The Minister's Wooing Read online

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  _Frontispiece_

  _C.XXV.P.233._

  Sampson Low, Son & Co. Septr. 20th. 1859.]

  THE MINISTER’S WOOING.

  BY H. BEECHER STOWE, AUTHOR OF “UNCLE TOM’S CABIN,” “SUNNY MEMORIES,” ETC.

  WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY PHIZ.

  LONDON: SAMPSON LOW, SON, & CO., 47 LUDGATE HILL. 1859.

  [_The Author reserves the right of translation._]

  LONDON: PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, STAMFORD STREET.

  INTRODUCTION.

  The author has endeavoured in this story to paint a style of lifeand manners which existed in New England in the earlier days of hernational existence.

  Some of the principal characters are historic: the leading events ofthe story are founded on actual facts, although the author has takenthe liberty to arrange and vary them for the purposes of the story.

  The author has executed the work with a reverential tenderness forthose great and religious minds who laid in New England the foundationsof many generations, and for those institutions and habits of life fromwhich, as from a fruitful germ, sprang all the present prosperity ofAmerica.

  Such as it is, it is commended to the kindly thoughts of that Britishfireside from which the fathers and mothers of America first went outto give to English ideas and institutions a new growth in a new world.

  H. B. STOWE.

  _18 Montague Street, Russell Square, August 25, 1859._

  THE MINISTER’S WOOING.

  CHAPTER I.

  MRS. KATY SCUDDER had invited Mrs. Brown, and Mrs. Jones, and DeaconTwitchel’s wife to take tea with her on the afternoon of June second,A. D. 17—.

  When one has a story to tell, one is always puzzled which end of itto begin at. You have a whole corps of people to introduce that _you_know and your reader doesn’t; and one thing so presupposes another,that, whichever way you turn your patchwork, the figures still seemill-arranged. The small item that I have given will do as well as anyother to begin with, as it certainly will lead you to ask, ‘Pray, whowas Mrs. Katy Scudder?’—and this will start me systematically on mystory.

  You must understand that in the then small seaport-town of Newport,at that time unconscious of its present fashion and fame, there livednobody in those days who did not know ‘the Widow Scudder.’

  In New England settlements a custom has obtained, which is wholesomeand touching, of ennobling the woman whom God has made desolate, bya sort of brevet rank which continually speaks for her as a claim onthe respect and consideration of the community. The Widow Jones, orBrown, or Smith, is one of the fixed institutions of every New Englandvillage,—and doubtless the designation acts as a continual plea for onewhom bereavement, like the lightning of heaven, has made sacred.

  The Widow Scudder, however, was one of the sort of women who reignqueens in whatever society they move in; nobody was more quoted, moredeferred to, or enjoyed more unquestioned position than she. She wasnot rich,—a small farm, with a modest, ‘gambrel-roofed,’ one-storycottage, was her sole domain; but she was one of the much-admired classwho, in the speech of New England, are said to have ‘faculty,’—a giftwhich, among that shrewd people, commands more esteem than beauty,riches, learning, or any other worldly endowment. _Faculty_ is Yankeefor _savoir faire_, and the opposite virtue to shiftlessness. Facultyis the greatest virtue, and shiftlessness the greatest vice, of Yankeeman and woman. To her who has faculty nothing shall be impossible. Sheshall scrub floors, wash, wring, bake, brew, and yet her hands shallbe small and white; she shall have no perceptible income, yet alwaysbe handsomely dressed; she shall not have a servant in her house,—witha dairy to manage, hired men to feed, a boarder or two to care for,unheard-of pickling and preserving to do,—and yet you commonly seeher every afternoon sitting at her shady parlour-window behind thelilacs, cool and easy, hemming muslin cap-strings, or reading the lastnew book. She who hath faculty is never in a hurry, never behindhand.She can always step over to distressed Mrs. Smith, whose jelly won’tcome,—and stop to show Mrs. Jones how she makes her pickles sogreen,—and be ready to watch with poor old Mrs. Simpkins, who is downwith the rheumatism.

