Complete Works of Harriet Beecher Stowe

by Harriet Beecher Stowe

  “And yet, Ella, all poor, forsaken old women are made of young girls, who expected it in their youth as little as you do, perhaps!”

  “Say no more, aunt. I’ll buy-let me see-a comfortable warm shawl for each of these poor women; and I’ll send them-let me see-oh! some tea-nothing goes down with old women like tea; and I’ll make John wheel some coal over to them; and, aunt, it would not be a very bad thought to send them a new stove. I remember the other day, when mamma was pricing stoves, I saw some, such nice ones, for two or three dollars.”

  “For a new hand, Ella, you work up the idea very well,” said her aunt.

  “But how much ought I to give, for any one case, to these women, say?”

  “How much did you give last year for any single Christmas present?”

  “Why, six or seven dollars, for some; those elegant souvenirs were seven dollars; that ring I gave Mrs. B — was ten.”

  “And do you suppose Mrs. B — was any happier for it?”

  “No, really, I don’t think she cared much about it; but I had to give her something, because she had sent me something the year before, and I did not want to send a paltry present to any one in her circumstances.”

  “Then, Ella, give ten to any poor, distressed, suffering creature who really needs it, and see in how many forms of good such a sum will appear. That one hard, cold, glittering diamond ring, that now cheers nobody, and means nothing, that you give because you must, and she takes because she must, might, if broken up into smaller sums, send real warm and heart-felt gladness through many a cold and cheerless dwelling, and through many an aching heart.”

  “You are getting to be an orator, aunt; but don’t you approve of Christmas presents among friends and equals?”

  “Yes, indeed,” said her aunt, fondly stroking her head. “I have had some Christmas presents that did me a world of good-a little book mark, for instance, that a certain niece of mine worked for me with wonderful secrecy, three years ago, when she was not a young lady with a purse full of money-that book mark was a true Christmas present; and my young couple across the way are plotting a profound surprise to each other on Christmas morning. John has contrived, by an hour of extra work every night, to lay by enough to get Mary a new calico dress; and she, poor soul, has bargained away the only thing in the jewelry line she ever possessed, to be laid out on a new hat for him.”

  “I know, too, a washerwoman who has a poor lame boy-a patient, gentle little fellow-who has lain quietly for weeks and months in his little crib, and his mother is going to give him a splendid Christmas present.”

  “What is it, pray?”

  “A whole orange! Don’t laugh. She will pay ten whole cents for it; for it shall be none of your common oranges, but a picked one of the very best going! She has put by the money, a cent at a time, for a whole month; and nobody knows which will be happiest in it, Willie or his mother. These are such Christmas presents as I like to think of-gifts coming from love, and tending to produce love; these are the appropriate gifts of the day.

  “But don’t you think that it’s right for those who have money, to give expensive presents, supposing always as you say, they are given from real affection?”

  “Sometimes, undoubtedly. The Saviour did not condemn her who broke an alabaster-box of ointment-very precious-simply as a proof of love, even although the suggestion was made, ‘this might have been sold for three hundred pence, and given to the poor.’ I have thought he would regard with sympathy the fond efforts which human love sometimes makes to express itself by gifts, the rarest and most costly. How I rejoiced with all my heart, when Charles Elton gave his poor mother that splendid Chinese shawl and gold watch-because I knew they came from the very fullness of his heart to a mother that he could not do too much for-a mother that has done and suffered everything for him. In some such cases, when resources are ample, a costly gift seems to have a graceful appropriateness; but I cannot approve of it, if it exhausts all the means of doing for the poor; it is better, then, to give a simple offering, and to do something for those who really need it.”

  Eleanor looked thoughtful; her aunt laid down her knitting, and said, in a tone of gentle seriousness:

  “Whose birth does Christmas commemorate, Ella?”

  “Our Saviour’s, certainly, aunt.”

