Harriet Beecher Stowe: a biography for girls

by Martha Foote Crow

The first satisfaction she had for her intense longing for what she would call interesting reading was in the “Pilgrim’s Progress” of Bunyan. We know how deeply this sank into her heart from the fact that in the books she wrote she often illuminates her thought by some apt illustration from the Pilgrim’s adventures. That her mind began very early to be haunted by those memories of the Pilgrim we know from one story about her youth.

It is related that sometimes when she was prowling about in the back attic she would timidly open a little door that she found in the side of the chimney and would peer into the dark abyss that yawned within. Looking into that smoky and fearsome place, she was reminded of the door that the Pilgrim found in the walls of a certain valley, an opening which was the way that hypocrites go in at, whence issued the scent of brimstone together with a rumbling noise as of fire. As this thought came to Harriet she would shut to the little door in the chimney with a bang and run away to a more friendly part of the house, seeking some room that might perhaps be called a “Chamber of Peace.”

This name could certainly be applied to her father’s study. Harriet loved that attic of her father’s with its quiet and its rows of books. There she would cuddle down in a corner and watch her father as he sat in his great writing chair with his Bible and his Cruden’s “Concordance” and now and then whispered out his rapidly forming sermon. She looked about upon those mysterious books with awe. To her father there was evidently good magic in them, but to her their charm was unrevealed. To be sure, from Harmer’s work on “Solomon’s Song” and from a book called “The State of the Clergy during the French Revolution,” she could gain some food for her hungry fancy. There was also Cotton Mather’s “Magnalia,” that wonderful account of how this plantation of New England was made so considerable in a space of time so inconsiderable, a work that was a perfect storehouse of tales of these strange old days. These were wonderful stories indeed! And they were all about her own country, too, and made her feel that she herself trod upon ground that was consecrated by some special dealings of God’s Providence.

Nevertheless the story-loving side of little Harriet could never be convinced that there were no more lively bits to be found among all those unpromising black books. She sought perseveringly, and her efforts were rewarded. In a side closet full of documents there was a weltering ocean of pamphlets in which she dug and toiled for hours, to be repaid by disinterring a delicious morsel of “Don Quixote” that had once been a book, but was now lying in forty or fifty broken scraps amid Calls and Appeals, Essays, Replies and Rejoinders. The turning up of such a fragment, she thought, was like the rising of an enchanted island out of an ocean of mud. Further searches in certain barrels of old sermons brought to her a battered but precious copy of the “Arabian Nights.” She was now happy; such books as these could be read and re-read forever without ever palling.

We must remember that there were in those days no books written specially for children and so arranged as to be interesting at each step of the child’s growth. Harriet had to grow to the great books, but as she had a very precocious and devouring mind she was fully ready by the time that she discovered the Oriental story-book in the bottom of the barrel, to read all the big words in Scheherazade’s long-winded, fascinating tales.

It was Harriet Beecher’s good fortune that no silly or trashy books were thrown in her way, to the injury or ruin of her mental development. Under all these encouraging influences she grew with astonishing rapidity, but in a perfectly simple and normal way.

Mrs. Stowe herself tells us in “The Minister’s Wooing” what was thought to be the proper selection for the personal library of a well-taught young lady of those times. Upon the snowy cover of the small table under her looking-glass should lie “The Spectator,” “Paradise Lost,” “Shakespeare” and “Robinson Crusoe.” Beside them of course the Bible should rest. There should also be the works of Jonathan Edwards. Laid a little to one side, as perhaps of doubtful reputation, might be found the only novel which the stricter people in those days allowed for the reading of their daughters, that seven-volumed, trailing, tedious, delightful old bore, “Sir Charles Grandison”—a book whose influence was almost universal and might be traced even in the epistolary style of some grave divines.

A story is told of a certain young lady of Litchfield, probably a devourer of such books as this, who was once going in the stage from Litchfield to Hartford and happened to have Miss Sally Pierce, the principal of the Female Academy, for traveling companion. Miss Pierce recommended to the young lady the purchase of “Wilberforce’s View.” The young lady took this advice, paying the sum of six shillings for the work. Miss Pierce also suggested the “Memoirs of Miss Susanna Anthony” which could be bought for three and six, and a book called “Reflections on Death” which she declared to be very interesting as well as instructive. We are not told that the young lady did not slip in also “The Lady of the Lake,” which was just then becoming a fashionable book in the hill towns of Connecticut, or even perhaps volume one of that great romance, “Sir Charles Grandison.”

Harriet no doubt had books of the same solemn and metaphysical kind recommended to her by her beloved teacher, but decidedly not the seven-volume novel. We do not know that Harriet had a little room to herself and a small library of her own. But she must have read that classic novel some time, or how could she have pronounced it a bore? Besides this, we know that once when she was almost an old lady she stood on her feet with bonnet on and read a chapter of “Sir Charles” through to the end, oblivious of the fact that she was keeping a dinner party waiting for her to come.

Fortunately for Harriet with her strong literary instincts, the tastes of her mother were more catholic than were those of her theological father; she included philosophical, scientific and poetic books among her favorites. In one of her letters to her sister-in-law she said: “May has, I suppose, told you of the discovery that the fixed alkalies are metallic oxyds. I first saw the notice in the Christian Observer and have since seen it in the Edinburgh Review.” Her eager mind led her to add: “I think this is all the knowledge I have obtained in the whole circle of the arts and sciences of late; if you have been more fortunate, pray let me have the benefit.”