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."