In January, 1836, Harriet Beecher and Calvin Edward Stowe were quietly married. A few days later they took a brief wedding journey, going by stage as far as Columbus; but the roads in an Ohio midwinter were not much to boast of, and, as a pleasant journey, the trip was not a success. They were happier when they returned to their own fireside and sat down there peacefully together. Mrs. Stowe was rather astonished to find that such a “wisp of nerve” as herself could pass through the wedding experience with a happiness that was tranquil and serene rather than overwhelming.
If she had been able to look into the future, however, she must have been appalled by the view. The darkest period of her life was before her, a time to try the stoutest soul, a stretch of fourteen years of struggle with narrowing means and increasing cares. The Seminary that her father had come into the west to found, and in which Professor Stowe was the chief pillar of scholarship, did not for various reasons unconnected with either of these noble self-sacrificing men, increase in size and financial support as they had hoped it would. Students became fewer and salaries more and more meager. At last Professor Stowe, convinced that he could no longer carry the forlorn hope of that western work with any justice to his family, accepted one of several offers that came to him to enter upon more advantageous professional work in the east and removed to Bowdoin College, his own alma mater, in Brunswick, Maine.
In this period, then, between her marriage in 1836 and the removal to Maine in January, 1850, we see our brave little woman putting up the stiffest kind of fight against the most disheartening odds. Under household conditions that grew less and less encouraging for the housekeeper, she toiled on. Sickness visited various members of the family and the burdens grew heavier than the little mother was able to bear. Her knowledge was deepening, and her heart was enlarging, but her strength was too sorely tired. Her struggle was tragic; it is sad to reflect upon, but it is also inspiring! Many who read the pathetic record of these years of privation and suffering will lose sight of the great author in their sympathetic interest in the woman, the wife, and the mother; through her heroism and sweetness and nobility of character during this crucial time she is endeared to us as no fame and glory could ever endear her. Her entry into the profession of literature came through the welcome prospect of a “douceur that might eke out a domestic accommodation.” Her literary training was gained when she was “a young mother and housekeeper in the first years of her novitiate, amid alternate demands from an ever dissolving ‘kitchen cabinet’ and from the two, three and four occupants of her nursery.” And if she had not been what Sam Lawson would call “one of these ’ere facultized persons,” she never could have accomplished the prodigies of work that came from her hands.
During these years of poverty in Cincinnati six children came to add their cares and their loves to Mrs. Stowe’s life. First twin daughters arrived and were named Eliza Taylor and Harriet Beecher. Two years later Henry Ellis was born. Then came Frederick William, named for the Prussian King for whom his father had a great admiration. Georgiana May followed and Samuel Charles was the next. This, omitting the last little one whose life was sacrificed in the cholera epidemic, made the circle of five who went with the little mother when she preceded her husband to the new home in Maine. Soon after her arrival there her seventh child was born and was named Charles Edward. This son survived to write in two noble transcriptions the chronicles of her happy and her tragic experiences.
Her children were the very heart of her life. “When I can stop and think long enough to discriminate my head from my heels, I must say,” she said, “that I think myself fortunate in both husband and children. My children I would not change for all the ease, leisure and pleasure I could have without them.” To Mrs. Stowe motherhood was literally a religion. She knew in her heart what the love of a mother could be, and she said, “God invented mothers’ hearts, and He certainly has the pattern in His own.” So she found within herself a proof of the love of God, a beautiful path to spiritual attainment that is open to every woman that learns in any way to understand the meaning of a mother’s love.
Mrs. Stowe was a hard working woman, constantly beset by trials of housekeeping and home-making. Her husband was rich in Greek and Hebrew and Latin and Arabic, and, alas! rich in nothing else. But then, she said, she was abundantly enriched with wealth of another sort—meaning the children from the curly-headed twin daughters down. She considered that her first and best mission lay in this circle; and she maintained that to feel the importance of order and system and to carry it out through the family requires very much the same kind of talent which a good prime minister needs. She was the kind of housekeeper that she has shown us in the Aunt Betsey of “The Mayflower,” who was “the neatest and most efficient piece of human machinery that ever operated in forty places at once. She was always everywhere, supervising everything.”
