Complete Works of Harriet Beecher Stowe

by Harriet Beecher Stowe

  “You can go all about, trading in your vessel, and making money,” he said, “and here on this retired island there is no way to spend it, so you must lay up a good deal.”

  “Don’t know about that,” said the young man; “there’s women and girls everywhere; and they must have their rings, and their pins, and parasols and ribbons. There’s ways enough for money to go.”

  On Sunday mornings, these islanders have out their sail-boats, and all make sail for some point where there is a church. They spend the day in religious service, and return at evening. Could one wish a more picturesque way of going to meeting of a calm summer morning?

  So beautiful a country, one would think, must have nurtured the poetic sentiment; and Maine, accordingly, has given us one of our truest poets-Longfellow. Popular as his poetry is, on a first reading, it is poetry that improves and grows on one by acquaintance and study; and more particularly should be studied under the skies and by the seas of that State whose beauty first inspired it. No one who views the scenery of Maine artistically, and then studies the poems of Longfellow, can avoid seeming that its hues and tones, its beautiful word-painting, and the exquisite variety and smoothness of its cadences, have been caught, not from books and study, but from a long and deep heart communion with Nature. We recollect seeing with some indignation, a few years ago, what seemed to us a very captious criticism on Longfellow; and it simply occurred to us then, that if the critic had spent as much time in the forest as the poet, and become as familiar with the fine undertones of Nature, such a critique never would have appeared. A lady who has lately been rambling with us among the scenery of Maine, and reading Longfellow’s poems, said, the other day-”He must have learned his measure from the sea; there is just its beautiful ripple in all his verses”-a very beautiful and very just criticism. There are some fine lines in Evangeline, that give us the pine forests of Maine like a painting:

  “This is the forest primeval-the murmuring pines and the hemlocks

  Bearded with moss and with garments green, indistinct in the twilight

  Stand like Druids of Eld, with voices sad and prophetic,

  Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms:

  Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighboring ocean

  Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest.”

  Drawn to the very life! We have seen those very Druids-graybeards, dusky garments and all, on the shores of Maine, many a time; and if anybody wants to feel the beauty and grandeur of the picture, he must go to some of those wild rocky islands there.

  Longfellow’s poetry has the true seal of the bard in this: that while it is dyed rich as an old cathedral window in tints borrowed in foreign language and literature-tints caught in the fields of Spain, Italy, and Germany-yet, after all, the strong dominant colors are from fields and scenes of home. So truly is he a poet of Maine, that we could wish to see his poems in every fisherman’s cottage, through all the wild islands, and among all the romantic bays and creeks of that beautiful shore.

  It would be a fine critical study to show how this undertone of native imagery and feeling passes through all that singular harmony which the poet’s scholarcraft has enabled him to compose from the style of many nations; and some day we have it in heart to do this in a future letter. At present we will not bestow any further tediousness upon you.

  Very truly,

  H. B. S.

  LETTER FROM MAINE.-NO.2.

  THE last letter from Maine! how painful a word this may be, only those who can fully appreciate this beautiful, hospitable, noble-hearted State, can say.

  Maine stands as a living disproval of the received opinion, that Northern latitudes chill the blood, or check the flow of warm and social feeling. There is a fullness, a frankness, and freedom, combined with simplicity, about the social and domestic life of this State, which reminds me of the hospitality and generosity of Kentucky, more than anything else, and yet has added to it that stability and intelligent firmness peculiar to the atmosphere of New England. Perhaps it is because Maine, like Kentucky, is yet but a half-settled State, and has still a kind of pioneer, backwoods atmosphere about it. All impulses which come from the great heart of nature, from the woods, the mountains, or the ocean, are always ways pure and generous-and those influences in Maine are yet stronger than the factitious secondhand and man-made influences of artificial life.

  Truly, whether we consider the natural beauty of Maine, or the intellectual clearness and development of her common people, or the unsophisticated simplicity of life and manners there, or the late glorious example which she has set in the eyes of all the nations of the earth, one must say she is well worthy of her somewhat aspiring motto-the North Star! and the significant word, “Dirigo!”

  DIRIGO. That word is getting to have, in this day, a fullness of meaning, that perhaps was not contemplated when it was assumed into her escutcheon-for Maine is indeed the North Star, and the guiding hand in a movement that is to regenerate all nations-and from all nations the cry for her guidance begins to be heard.

  It is said that the very mention of the State of Maine, in temperance gatherings in England, now raises tumults of applause, and that Neal Dow has been sent for even as far as Berlin, to carry the light of this new gospel of peace on earth, and good will to men.