  “Yes,” said her aunt. “And when and how was he born? in a stable! laid in a manger; thus born, that in all ages he might be known as the brother and friend of the poor. And surely it seems but appropriate to commemorate His birthday by an especial remembrance of the lowly, the poor, the outcast, and distressed; and if Christ should come back to our city on a Christmas day, where should we think it most appropriate to his character to find him? Would he be carrying splendid gifts to splendid dwellings, or would he be gliding about in the cheerless haunts of the desolate, the poor, the forsaken, and the sorrowful?”

  And here the conversation ended.

  “What sort of Christmas presents is Ella buying?” said cousin Tom, as the waiter handed in a portentous-looking package, which had been just rung in at the door.

  “Let’s open it,” said saucy Will. “Upon my word, two great gray blanket shawls! These must be for you and me, Tom! And what’s this? A great bolt of cotton flannel and gray yarn stockings!”

  The door bell rang again, and the waiter brought in another bulky parcel, and deposited it on the marble-topped centre table.

  “What’s here?” said Will, cutting the cord! “Whew! a perfect nest of packages! oolong tea! oranges! grapes! white sugar! Bless me, Ella must be going to housekeeping!”

  “Or going crazy!” said Tom: “and on my word,” said he, looking out of the window, “there’s a drayman ringing at our door, with a stove, with a tea-kettle set in the top of it!”

  “Ella’s cook stove, of course,” said Will; and just at this moment the young lady entered, with her purse hanging gracefully over her hand.

  “Now, boys, you are too bad!” she exclaimed, as each of the mischievous youngsters were gravely marching up and down, attired in a gray shawl.

  “Did’nt you get them for us? We thought you did,” said both.

  “Ella, I want some of that cotton flannel, to make me a pair of pantaloons,” said Tom.

  “I say, Ella,” said Will, “when are you going to housekeeping? Your cooking stove is standing down in the street; ‘pon my word, John is loading some coal on the dray with it.”

  “Ella, isn’t that going to be sent to my office?” said Tom; “do you know I do so languish for a new stove with a tea-kettle in the top, to heat a fellow’s shaving water!”

  Just then, another ring at the door, and the grinning waiter handed in a small brown paper parcel for Miss Ella. Tom made a dive at it, and staving off the brown paper, developed a jaunty little purple velvet cap, with silver tassels.

  “My smoking cap! as I live,” said he, “only I shall have to wear it on my thumb, instead of my head-too small entirely,” said he, shaking his head gravely.

  “Come, you saucy boys,” said aunt E — , entering briskly, “what are you teasing Ella for?”

  “Why, do see this lot of things, aunt? What in the world is Ella going to do with them?”

  “Oh! I know!”

  “You know; then I can guess, aunt, it is some of your charitable works. You are going to make a juvenile Lady Bountiful of El, eh?”

  Ella, who had colored to the roots of her hair at the expose of her very unfashionable Christmas preparations, now took heart, and bestowed a very gentle and salutary little cuff on the saucy head that still wore the purple cap, and then hastened to gather up her various purchases.

  “Laugh away,” said she, gaily; “and a good many others will laugh, too, over these things. I got them to make people laugh-people that are not in the habit of laughing!”

  “Well, well, I see into it,” said Will; “and I tell you I think right well of the idea, too. There are worlds of money wasted at this time of the year, in getting things that nobody wants, and no
body cares for after they are got; and I am glad, for my part, that you are going to get up a variety in this line; in fact, I should like to give you one of these stray leaves to help on,” said he, dropping a $10 note into her paper. I like to encourage girls to think of something besides breast-pins and sugar candy.”

  But our story spins on too long. If anybody wants to see the results of Ella’s first attempts at good fairyism, they can call at the doors of two or three old buildings on Christmas morning, and they shall hear all about it.

  THE MAY FLOWER, AND MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS

  The Mayflower, and Miscellaneous Writings was first published in 1855 by Phillips, Sampsons and Company. The collection was released as an expanded edition of one of her first works The Mayflower; or Sketches of Scenes and Characters among the Descendents of the Pilgrims which was published in 1843. The author notes in the introduction that the Mayflower is the perfect emblem for the descendents of the Puritans. She comments the flower is the product of hard and rocky soils and is the ideal symbol of faith and hope, which gave strength to their forefathers during arduous times. Stowe begins her first sketch ‘Uncle Lot’ by contemplating which topic and story she should tell and where she should locate her tale. She states that she will write of New England, ‘the land of bright fires and strong hearts’ and that her work is not intended to tell of any heroic deeds but is simply the product of patriotism for the land where she grew up.