Mrs. Stowe’s dowry consisted of eleven dollars’ worth of china. That served her for two years. But when her brother, Edward, with his bride, came to visit her, she found that she could not set the table with the plates and tea cups she possessed. So she bought an additional set for ten dollars, and this supply lasted her for many years. Mrs. Stowe seems to have inherited all the cleverness of her mother, Roxana, in making and making over, in fitting and polishing up all sorts of things for the household. While she was getting settled in Maine she wrote to a sister, “Mrs. Mitchell and myself made two sofas and lounges, a barrel chair, divers bedspreads, pillow-cases, pillows, bolsters and mattresses; we painted rooms; we revarnished furniture; we—what didn’t we do?”10 She could nail a carpet in the corner and tack gimp on to mended furniture; she could make a loose screw firm, and, I am certain, drive in a nail without hitting her fingers. While she was as feminine as any woman that ever lived, she had the simple practical efficiency that is—or was—supposed to be characteristically masculine. She could lay the cloth on the floor and cut out a dress for herself without any pattern; “I guess I know my own shape,” she said to one who caught her doing this. She made her husband’s coats and her own shoes. In the days when the congress gaiters were in fashion, she made very pretty ones for herself, fitting them nicely; she was an excellent cobbler and could cut the leather soles and nail on the heel with perfect art, and when she found the elastic on the sides difficult to set in she invented a way of lacing the shoe up behind, thus overcoming the trouble and giving a dainty and trim effect to the foot-gear.
In the winter of 1839 the Belle Rivière was choked up with ice; provisions could not be brought in and a famine was threatened; consequently there was a stiff rise in prices. Coarse salt was three dollars a bushel, rice was eighteen cents a pound, coffee was fifty cents a pound, white sugar the same; brown sugar was twenty cents a pound, molasses was one dollar a gallon and potatoes were one dollar a bushel. What was to be done? They simply did without these things. For months the diet consisted of bread and bacon, and happy they were to get that!
In spite of her blithe resistance, Mrs. Stowe’s health for a time gave way entirely, and she was obliged to go to a water-cure in Vermont. Her sister Catherine was there at the same time and for much the same reason; so the two sisters had many hours of communion, and, no doubt, some fun. While she was there Harriet’s husband, who was rather inclined to look on the dark side, wrote her a most melancholy letter. She answered that she wished he could be with her at Brattleboro to coast down hill on a sled, or go sliding and snowballing by moonlight. “I would snowball every bit of the hypo out of you,” she said. Then to amuse him she copied a poem that Kate had just been writing on the cheerful subject of tombstones. It was accompanied by two pictures of tombstones they had drawn. On one was inscribed “Eheu me miserum = Hic jacket,” and over the stone on the branch of a tree was hung—a jacket! The poem, in two cantos, was written, she said, for the edification of certain dolorous individuals in the Semi-colon.
Canto I
Canto II
The letter closes with an exhortation to him to be patient and bear trouble as if it were the toothache or a driving rain or anything else that one cannot escape—which is good sound advice.
Her own power to put this advice into practice and to control her moods of depression is shown in a letter she once wrote to him when he was away in search of health.
“It is a dark, sloppy, rainy, muddy, disagreeable day, and I have been working hard all day in the kitchen, washing dishes, looking into closets, and seeing a great deal of that dark side of domestic life which a housekeeper may who will investigate after a girl who keeps all clean on the outside of cup and platter, and is very apt to make good the rest of the text in the inside of things.... I am sick of the smell of sour milk, and sour meats, and sour everything; and then the clothes will not dry, and no wet thing does, and everything smells mouldy; and altogether I feel as if I never wanted to eat again.” After enlarging upon her troubles further in the same whimsical vein, she added gravely, “Yet do I rejoice in my God, and know in whom I have believed, and only pray that the fire may consume the dross; as to the gold, that is imperishable. No real evil can come to me, so I fear nothing for the future, and only suffer in the present tense. God, the mighty God, is mine, of that I am sure, and I know that He knows that though heart and flesh fail, I am all the while desiring and trying for His will alone.” As to money, for which there was imminent necessity, she said: “Money, I suppose, is as plenty with Him now as it always has been, and if He sees it is really best, He will doubtless help me.” At one time her husband wrote that he was sick a-bed and all but dead; he did not ever expect to see his family again; wanted to know how she would manage in case she was left a widow; he knew she would get into debt and never get out; he wondered at her courage, thought she was very sanguine, warned her to be prudent, as there would not be much to live on in case of death, etc., etc. This letter Mrs. Stowe read and poked into the fire. Then she proceeded with her writing. “You are not able just now to bear anything, my dear husband,” she replied; “therefore, trust all to me; I never doubt or despair. I am already making arrangements to raise money.”