  The last election in Maine, taken altogether, is the most magnificent triumph of principle, pure principle, that the world ever saw. Thousands and tens of thousands of money had been sent by liquor dealers in other States to bribe voters-it had been triumphantly asserted that votes in Maine could be had for two dollars a head-but when they came to try the thing practically upon her sturdy old farmers and fishermen, they then got quite a new idea of what a Maine man was. The old aquatic farmers, who inherit all the noble traits both of sea and land, shook their hands most emphatically from holding bribes, and the mountain farmers showed that in the course of their agricultural life and experiments they had learned, among other things, the striking difference between wheat and chaff. No! no! bribing was plainly “no go” in Maine; the money was only taken by a few poor, harmless loafers, of the kind who roost on rail fences on a sunny day, or lean up against barns, when for obvious reasons they are in no condition to roost, and who are especially interested in the question of the rights of women to saw wood.

  The election in Maine is an era in the history of elections, because there, for once, men of principle forsook all party lines and measures, to vote for PRINCIPLE alone. Whigs voted for Democrats, Democrats for Whigs, with sole reference to their relation to the temperance cause, and thus a great and memorable victory was gained. Party is the great Anti-Christ of a republican government, and the discipline of party has hitherto been so stringent that it really has been impossible to determine the sentiment of a Christian man by his vote, except so far as it might signify the opinion of the party with which they were connected. Maine, in agreement with her motto, “Dirigo,” has set the example of two very great and important things. One is, that this traffic may be suppressed by law; and the other is, that men of principle can vote out of their party-and the second suggestion is quite equal in value with the first. For if men can vote out of their party for one great question of right, they can for another; and the time is not distant, we trust, when the noble State of Maine will apply the same liberty to other subjects.

  While I have been writing this, an invisible spirit has been walking in our forests, and lo, the change! The serrated ranks of spruces are lighted with brilliant forms of trees, flame coloured, yellow, scarlet, all shining out between the unchanged steel blue of the old evergreens. If one wants the perfection of American forest scenery, he must have for the rainbow illumination of autumn, a background of sombre black green like ours. Fancy the graceful indentations, the thousand lake-like beautiful bays of this charming shore, now reflecting in their mirror this hourly brightening pageant-fancy the ships gliding in and out from Jeddo, China, California, England! and
you can fancy the regret and longing of heart with which I leave a coast so beautiful. Fancy that you see dwellings, speaking alike of simplicity and of refinement-imagine families where intelligence, heartiness, warm hospitality, and true Christian principle, all conspire to make your visit a pleasure, and your departure a regret, and you can fancy a more intimate reason of the sorrow with which I write myself no longer a resident of that State. But as I leave it, I cannot but express the wish that every family, and every individual may remember the glory which their State has now, and the character which it has now to sustain in the eyes of the whole civilized world.

  The women of Maine have had no small influence in deciding the triumph of the cause which sheds such lustre on their State. All women, as a natural thing, are friends and advocates of the cause of temperance, a cause involving so much to sons, brothers, and husbands; and the Maine women have acted most decidedly and nobly in its support.

  To the “North Star,” now the eyes of all the world are turning, and we must look to it to guide us in everything that is right and noble. May that star be seen as plainly leading the generous cause of freedom! that cause whose full success shall wipe from the American escutcheon its only national stain.

  H. E. B. S.

  CHRISTMAS, OR THE GOOD FAIRY.

  “OH, dear! Christmas is coming in a fortnight, and I have got to think up presents for everybody!” said young Ellen Stuart, as she leaned languidly back in her chair. “Dear me! it’s so tedious! Everybody has got everything that can be thought of.”

  “Oh, no!” said her confidential adviser, Miss Lester, in a soothing tone. “You have means of buying everything you can fancy, and when every shop and store is glittering with all manner of splendors, you cannot surely be at a loss.”

  “Well, now, just listen. To begin with, there’s mamma! what can I get for her? I have thought of ever so many things. She has three card-cases, four gold thimbles, two or three gold chains, two writing desks of different patterns; and then, as to rings, brooches, boxes, and all other things, I should think she might be sick of the sight of them. I am sure I am,” said she, languidly gazing on her white and jewelled fingers.

  This view of the case seemed rather puzzling to the adviser, and there was silence for a few moments, when Eleanor, yawning, resumed-

  “And then there’s cousins Ellen and Mary-I suppose they will be coming down on me with a whole load of presents; and Mrs. B. will send me something-she did last year; and then there’s cousins. William and Tom-I must get them something, and I would like to do it well enough, if I only knew what to get!

  “Well,” said Eleanor’s aunt, who had been sitting quietly rattling her knitting needles during this speech, “it’s a pity that you had not such a subject to practice on as I was when I was a girl-presents did not fly about in those days as they do now. I remember when I was ten years old, my father gave sister Mary and me a most marvellously ugly sugar dog for a Christmas gift, and we were perfectly delighted with it-the very idea of a present was so new to us.”

  “Dear aunt, how delighted I should be if I had any such fresh unsophisticated body to get presents for! but to get and get for people that have more than they know what to do with now-to add pictures, books, and gilding, when the centre-tables tables are loaded with them now-and rings and jewels, when they are a perfect drug! I wish myself that I were not sick, and sated, and tired with having everything in the world given me!”

  “Well, Eleanor,” said her aunt, “if you really do want unsophisticated subjects to practise on, I can put you in the way of it. I can show you more than one family to whom you might seem to be a very good fairy, and where such gifts as you could give with all ease would seem like a magic dream.”

