by Tim Black
“You are blessed my son,” Douglass smiled broadly. “You can do so much to help your brothers and sisters in chains. My, what did your mama feed you to make you grow so tall?”
Samuel managed to laugh. “Fried chicken and mashed potatoes,” he replied, not lying, for his mother had made that stereotypical Southern dish nearly every Sunday of his life.
“I hope we see more of you…Mr.?”
“Chandler, Samuel Chandler, Mr. Douglass,” he said.
“I hope we see more of you Samuel,” he said, and nodded for Samuel to move on.
Frederick Douglass was perfunctory with both Victor and Mr. Greene, and the group reassembled outside.
Victor said to the floating ghost. “What did you think of him, Mr. Tesla?”
“He is or was a remarkable man, Victor,” Tesla replied.
“Let’s return to the classroom,” Mr. Greene instructed. “We have to make another stop I hadn’t originally planned for.”
“Where to, Nathan?”
“We need to pay a visit to ‘the little woman who wrote the book that started this great war,’” Mr. Greene said.
“Who was that?” Minerva asked.
“Harriet Beecher Stowe?” Victor asked.
“Uh huh,” Mr. Greene said.
“Isn’t that what Lincoln said to her when he met her during the Civil War, Mr. Greene?”
“Well, according to Stowe’s son it is. And it probably is, because Lincoln liked to make people laugh, and while it was an exaggeration, historians contend that Uncle Tom’s Cabin changed the hearts and minds of many people in the North. The book was vilified in the South and was a smash hit in England. Queen Victoria read it and wept. It was a phenomenon. It was adapted into a long-running play that toured throughout the country. Mr. Tesla, can you float ahead to Brunswick, Maine, near Bowdoin College in the summer of 1852? Say a week after our spot in time?”
“Aye, aye, Captain.”
Chapter 9
As the students buckled themselves into their classroom seats for the next hop through time, Nikola Tesla set the coordinates for Brunswick, Maine. When they arrived at their destination, Mr. Greene walked to his desk and motioned for Victor to pass out copies of Harriet Beecher Stowe’s famous novel.
“I want each of you to have a copy of the first edition of Uncle Tom’s Cabin. These books in this condition are nearly priceless. And we are going to make them even more valuable as collector’s items by having Harriet Beecher Stowe sign the copies. So, this is my reason for the unplanned stop in Brunswick, Maine.
“First, a little background on Harriet Beecher Stowe, one of the remarkable Beecher sisters. She was one of thirteen children in the Beecher clan, a very religious family whose patriarch was Congregation Minister Lyman Beecher. Her brother Henry Ward Beecher was one of the most well-known ministers of the antebellum period. Lyman Beecher was strongly anti-slavery and his children followed his example, Harriet Beecher being the most famous, of course. But the other Beechers were abolitionists as well. When Lyman Beecher was preaching in Cincinnati, his home became an overnight stop on the Underground Railroad for slaves fleeing Kentucky. The escapees were then sent on to Canada to beyond the reach of slave catchers, as the British Empire had abolished slavery in 1833 and Canada was part of the empire. Harriet married a seminary teacher named Calvin Stowe, and after their wedding the couple moved to Maine, close to Bowdoin College in Brunswick.”
“Isn’t that where Gettysburg hero Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain went to school, Mr. Greene?” Victor asked. “I wouldn’t want to run into him here considering how he met Bette and I at the Battle of Gettysburg.”
“Relax, Victor. I planned for that. Chamberlain graduated in June 1852 and went off to seminary in Bangor, Maine, so we won’t run into him.”
“That’s good,” Victor said, relieved.
“Was Uncle Tom’s Cabin Harriet Beecher Stowe’s first publication, Mr. Greene?”
