.
We see that this thing is to go on. Soon it will be necessary that every
leading clergyman should embody in his theology a serial story, to be
delivered from the pulpit Sunday after Sunday. We look forward to
announcements in our city papers such as these: The Rev. Dr. Ignatius,
of the Church of St. Mary the Virgin, will begin a serial romance, to be
entitled "St. Sebastian and the Arrows," in which he will embody the
duties, the trials, and the temptations of the young Christians of our
day. The Rev. Dr. Boanerges, of Plymouth Rock Church, will begin a
serial story, entitled "Calvin's Daughter," in which he will discuss the
distinctive features of Protestant theology. The Rev. Dr. Cool Shadow
will go on with his interesting romance of "Christianity a Dissolving
View,"--designed to show how everything is, in many respects, like
everything else, and all things lead somewhere, and everything will
finally end somehow, and that therefore it is important that everybody
should cultivate general sweetness, and have the very best time possible
in this world.
By the time all these romances get to going, the system of teaching by
parables, and opening one's mouth in dark sayings, will be fully
elaborated. _Pilgrim's Progress_ will be no where. The way to the
celestial city will be as plain in everybody's mind as the way up
Broadway--and so much more interesting! Finally all science and all art
will be explained, conducted, and directed by serial stories, till the
present life and the life to come shall form only one grand romance.
This will be about the time of the Millennium.
Meanwhile, I have been furnishing a story for the _Christian Union_, and
I chose the subject which is in everybody's mind and mouth, discussed on
every platform, ringing from everybody's tongue, and coming home to
every man's business and bosom, to wit:
My Wife and I.
I trust that Miss Anthony and Mrs. Stanton, and all the prophetesses of
our day, will remark the humility and propriety of my title. It is not I
and My Wife--oh no! It is My Wife and I. What am I, and what is my
father's house, that I should go before my wife in anything?
"But why specially for the _Christian Union?_" says Mr. Chadband. Let us
in a spirit of Love inquire.
Is it not evident why, O beloved? Is not that firm in human nature which
stands under the title of MY WIFE AND I, the oldest and most venerable
form of Christian union on record? Where, I ask, will you find a better
one?--a wiser, a stronger, a sweeter, a more universally popular and
agreeable one?
To be sure, there have been times and seasons when this ancient and
respectable firm has been attacked as a piece of old fogyism, and
various substitutes for it proposed. It has been said that "MY WIFE AND
I" denoted a selfish, close corporation inconsistent with a general,
all-sided diffusive, universal benevolence; that MY WIFE AND I, in a
millennial community, had no particular rights in each other more than
any of the thousands of the brethren and sisters of the human race. They
have said, too, that MY WIFE AND I, instead of an indissoluble unity,
were only temporary partners, engaged on time, with the liberty of
giving three months' notice, and starting off to a new firm.
It is not thus that we understand the matter.
MY WIFE AND I, as we understand it, is the sign and symbol of more than
any earthly partnership or union--of something sacred as religion,
indissoluble as the soul, endless as eternity--the symbol chosen by
Almighty Love to represent his redeeming, eternal union with the soul of
man.
A fountain of eternal youth gushes near the hearth of every household.
Each man and woman that have loved truly, have had their romance in
life--their poetry in existence.
So I, in giving my history, disclaim all other sources of interest. Look
not for trap-doors, or haunted houses, or deadly conspiracies, or
murders, or concealed crimes, in this history, for you will not find
one. You shall have simply and only the old story--old as the first
chapter of Genesis--of Adam stupid, desolate, and lonely without Eve,
and how he sought and how he found her.
This much, on mature consideration I hold to be about the sum and
substance of all the romances that have ever been written, and so long
as there are new Adams and new Eves in each coming generation, it will
not want for sympathetic listeners.
So I, Harry Henderson--a plain Yankee boy from the mountains of New
Hampshire, and at present citizen of New York--commence my story.
My experiences have three stages.
First, My child-wife, or the experiences of childhood.
Second, My shadow-wife, or the dreamland of the future.
Third, my real wife, where I saw her, how I sought and found her.
In pursuing a story simply and mainly of love and marriage, I am
reminded of the saying of a respectable serving man of European
experiences, who speaking of his position in a noble family said it was
not so much the wages that made it an object as "_the things it enabled
a gentleman to pick up_." So in our modern days as we have been
observing, it is not so much the story, as the things it gives the
author a chance to say. The history of a young American man's progress
toward matrimony, of course brings him among the most stirring and
exciting topics of the day, where all that relates to the joint
interests of man and woman has been thrown into the arena as an open
question, and in relating our own experiences, we shall take occasion to
keep up with the spirit of this discussing age in all these matters.
[Illustration: _MY CHILD-WIFE._
"_The big boys quizzed me, made hideous faces at me from behind their
spelling-books, and great hulking Tom Halliday threw a spit-ball that
lodged on the wall just over my head, by way of showing his contempt for
me; but I looked at Susie, and took courage._"]