  “Why, that would really be worth while, aunt.”

  “Look right across the way,” said her aunt. “You see that building.”

  “That miserable combination of shanties? Yes!”

  “Well, I have several acquaintances there who have never been tired of Christmas gifts, or gifts of any other kind. I assure you, you could make quite a sensation over there.”

  “Well, who is there? Let us know!’

  “Do you remember Owen, that used to make your shoes?”

  “Yes, I remember something about him.”

  “Well, he has fallen into a consumption, and cannot work any more, and he and his wife and three little children live in one of the rooms over there.”

  “How do they get along?”

  “His wife takes in sewing sometimes, and sometimes goes out washing. Poor Owen! I was over there yesterday; he looks thin and wistful, and his wife was saying that he was parched with constant fever, and had very little appetite. She had, with great self-denial, and by restricting herself almost of necessary food, got him two or three oranges, and the poor fellow seemed so eager after them.”

  “Poor fellow!” said Eleanor, involuntarily.

  “Now, said her aunt, “suppose Owen’s wife should get up on Christmas morning, and find at the door a couple of dozen of oranges, and some of those nice white grapes, such as you had at your party last week, don’t you think it would make a sensation?”

  “Why, yes, I think very likely it might; but who else, aunt? You spoke of a great many.”

  “Well, on the lower floor there is a neat little room, that is always kept perfectly trim and tidy; it belongs to a young couple who have nothing beyond the husband’s day wages to live on. They are, nevertheless, as cheerful and chipper as a couple of wrens, and she is up and down half a dozen times a day, to help poor Mrs. Owen. She has a baby of her own about five months old, and of course does all the cooking, washing, and ironing for herself and husband; and yet, when Mrs. Owen goes out to wash, she takes her baby and keeps it whole days for her.”

  “I’m sure she deserves that the good fairies should smile on her,” said Eleanor; “one baby exhausts my stock of virtue very rapidly.”

  “But you ought to see her baby,” said aunt E., “so plump, so rosy, and good-natured, and always clean as a lily. This baby is a sort of house-hold shrine; nothing is too sacred and too good for it; and I believe the little, thrifty woman feels only one temptation to be extravagant, and that is to get some ornaments to adorn this little divinity.”

  “Why, did she ever tell you so?’

  “No; but one day when I was coming down stairs, the door of their room was partly open, and I saw a pedlar there with open box. John, the husband, was standing with a little purple cap on his hand, which he was regarding with mystified, admiring air, as if he did’nt quite comprehend it, and trim little Mary gazing at it with longing eyes.”

  “I think we might get it,” said John.

  “Oh, no,” said she, regretfully; “yet I wish we could, it’s so pretty!”

  “Say no more, aunt. I see the good fairy must pop a cap into the window on Christmas morning. Indeed, it shall be done. How they will wonder where it came from, and talk about it for months to come!”

  “Well, then,” continued her aunt, “in the next street to ours there is a miserable building, that looks as if it were just going to topple over; and away up in the third story, in a little room just under the eaves, live two poor, lonely old women. They are both nearly on to ninety. I was in there day before yesterday. One of them is constantly confined to her bed with rheumatism, the other, weak and feeble, with failing sight and trembling hands, totters about her only helper; and they are entirely dependent on charity.”

  “Can’t they do anything? Can’t they knit?” said Eleanor.

  “You are young and strong, Eleanor, and have quick eyes and nimble fingers; how long would it take you to knit a pair of stockings?”

  “I!” said Eleanor. “What an idea! I never tried, but I think I could get a pair done in a week, perhaps!”

  “And if somebody gave you twenty-five cents for them, and out of this you had to get food, and pay room rent, and buy coal for your fire, and oil for your lamp” —

  “Stop, aunt
, for pity’s sake!”

  “Well, I will stop, but they can’t; they must pay so much every month for that miserable shell they live in, or be turned into the street. The meal and flour that some kind person sends goes off for them just as it does for others, and they must get more or starve, and coal is now scarce and high priced.”

  “Oh, aunt, I’m quite convinced, I’m sure; don’t run me down and annihilate me with all these terrible realities. What shall I do to play a good fairy to these poor old women?”

  “If you will give me full power, Eleanor, I will put up a basket to be sent to them, that will give them something to remember all winter.”

  “Oh, certainly I will. Let me see if I can’t think of something myself.”

  “Well, Eleanor, suppose, then, some fifty, or sixty years hence, if you were old, and your father, and mother, and aunts, and uncles, now so thick around you, laid cold and silent in so many graves-you have somehow got away off to a strange city, where you were never known-you live in a miserable garret, where snow blows at night through the cracks, and the fire is very apt to go out in the old cracked stove; you sit crouching over the dying embers the evening before Christmas-nobody to speak to you, nobody to care for you, except another poor old soul who lies moaning in the bed-now, what would you like to have sent you?”

  “Oh, aunt, what a dismal picture!”