  ‘Uncle Lot’ centres on the story of a young man called James and his development as he matures, including his important relationships with Uncle Lot and Grace, the girl he wishes to court. Another sketch in the collection is ‘Mrs A. And Mrs B; Or, What She Thinks About It’ which criticises a lack of individual thought and the tendency to just follow the course and behaviour of others without recourse to thorough analysis about what is right. Stowe asks the reader to consider whether people are merely relieving themselves of individual responsibility by choosing to do what is generally done. Other writings include ‘Cousin William’, ‘Let Every Man Mind His Own Business’ and the popular festive yarn ‘Christmas; or The Good Fairy’, also featured in the Uncle Sam’s Emancipation: Earthly Care a Heavenly Discipline; and Other Sketches collection.

  The first edition

  CONTENTS

  UNCLE LOT.

  LOVE versus LAW.

  THE TEA ROSE.

  TRIALS OF A HOUSEKEEPER.

  LITTLE EDWARD.

  AUNT MARY.

  FRANKNESS.

  THE SABBATH.

  ANOTHER SCENE.

  SKETCH SECOND.

  SKETCH THIRD.

  LET EVERY MAN MIND HIS OWN BUSINESS.

  COUSIN WILLIAM.

  THE MINISTRATION OF OUR DEPARTED FRIENDS.

  MRS. A. AND MRS. B.; OR, WHAT SHE THINKS ABOUT IT.

  CHRISTMAS; OR, THE GOOD FAIRY.

  EARTHLY CARE A HEAVENLY DISCIPLINE.

  CONVERSATION ON CONVERSATION.

  HOW DO WE KNOW?

  WHICH IS THE LIBERAL MAN?

  THE ELDER’S FEAST.

  LITTLE FRED, THE CANAL BOY.

  THE CANAL BOAT.

  FEELING.

  THE SEAMSTRESS.

  OLD FATHER MORRIS.

  THE TWO ALTARS, OR TWO PICTURES IN ONE.

  A SCHOLAR’S ADVENTURES IN THE COUNTRY.

  WOMAN, BEHOLD THY SON!

  THE CORAL RING.

  ART AND NATURE.

  CHILDREN.

  HOW TO MAKE FRIENDS WITH MAMMON.

  A SCENE IN JERUSALEM.

  THE OLD MEETING HOUSE.

  THE NEW-YEAR’S GIFT.

  THE OLD OAK OF ANDOVER.

  A REVERY.

  OUR WOOD LOT IN WINTER.

  POEMS.

  Drawing of the Mayflower

  INTRODUCTION.

  Mr. G. B. Emerson, in his late report to the legislature of Massachusetts on the trees and shrubs of that state, thus describes The May Flower.

  “Often from beneath the edge of a snow bank are seen rising the fragrant, pearly-white or rose-colored flowers of this earliest harbinger of spring.

  “It abounds in the edges of the woods about Plymouth, as elsewhere, and must have been the first flower to salute the storm-beaten crew of the Mayflower on the conclusion of their first terrible winter. Their descendants have thence piously derived the name, although its bloom is often passed before the coming in of May.”

  No flower could be more appropriately selected as an emblem token by the descendants of the Puritans. Though so fragrant and graceful, it is invariably the product of the hardest and most rocky soils, and seems to draw its ethereal beauty of color and wealth of perfume rather from the air than from the slight hold which its rootlets take of the earth. It may often be found in fullest beauty matting a granite lodge, with scarcely any perceptible soil for its support.

  What better emblem of that faith, and hope, and piety, by which our fathers were supported in dreary and barren enterprises, and which drew their life and fragrance from heaven more than earth?

  The May Flower was, therefore, many years since selected by the author as the title of a series of New England sketches. That work had comparatively a limited circulation, and is now entirely out of print. Its articles are republished in the present volume, with other miscellaneous writings, which have from time to time appeared in different periodicals. They have been written in all moods, from the gayest to the gravest — they are connected, in many cases, with the memory of friends and scenes most dear.