“No, Harriet was born in 1811 and she had been publishing articles and stories since 1834. She was an accomplished writer, but she had no idea how successful her novel would be. No one did. It was totally unexpected. I compare her novel to the Broadway show Hamilton, an incredible success that no one expected. Let me read you a letter sent to Gamaliel Bailey, who was the editor of an anti-slavery paper published in Washington, The National Era…
Mr. Bailey, Dear Sir: I am at present occupied upon a story, which will be a much longer one than any I have written, embracing a series of sketches which give the lights and shadows of the “patriarchal institution,” written either from observation, incidents which have occurred in the sphere of my personal knowledge, or in the knowledge of my friends. I shall show the best side of the thing and something faintly approaching the worst.
And so, she began a serialization of what would later be the first blockbuster novel in United States history, a book that would sell over a million copies in England alone, and would be translated into dozens of languages and adapted into a play, that would be performed in traveling companies all throughout the North and through Europe as well. While the series of chapters in the newspaper were well-received, it would be through book publication that the novel would explode and become one of the causes of the Civil War. It seemed that putting slavery into a melodramatic novel changed quite a few attitudes among Northerners. For some reason I cannot explain, a fictional novel was more powerful than the factual newspaper and magazine articles about slavery’s atrocities. In this case at least, the pen was mightier than the sword. I think it behooves us to meet Harriet Beecher Stowe,” Mr. Greene said.
“What about the other Beecher sisters, Mr. Greene? Will they be there?” Bette asked.
“Catharine and Isabella were in town in the summer of 1852, I believe. Her brothers followed in their father’s footsteps and became ministers, with Henry Ward Beecher becoming the most famous preacher in America. Older sister Catharine was one of the leaders in the movement for women’s education. Catharine said that women were uniquely qualified to the intellectual and moral development of children, be they mothers or teachers. She too was a published writer and a mentor to her younger sister Harriet. Catharine started her own school for girls including physical education for girls, which was something of a revolutionary idea at the time: physical education for girls.”
“That is ridiculous,” Heather said as the group walked across the campus of Bowdoin College on their way to Harriet Beecher Stowe’s home. For emphasis, Heather did a cartwheel and a back flip, causing two women sitting chatting on a bench to flee at the surprise of seeing a young woman so inclined.
“Chill, Heather!” Bette shouted. “We’re not showing off for Pocahontas here,” she cautioned. “We are refined young ladies.”
“That will be the day,” Victor quipped, adding a bit of snark to the conversation.
Mr. Greene did not see Bette’s vulgar finger gesture in response to Victor’s comment, Minerva realized.
Her oblivious teacher said, “There is an excellent book on the Beechers by Barbara White. It is called The Beecher Sisters. The Beechers were an incredible family of overachievers, all thirteen of them. Except perhaps for Mary who married and settled into domestic life. Anyway, I recommend the book to anyone who wishes to learn more about them. We are here to see Harriet.”
“But what about Isabella?” Minerva asked. “Wasn’t she a suffragette?”
“Yes, her married name was Isabella Hooker. She, like Harriet, was educated in her sister Catharine’s school, which she established for young women. Isabella was the beauty of the family. She worked alongside Susan B. Anthony and Elizabeth Cady Stanton and was one of the founders of the New England Woman Suffrage Association. So here you have among the three sisters, an abolitionist in Harriet, although the entire Beecher clan was as well, an educator who believed in equal rights for women, and a younger sister who marched with the suffragettes. All of them might be called progressive, I suppose… Here we are. 63 Federal Street.”
/> Victor, who knew something of architecture, realized the plain two-story white house with the black shutters was in the colonial style and was probably built in the late 18th or early 19th century. The group gathered around Mr. Greene beside the gated fence that led to the front steps of the house.
“This is where Henry Wadsworth Longfellow stayed when he was a student at Bowdoin College in the 1820s,” Mr. Greene explained. “There is a plaque on the outside wall beneath the window to his room, today. In fact, the house is used by Bowdoin College for administration. But not back then. Harriet and her husband rented the house for $125 per year, which was quite a bit more than Calvin Stowe had anticipated, as he had only set aside $75 from his $1000 professor salary.”
“Pretty lousy salary,” Samuel said.