  Of this genus was the Widow Scudder,—or, as the neighbours would havesaid of her, she that _was_ Katy Stephens. Katy was the only daughterof a shipmaster, sailing from Newport harbour, who was wrecked off thecoast one cold December night, and left small fortune to his widowand only child. Katy grew up, however, a tall, straight, black-eyedgirl, with eyebrows drawn true as a bow, a foot arched like a Spanishwoman’s, and a little hand which never saw the thing it could notdo,—quick of speech, ready of wit, and, as such girls have a right tobe, somewhat positive withal. Katy could harness a chaise, or row aboat; she could saddle and ride any horse in the neighbourhood; shecould cut any garment that ever was seen or thought of; make cake,jelly, and wine, from her earliest years, in most precocious style; allwithout seeming to derange a sort of trim, well-kept air of ladyhoodthat sat jauntily on her.

  Of course, being young and lively, she had her admirers, and somewell-to-do in worldly affairs laid their lands and houses at Katy’sfeet; but, to the wonder of all, she would not even pick them up tolook at them. People shook their heads, and wondered whom Katy Stephensexpected to get, and talked about going through the wood to pick up acrooked stick,—till one day she astonished her world by marrying a manthat nobody ever thought of her taking.

  George Scudder was a grave, thoughtful young man,—not given to talking,and silent in the society of women, with that kind of reverentialbashfulness which sometimes shows a pure, unworldly nature. How Katycame to fancy him everybody wondered,—for he never talked to her, neverso much as picked up her glove when it fell, never asked her to rideor sail; in short, everybody said she must have wanted him from sheerwilfulness, because he of all the young men of the neighbourhood nevercourted her. But Katy, having very sharp eyes, saw some things thatnobody else saw. For example, you must know she discovered by mereaccident that George Scudder always was looking at her, wherever shemoved, though he looked away in a moment if discovered,—and that anaccidental touch of her hand or brush of her dress would send the bloodinto his cheek like the spirit in the tube of a thermometer; and so, aswomen are curious, you know, Katy amused herself with investigating thecauses of these little phenomena, and, before she knew it, got her footcaught in a cobweb that held her fast, and constrained her, whether shewould or no, to marry a poor man that nobody cared much for but herself.

  George was, in truth, one of the sort who evidently have made somemistake in coming into this world at all, as their internal furnitureis in no way suited to its general courses and currents. He was of theorder of dumb poets,—most wretched when put to the grind of the hardand actual; for if he who would utter poetry stretches out his hand toa gainsaying world, he is worse off still who is possessed with thedesire of living it. Especially is this the case if he be born poor,and with a dire necessity upon him of making immediate efforts in thehard and actual. George had a helpless invalid mother to support; so,though he loved reading and silent thought above all things, he putto instant use the only convertible worldly talent he possessed, whichwas a mechanical genius, and shipped at sixteen as a ship-carpenter. Hestudied navigation in the forecastle, and found in its calm diagramsand tranquil eternal signs food for his thoughtful nature, and a refugefrom the brutality and coarseness of sea life. He had a healthful,kindly animal nature, and so his inwardness did not ferment and turnto Byronic sourness and bitterness; nor did he needlessly p
arade toeverybody in his vicinity the great gulf which lay between him andthem. He was called a good fellow,—only a little lumpish,—and as he wasbrave and faithful, he rose in time to be a shipmaster. But when camethe business of making money, the aptitude for accumulating, Georgefound himself distanced by many a one with not half his general powers.

  What shall a man do with a sublime tier of moral faculties, when themost profitable business out of his port is the slave-trade? So itwas in Newport in those days. George’s first voyage was on a slaver,and he wished himself dead many a time before it was over,—and everafter would talk like a man beside himself if the subject was named.He declared that the gold made in it was distilled from human blood,from mothers’ tears, from the agonies and dying groans of gasping,suffocating men and women, and that it would sear and blister thesoul of him that touched it: in short, he talked as whole-souled,unpractical fellows are apt to talk about what respectable peoplesometimes do. Nobody had ever instructed him that a slave-ship,with a procession of expectant sharks in its wake, is a missionaryinstitution, by which closely-packed heathens are brought over to enjoythe light of the gospel.