  There are those now scattered through the world who will remember the social literary parties of Cincinnati, for whose genial meetings many of these articles were prepared. With most affectionate remembrances, the author dedicates the book to the yet surviving members of The Semicolon.

  Andover, April, 1855.

  UNCLE LOT.

  And so I am to write a story — but of what, and where? Shall it be radiant with the sky of Italy? or eloquent with the beau ideal of Greece? Shall it breathe odor and languor from the orient, or chivalry from the occident? or gayety from France? or vigor from England? No, no; these are all too old — too romance-like — too obviously picturesque for me. No; let me turn to my own land — my own New England; the land of bright fires and strong hearts; the land of deeds, and not of words; the land of fruits, and not of flowers; the land often spoken against, yet always respected; “the latchet of whose shoes the nations of the earth are not worthy to unloose.”

  Now, from this very heroic apostrophe, you may suppose that I have something very heroic to tell. By no means. It is merely a little introductory breeze of patriotism, such as occasionally brushes over every mind, bearing on its wings the remembrance of all we ever loved or cherished in the land of our early years; and if it should seem to be rodomontade to any people in other parts of the earth, let them only imagine it to be said about “Old Kentuck,” old England, or any other corner of the world in which they happened to be born, and they will find it quite rational.

  But, as touching our story, it is time to begin. Did you ever see the little village of Newbury, in New England? I dare say you never did; for it was just one of those out of the way places where nobody ever came unless they came on purpose: a green little hollow, wedged like a bird’s nest between half a dozen high hills, that kept off the wind and kept out foreigners; so that the little place was as straitly sui generis as if there were not another in the world. The inhabitants were all of that respectable old standfast family who make it a point to be born, bred, married, die, and be buried all in the selfsame spot. There were just so many houses, and just so many people lived in them; and nobody ever seemed to be sick, or to die either, at least while I was there. The natives grew old till they could not grow any older, and then they stood still, and lasted from generation to generation. There was, too, an unchangeability about all the externals of Newbury. Here was a red house, and there was a brown house, and across the way was a yellow house; and there was a straggling rail fence or a tribe of mullein st
alks between. The minister lived here, and ‘Squire Moses lived there, and Deacon Hart lived under the hill, and Messrs. Nadab and Abihu Peters lived by the cross road, and the old “widder” Smith lived by the meeting house, and Ebenezer Camp kept a shoemaker’s shop on one side, and Patience Mosely kept a milliner’s shop in front; and there was old Comfort Scran, who kept store for the whole town, and sold axe heads, brass thimbles, licorice ball, fancy handkerchiefs, and every thing else you can think of. Here, too, was the general post office, where you might see letters marvellously folded, directed wrong side upward, stamped with a thimble, and superscribed to some of the Dollys, or Pollys, or Peters, or Moseses aforenamed or not named.

  For the rest, as to manners, morals, arts, and sciences, the people in Newbury always went to their parties at three o’clock in the afternoon, and came home before dark; always stopped all work the minute the sun was down on Saturday night; always went to meeting on Sunday; had a school house with all the ordinary inconveniences; were in neighborly charity with each other; read their Bibles, feared their God, and were content with such things as they had — the best philosophy, after all. Such was the place into which Master James Benton made an irruption in the year eighteen hundred and no matter what. Now, this James is to be our hero, and he is just the hero for a sensation — at least, so you would have thought, if you had been in Newbury the week after his arrival. Master James was one of those whole-hearted, energetic Yankees, who rise in the world as naturally as cork does in water. He possessed a great share of that characteristic national trait so happily denominated “cuteness,” which signifies an ability to do every thing without trying, and to know every thing without learning, and to make more use of one’s ignorance than other people do of their knowledge. This quality in James was mingled with an elasticity of animal spirits, a buoyant cheerfulness of mind, which, though found in the New England character, perhaps, as often as any where else, is not ordinarily regarded as one of its distinguishing traits.