“Not for the time,” Mr. Greene said.
Victor, who was still looking at the house, noted a curtain on a second-floor window move. He thought he saw a face in the window. As Mr. Greene prattled on about the Stowe family in Brunswick, the front door opened and an older woman, sporting a black bonnet, appeared in the doorway, a broom in her hand.
“What do you people want here?” the lady called.
“We are here to meet Mrs. Stowe, ma’am,” Mr. Greene said. “We would like her to sign her books which we purchased.
“Just a minute,” the woman said, but before she could close the door a little boy of about four darted through the door and down the steps, pursued by another boy, who appeared to be older, perhaps ten or eleven.
“Two of Harriet’s six children I assume,” Mr. Greene said.
“She had six kids and wrote a novel?” Minerva asked.
“Yes, she had a passel of progeny,” Mr. Greene said, alliteratively. “She was quite the multitasker, she once wrote that ‘nothing but deadly determination enables me ever to write.’ She was constantly interrupted to nurse a child, cook dinner or clean up after a child, and yet she still wrote the most popular novel of the 19th century.”
“She sounds like the first Wonder Woman,” Heather said. “Without the shield and Lasso of Truth, of course.”
It was Victor’s turn to roll his eyes.
The older lady returned to front door. “Alright, she will see you now. I am her sister Catharine Beecher.”
“The poet?”
The crusty frown dropped from the older woman’s face, replaced by a smile. “Why yes,” she said. “It is nice to be remembered. My work has been forgotten. It is Harriet’s time in the sun, you see. I am her mentor.”
“It is a wonderful book,” Mr. Greene said, flattering her by saying, “You must have been a major help to her.”
Catharine continued to smile. “Thank you, sir. Please follow me. She is in her writing room.”
And so she was. Harriet Beecher Stowe was sitting on a bench at a large central table in a room with a fireplace and a view of Federal Street through the window. A baby was sleeping in a nearby crib and the author was scratching a piece of paper with a pen before dipping the pen into a bottle of ink.
Minerva was amazed. A modern author sat at a computer tapping out sentences. Harriet Beecher Stowe had to scratch out each and every letter of every word. She seemed to be in a trance as if she were transcribing a scene she visualized in her head directly to the paper as if to create its permanence on the page.
“Harriet,” Catharine called at the doorway to the room.
The author did not respond, so intense was she in her work.
“Harriet!” Catharine shouted.
Harriet Beecher Stowe held up her left hand while her right hand dipped her pen into the bottle of ink once more. She quickly scratched out another word before looking up at her sister, wordlessly.
“Your readers are here to see you,” she said. “I will take the baby.”
“Thank you, Catharine,” she replied and then turned to the visitors. Yes, may I help you?”
Mr. Greene took over. “Would you sign our books, Mrs. Stowe?”
Harriet Beecher scanned the group, one at time, making eye contact with each student. Mr. Greene handed her his copy.
“My heavens,” Mrs. Stowe said. “Where are my manners? Take a seat on the bench. Pull up those two chairs in the corner. Catharine!” she shouted.
Her sister returned, cradling the baby in her arms. “Could I trouble you for some lemonade for our guests, dear?”
Catharine nodded her head, but Minerva could see that older sister wasn’t pleased.
“My sister has been a true help to me. I don’t think I could have finished the book without her being here… What is your first name?” she asked Mr. Greene, as she opened his book to the title page and prepared to sign the volume.”
“No, please Mrs. Stowe, just sign your name. I may wish to give it as a gift at Christmas.”
Stowe nodded her head in understanding. “Yes, I see you bought the fancy edition,” she added.
“We all did.”
“The young people as well?” she asked.
Minerva spoke up. “Uncle Nathan bought the books for us, Mrs. Stowe,” she said.
Mrs. Stowe smiled at Mr. Greene and said, “Thank you. I make ten percent on each purchase. The book has sold more than anyone ever thought.”
“What was your inspiration for the book?” Minerva asked.