  So, though George was acknowledged to be a good fellow, and honest asthe noon-mark on the kitchen floor, he let slip so many chances ofmaking money as seriously to compromise his reputation among thrivingfolks. He was wastefully generous,—insisted on treating every poor dogthat came in his way, in any foreign port, as a brother,—absolutelyrefused to be party in cheating or deceiving the heathen on anyshore, or in skin of any colour,—and also took pains, as far as inhim lay, to spoil any bargains which any of his subordinates foundedon the ignorance or weakness of his fellow-men. So he made voyageafter voyage, and gained only his wages and the reputation among hisemployers of an incorruptibly honest fellow.

  To be sure, it was said that he carried out books in his ship, andread and studied, and wrote observations on all the countries he saw,which Parson Smith told Miss Dolly Persimmon would really do credit toa printed book; but then they never _were_ printed, or, as Miss Dollyremarked of them, they never seemed to come to anything—and coming toanything, as she understood it, meant standing in definite relations tobread and butter.

  George never cared, however, for money. He made enough to keep hismother comfortable, and that was enough for him, till he fell in lovewith Katy Stephens. He looked at her through those glasses which suchmen carry in their souls, and she was a mortal woman no longer, buta transfigured, glorified creature,—an object of awe and wonder. Hewas actually afraid of her; her glove, her shoe, her needle, thread,and thimble, her bonnet-string, everything, in short, she wore ortouched became invested with a mysterious charm. He wondered at theimpudence of men that could walk up and talk to her,—that could askher to dance with such an assured air. _Now_ he wished he were rich;he dreamed impossible chances of his coming home a millionnaire to layunknown wealth at Katy’s feet; and when Miss Persimmon, the ambulatorydressmaker of the neighbourhood, in making up a new black gown for hismother, recounted how Captain Blatherem had sent Katy Stephens ‘’mostthe splendidest India shawl that ever she did see,’ he was ready totear his hair at the thought of his poverty. But even in that hour oftemptation he did not repent that he had refused all part and lot inthe ship by which Captain Blatherem’s money was made, for he knew everytimber of it to be seasoned by the groans and saturated with the sweatof human agony. True love is a natural sacrament; and if ever a youngman thanks God for having saved what is noble and manly in his soul, itis when he thinks of offering it to the woman he loves. Nevertheless,the India-shawl story cost him a night’s rest; nor was it till MissPersimmon had ascertained, by a private confabulation with Katy’smother, that she had indignantly rejected it, and that she treatedthe captain ‘real ridiculous,’ that he began to take heart. ‘He oughtnot,’ he said, ‘to stand in her way now, when he had nothing to offer.No, he would leave Katy free to do better, if she could; he would tryhis luck, and if, when he came home from the next voyage, Katy wasdisengaged, why, then he would lay all at her feet.’

  And so George was going to sea with a secret shrine in his soul, atwhich he was to burn unsuspected incense.

  But, after all, the mortal maiden whom he adored suspected this privatearrangement, and contrived—as women will—to get her own key into thelock of his secret temple; because, as girls say, ‘she was _determined_to know what was there.’ So, one night, she met him quite accidentallyon the sea-sands, struck up a little conversation, and begged him insuch a pretty way to bring her a spotted shell from the South Sea, likethe one on his mother’s mantelpiece, and looked so simple and childlikein saying it, that our young man very imprudently committed himself byremarking, that, ‘When people had rich friends to bring them all theworld from foreign parts, he never dreamed of her wanting so trivial athing.’

  Of course Katy ‘didn’t know what he meant,—she hadn’t heard of anyrich friends.’ And then came something about Captain Blatherem; andKaty tossed her head, and said, ‘If anybody wanted to insult her, theymight talk to her about Captain Blatherem,’—and then followed this,that, and the other, till finally, as you might expect, out came allthat never was to have been said; and Katy was almost frightened at theterrible earnestness of the spirit she had evoked. She tried to laugh,and ended by crying, and saying she hardly knew what; but when she cameto herself in her own room at home, she found on her finger a ring ofAfrican gold that George had put there, which she did not send backlike Captain Blatherem’s presents.