Now, how was the little woman to “raise money”? Of course by writing. Certain of her friends, pitying her trials, copied and sent a number of her sketches to some liberally paying Annuals with her name. With the money earned in this way she bought a feather-bed! This was considered a profitable investment, and if the Shakespearean fashion of mentioning a treasured bed in the codicil of a will were to be followed, it might be suggested that here would be found the article most deserving of mention as an heirloom in successive testaments!
After this Mrs. Stowe thought that she had discovered the philosopher’s stone! So when a new carpet or mattress was going to be needed or when at the close of the year it began to be evident that her accounts, like Dora’s, “wouldn’t add up,” she used to say to her faithful friend and factotum, the governess, who shared all her joys and sorrows, “Now, Anna, if you will keep the babies and attend to the house for one day, I will write a piece and then we shall be out of the scrape.” She began to make overtures to various editors. She wrote her husband: “I have sent some pieces to W. If he accepts them and pays you for them, take the money and use it as you see necessary; if not, be sure to send the pieces back to me. I am strong in spirit; and God, who has been with me in so many straits, will not desert me now. I know Him well; He is my Father, and though I may be a blind and erring child, He will help me for all that. My trust through all errors and sins is in Him. He will help us, and His arms are about us, so we shall not sink, my dear husband.”
Her early successes filled the heart of Professor Stowe with pride and with the desire that she should adopt a literary career. It was so written, he declared, in the book of fate, and she should make all her calculations accordingly. She must get a good stock of health and brush up her mind. She should drop the “E” out of her name because it only encumbered the name and interfered with its flow and harmony. “Harriet Beecher Stowe” it should be, a name euphonious and flowing and full of meaning. “Then my word for it,” he said enthusiastically, “your husband will lift up his head in the gate, and your children will rise up and call you blessed.”
Of the tremendous odds under which Mrs. Stowe for a time pursued her literary labors, her sister Catherine gives an amusing account. Harriet had promised that she would get at a certain story when the house-cleaning was done and when baby’s teeth were through! Catherine said that the house-cleaning could be deferred one day longer and as to baby’s teeth, she did not see that there would ever be any end to them; she must have the manuscript that day, she said, for she had promised it to the editor. “Come, my dear,” she said, “in three hours you can finish the courtship, marriage, catastrophe, and all, and this three hours of your brains will earn enough to pay for all the sewing your fingers can do for a year to come. Two dollars a page, my dear, and you can write a page in fifteen minutes!” But Harriet called her sister’s attention to the fact that there was a baby in her arms and two pussies by her side, a great baking in the kitchen to be done, and a green girl to help—it was clearly out of the question for that day at least. Catherine would not take “no” for an answer.
“‘No, no; let us have another trial. You can dictate as easily as you can write. Come, I can set the baby in this clothes-basket and give him some mischief or other to keep him quiet; you shall dictate and I will write. Now this is the place where you left off; you were describing the scene between Ellen and her lover; the last sentence was, “Borne down by the tide of agony, she leaned her head on her hands, the tears streamed through her fingers, and her whole frame shook with convulsive sobs.” What shall I write next?’
“‘Mina, put a little milk into this pearlash,’ said Harriet.
“‘Come,’ said I. ‘“The tears streamed through her fingers and her whole frame shook with convulsive sobs.” What next?’
“Harriet paused and looked musingly out of the window as she turned her mind to her story. ‘You may write now,’ she said, and she dictated as follows:
“‘“Her lover wept with her, nor dared he again to touch the point so sacredly guarded.” Mina, roll that crust a little thinner! “He spoke in soothing tones.” Mina, poke the coals in the oven.’
“‘Here,’ said I; ‘let me direct Mina about these matters, and write a while yourself.’
“Harriet took the pen and patiently set herself to the work. For a while my culinary knowledge and skill were proof to all Mina’s investigating inquiries, and they did not fail till I saw two pages completed.
“‘You have done bravely,’ said I as I read over the manuscript; ‘now you must direct Mina a while. Meantime dictate and I will write.’
“Never was there a more docile literary lady than Harriet. Without a word of objection she followed my request.
“‘I am ready to write,’ said I. ‘The last sentence was: “What is this life to one who has suffered as I have?” What next?’
“‘Shall I put in the brown or white bread first?’ said Mina.
“‘The brown first,’ said Harriet.
“‘“What is this life to one who has suffered as I have?”’ said I.
“Harriet brushed the flour off her apron and sat down for a moment in a muse. Then she dictated as follows:
“‘“Under the breaking of my heart I have borne up. I have borne up under all that tries a woman—but this thought—oh, Henry!”’
“‘Ma’am, shall I put ginger into this pumpkin?’ queried Mina.