“That is an excellent question. I believe it was a reaction to the vile Fugitive Slave Law passed two years ago. I was sitting in First Parish Church at the beginning of March last year. Pew twenty-three, where I always sit. And as I prayed for our country, I received a vision, a powerful vision of a slave being whipped to death, the scene that would later become the death of Uncle Tom in my story. I held back my tears, and, after the service, I rushed home and wrote down what I had seen in the vision. Then, I read what I had written to my children and saw the reactions on their faces. One of my girls said, ‘Oh mamma! Slavery is the most cruel thing in the world.’ And so, I began to write the story in installments for a newspaper, The National Era. On Saturday nights I would have friends over and read the week’s chapter to the group and ask for their reactions. Their enthusiasm helped me to continue writing the story,” she said. “I really believe in reading books to my children and my friends,” she added. “Their comments were helpful. So, a group of people from Brunswick heard every word of the book before it was ever published.”
Catherine returned with a platter with glasses and a pitcher of lemonade. Placing it on the table. Harriet poured the refreshments and passed them out to the students who thanked her profusely.
“Why did you read the story to people before it was published, Mrs. Stowe?” Minerva asked.
Harriet Beecher Stowe smiled at Minerva. “What is your name, young lady?” she asked.
“Minerva.”
“Yes, the goddess of wisdom, she would have to know,” Mrs. Stowe commented with a smile. “Well, Minerva, I was testing the material on an audience for their reaction. If they showed an adverse reaction to a scene, I might later change the scene. I asked for their comments and they were nice enough to give me their unvarnished opinions,” she said with a chuckle. “My work did not please everyone, especially the slave holders. They have called me all kinds of vile names, which I will not repeat, thank you.”
“Do you believe your vision was from God?” Heather asked.
“My yes, child. Who else could have sent me such a vision?” she asked. “The Lord is upset with us for allowing people to be held in bondage. There is no question about that. And slaveowners will burn in perdition,” she added. “Would you like me to sign your copy of my book?” the author asked.
“Yes, ma’am, please do,” Heather replied.
“What is your name?”
Mr. Greene shook his head at Heather who understood his cue and said, “Oh, just your name please, Mrs. Stowe. I want to give it to one of my sisters, but I’m not sure which one yet.”
“So be it,” said Mrs. Stowe as she signed her name to Heather’s book.
An
d thus it was with the other books, for the students followed Mr. Greene’s lead and asked the author to merely sign her name. Harriet Beecher Stowe, who had signed many books for many people, took eccentricity in stride. After all, her family was quite eccentric.
When Samuel handed her his copy of Uncle Tom’s Cabin, Mrs. Stowe looked up at the tall African American boy and said, “You are not a runaway are you?”
“No, ma’am, I am a free man,” Samuel replied.
“Good, we had a slave catcher in town the other day looking for an escaped slave John Andrew Jackson. A slave named after a former President, isn’t that something? The slave catcher didn’t find him, however, and I believe he fled to freedom in Canada. That’s what the Fugitive Slave Law has accomplished; it has forced escaped slaves to go to Canada to find freedom. There is no freedom for them here in the United States of America.”
As she finished saying this, her sister Catharine entered the room and said, “I am afraid I am going to have to ask you nice people to go. My sister must get back to work.”
Harriet Beecher Stowe stood up and shook each hand in turn and then bid Mr. Greene and the students goodbye.
As they were leaving the house, Heather asked her teacher, “Why did we only want her signature and not an inscription in the books, Mr. Greene?”
“How, Heather, would you ever explain that Harriet Beecher Stowe signed the book to you when you were not even born yet?”
“Oh.”
“No one would believe the signature to be real,” he added. “The books are for you to keep, but if sometime in the future you are short of money you should be able to get a pretty penny if you sell the book. But please don’t, unless you are desperate….” He turned to the ghost,
“Mr. Tesla, can you get us ready to travel within the hour?”
“Yes,” said Tesla who then floated on ahead of the group.