  Katy was like many intensely matter-of-fact and practical women, whohave not in themselves a bit of poetry or a particle of ideality,but who yet worship these qualities in others with the homage whichthe Indians paid to the unknown tongue of the first whites. They aresecretly weary of a certain conscious dryness of nature in themselves,and this weariness predisposes them to idolize the man who brings themthis unknown gift. Naturalists say that every defect of organizationhas its compensation, and men of ideal natures find in the favour ofwomen the equivalent for their disabilities among men.

  Do you remember, at Niagara, a little cataract on the American side,which throws its silver sheeny veil over a cave called the Grot ofRainbows? Whoever stands on a rock in that grotto sees himself in thecentre of a rainbow-circle, above, below, around. In like manner,merry, chatty, positive, busy, housewifely Katy saw herself standing ina rainbow-shrine in her lover’s inner soul, and liked to see herselfso. A woman, by-the-by, must be very insensible who is not moved tocome upon a higher plane of being, herself, by seeing how undoubtinglyshe is insphered in the heart of a good and noble man. A good man’sfaith in you, fair lady, if you ever have it, will make you better andnobler even before you know it.

  Katy made an excellent wife: she took home her husband’s old mother,and nursed her with a dutifulness and energy worthy of all praise, andmade her own keen outward faculties and deft handiness a compensationfor the defects in worldly estate. Nothing would make Katy’s brighteyes flash quicker than any reflections on her husband’s want of luckin the material line. ‘She didn’t know whose business it was, if _she_was satisfied. She hated these sharp, gimlet, gouging sort of men thatwould put a screw between body and soul for money. George had that inhim that nobody understood. She would rather be his wife on bread andwater than to take Captain Blatherem’s house, carriages, and horses,and all,—and she _might_ have had ’em fast enough, dear knows. She wassick of making money when she saw what sort of men could make it,’—andso on. All which talk did her infinite credit, because _at bottom_ she_did_ care, and was naturally as proud and ambitious a little minx asever breathed, and was thoroughly grieved at heart at George’s want ofworldly success; but, like a nice little Robin Redbreast, she coveredup the grave of her worldliness with the leaves of true love, and sanga ‘Who cares for that?’ above it.

  Her thrifty management of the money her husband brought her soonbought a snug little farm, and put up the little brown gambrel-roofedcottage to which we directed your attention in the first of our st
ory.Children were born to them, and George found, in short intervalsbetween voyages, his home an earthly paradise. He was still sailing,with the fond illusion, in every voyage, of making enough to remainat home,—when the yellow fever smote him under the line, and the shipreturned to Newport without its captain.

  George was a Christian man;—he had been one of the first to attachhimself to the unpopular and unworldly ministry of the celebrated Dr.H., and to appreciate the sublime ideality and unselfishness of thoseteachings which then were awakening new sensations in the theologicalmind of New England. Katy, too, had become a professor with her husbandin the same church, and his death, in the midst of life, deepened thepower of her religious impressions. She became absorbed in religion,after the fashion of New England, where devotion is doctrinal, notritual. As she grew older, her energy of character, her vigour and goodjudgment, caused her to be regarded as a mother in Israel; the ministerboarded at her house, and it was she who was first to be consulted inall matters relating to the well-being of the church. No woman couldmore manfully breast a long sermon, or bring a more determined faithto the reception of a difficult doctrine. To say the truth, there layat the bottom of her doctrinal system this stable corner-stone,—‘Mr.Scudder used to believe it,—I will.’ And after all that is said aboutindependent thought, isn’t the fact that a just and good soul has thusor thus believed, a more respectable argument than many that often areadduced? If it be not, more’s the pity,—since two-thirds of the faithin the world is built on no better foundation.

  In time, George’s old mother was gathered to her son, and two sons anda daughter followed their father to the invisible—one only remainingof the flock, and she a person with whom you and I, good reader, havejoint concern in the further unfolding of our story.