“‘No, you may let that alone just now,’ replied Harriet. She then proceeded:
“‘“I know my duty to my children. I see the hour must come. You must take them, Henry; they are my last earthly comfort.”’
“‘Ma’am, what shall I do with these egg shells and all this truck here?’ interrupted Mina.
“‘Put them in the pail by you,’ answered Harriet.
“‘“They are my last earthly comfort,”’ said I. ‘What next?’
“She continued to dictate:
“‘“You must take them away. It may be—perhaps it must be—that I shall soon follow, but the breaking heart of a wife still pleads, ‘a little longer, a little longer.’”’
“‘How much longer must the gingerbread stay in?’ inquired Mina.
“‘Five minutes,’ said Harriet.
“‘“A little longer, a little longer,”’ I repeated in a dolorous tone, and we burst into a laugh.
“Thus we went on, cooking, writing, nursing and laughing till I finally accomplished my object. The piece was finished, copied, and the next day sent to the editor.”
Some writer of to-day has complained that this tale of Mrs. Stowe’s habit of writing with the bread board in her lap had a great influence for harm on later writers in that it seems to furnish proof that a woman who is compelled to combine housekeeping and writing can do the writing any time and anywhere, right amid the business of the kitchen. This, of course, Mrs. Stowe would have been the first to deny. In fact, when it was found that she could write acceptably, and her husband said she was born for that work and must fulfill her destiny, she sent this appeal to him: “If I am to write I must have a room to myself which shall be my room. I have, in my own mind, pitched on Mrs. W.’s room. I can put the stove in it. I have bought a cheap carpet for it ... and I only beg in addition that you will let me change the glass door from the nursery into that room and keep my plants there, and then I shall be quite happy. All last winter I felt the need of some place where I could go and be quiet and satisfied.... We can eat by our cooking-stove and the children can be washed and dressed and keep their playthings in the room above.... You can study by the parlor fire, and I and my plants, etc., will take the other room. I shall take my work and all my things there, and feel settled and quiet.” That she should feel so was absolutely necessary if she was to do any real work in writing. Her husband was most responsive. He wrote in reply: “And now, my dear wife, I want you to come home as quick as you can. The fact is that I cannot live without you, and if we were not so prodigious poor I would come for you at once. There is no woman like you in this wide world. Who else has so much talent with so little self-conceit; so much reputation with so little affectation; so much literature with so little nonsense; so much enterprise with so little extravagance; so much tongue with so little scold; so much sweetness with so little softness; so much of so many things and so little of so many other things?”
In answer to this beautiful love-making Mrs. Stowe could say: “If you were not already my dearly-loved husband I should certainly fall in love with you.” And we do not wonder!
Thus far we have seen the heroine of this life story tried and disciplined by toil and narrowed means; but the light of love has been about her and her faith and her buoyancy of spirit have not failed. How will it be if a great sorrow comes, one that bereaves her of one of her greatest treasures? It seems that while she had the children about her she felt that all losses were turned into blessings. In January, 1849, she writes to her friend Georgiana May to tell her that for six months after she came home from the water-cure she had had neuralgia in the eyes so that she could not have any daylight in the room, and that she had been so burdened and loaded with cares as to drain her dry of all capacity of thought, feeling or memory; yet, in spite of all that she cried out with the greatest buoyancy, “Well, Georgy, I am thirty-six years old! I am glad of it. I like to grow old and have six children and cares endless. I wish you could see me with my flock all around me. They sum up my cares, and were they gone I should ask myself, What now remains to be done? They are my work, over which I fear and tremble.”
The words seemed almost like a premonition of what was to come to her in the desolate summer of 1849. A malignant epidemic of cholera broke out in the city and spread alarmingly. One hundred and twenty deaths occurred sometimes on one day. The Seminary was turned into a hospital for the care of the sick students. The gloom and sorrow of the time had to be borne by her alone, for Professor Stowe was himself at this time at Brattleboro on account of the failure of his own health. At last her own children were attacked and, after a period of acute suspense, little Samuel Charles succumbed to the disease. Broken-hearted over this crushing sorrow, Mrs. Stowe could yet give loving sympathy to those around her who were suffering as she. “I write as if there were no sorrow like my sorrow,” she said to her husband, “yet there has been in this city ... scarce a house without its dead. This heartbreak, this anguish, has been everywhere, and where it will end God only knows.” It was her only prayer to God that such anguish as hers might not be suffered in vain. She felt that she never could be consoled unless the crushing of her own heart might enable her to work out some great good to others. This deep prayer was to be fulfilled in a way of which she had not yet dreamed.