The Atlantic Monthly Supplement: The Birthday Garden Party to Harriet Beecher Stowe

IN continuation of the festivals to authors, begun by the Dinner to Mr. Whittier, followed by the Breakfast to Dr. Holmes, Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin and Company offered a similar tribute to Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe on her birthday, June 14, 1882. Mrs. Stowe assented to their proposal, and as Hon. and Mrs. William Claflin generously tendered their spacious and beautiful country home and grounds at Newtonville, near Boston, for the occasion, the season and the place suggested that the festival take the form of a Garden Party. The following invitation was sent to many persons in all parts of this country and to several in Great Britain, eminent in letters, art, science, statesmanship, and philanthropy: —

Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin and Company request the pleasure of your presence at a Garden Party in Honor of the Birthday of


atThe Old Elms(the residence of Hon. William Claflin), Newtonvilie, Mass., on Wednesday, June Fourteenth, 1882 'from 3 to 7 P. M.


June lst. 1882,

About two hundred guests gathered in

response to this invitation, including—

Rev. Lyman Abbott, New York.

Mr. A. Bronson Alcott, Concord, Mass.

Mr. Thomas Bailey Aldrich, Boston.

Rev. and Mrs. Henry F. Allen, Boston.

Master Freeman Allen, Bostou.

Mr. Howard Payson Arnold, Boston.

Mass a"d MrS‘ Edward Atkinson, Brookline,

Rev. and Mrs. S. J. Barrows, Boston.

Mr. Arlo Bates, Boston.

Miss Charlotte F. Bates, Cambridge.

Mr. Sylvester Baxter, Boston.

Rev. Charles Beecher, Bridgeport, Conn.

Rev. and Mrs. Edward Beecher, Brooklyn.

Rev. and Mrs. Henry Ward Beecher, Brooklyn.

Dr. Thomas W. Bicknell, Boston.

Miss Alice Stone Blackwell, Boston.

Mr. Henry B. Blackwell, Boston.

Dr. J. G. Blake, Boston.

Prof. and Mrs. Borden P. Bowne, Boston.

Mr. R. L. Bridgman, Boston.

Mr. James M. Bugbee, Boston.

Mrs, Frances Hodgson Burnett Washington, D. C.

Hon. and Mrs. William Claflin, Newtonvilie, Mass.

Mr. Arthur Claflin, Newtonvilie, Mass.

Mr. E. H. Clement, Boston.

Mr. Samuel T. Cobh, Boston.

Mrs. Rose Terry Cooke, Winsted, Conn.

Miss A. J. Cooper, Birmingham, England.

Mr. and Mrs. George G. Crocker, Boston.

Mr. and Mrs. U. H. Crocker, Boston,

Mr. and Mrs. Prentiss Cummings, Boston.

Dr. and Miss Davidson, Boston.

Mr. Charles Deane, Cambridge.

Mr. P. Deming, Albany.

Mr. J. C. Derby, New York.

Mrs. Abby Morion Diaz, Boston.

Mr. Nathan H. Dole, Philadelphia.

Mrs. Julia C. R. Dorr, Rutland, Vt.

Mr. Francis S. Drake, Boston.

Mr. and Mrs. Geo. B. Farnsworth, Boston.

Miss Florence Finch, Boston.

Miss Alice E. Freeman, President Wellesley College.

Mrs. J. C. Gallup, Clinton, N. Y.

Mr. Francis J. Garrison, Boston.

Mr. William Lloyd Garrison, Jr., Boston.

Mr, Arthur Gilman, Cambridge.

Prof. and Mrs. Asa Gray, Cambridge.

Rev. and Mrs. G. Z. Gray, Cambridge.

Mayor Samuel A. Green, Boston.

Mr. and Mrs. Curtis Guild, Boston.

Mr. and Mrs. James Guild, Boston.

Mrs E. E. Hale, Boston.

Miss Lucretia P. Hale, Boston.

Mr. William T. Harris, Concord, Mass.

Rev. J. B. Harrison, Franklin Falls, N. H.

Mr. E. B. Haskell, Auburndale, Mass.

Dr. Henry Cecil Haven, Boston.

Mrs. J. R. Hawley, Hartford, Conn.

Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes, Boston.

Mr. and Mrs. John Hooker, Hartford, Conn.

Mr. Augustus Hoppin, Providence, R. I.

Prof. and Mrs. E. N. Horsford, Cambridge.

Mr. George Houghton, New kork.

Mr. and Mrs. H. O. Houghton, Cambridge.

Mr. William A. Hovey, Boston.

Mr. and Mrs. John T. Howard, Brooklyn.

Mr. J. R. Howard, New York.

Rev. and Mrs. Frank E. Howe, Newton, Mass.

Mr. W. D. Howells, Belmont, Mass.

Miss Edith M. Howes, Boston.

Mr. and Mrs. J. F. Hunnewell, Charlestown, Mass.

Mr. and Mrs. J. D. Hurd, Newtonville, Mass. Mr. Melancthon M. Hurd, New York.

Mr. and Mrs. Samuel Johnson, Boston.

Hon. John S. Keyes, Concord, Mass.

Mrs. Julia B. Kimball, Boston.

Mr. and Mrs. Horatio King, Washington, D. C.

Dr. Edward H. Knight, Washington, D. C.

Miss Lucy Larcom, Beverly, Mass.

Mr. and Mrs. George P. Lathrop, Concord, Mass.

Mr. and Mrs. John Lathrop, Boston.

Dr. J. Laurence Laughlin, Cambridge.

Prof. T. R. Lounsbury, New Haven, Conn.

Rev. A. L. Love, Southborough, Mass.

Mr. S. W. Marvin, New York.

Mr. and Mrs. George H. Mifflin, Boston.

Mr. J. B. Millet, Boston.

Mrs. Louise Chandler Moulton, Boston.

Rev. William Mountford, Boston.

Rev. and Mrs. Elisha Mulford, Cambridge, Mass.

Mr. A. J. Mundy, Newtonville, Mass.

Mr. and Mrs. Charles W. Munroe, Cambridge.

Miss Munroe, Newtonville, Mass.

Miss Lucretia G. Noble, Spencer, Mass.

Mr. and Mrs. S. B. Noyes, Canton, Mass.

Dr. and Mrs. J. P. Oliver, Boston.

Rev. J. W. Olmstead, Boston.

Mr. Henry O’Meara, Boston.

Mr. and Mrs. Peter Parker, Washington, D. C.

Mr. and Mrs. James Parton, Newburyport, Mass.

Miss Ethel Parton, Newburyport, Mass.

Rev. B. K. Peirce, Newton, Mass.

Miss Peirce, Newton, Mass.

Mr. Charles C. Perkins, Boston.

Mrs. Mary B. Perkins, Hartford, Ct.

Miss Nora Perry, Boston.

Miss Elizabeth Stuart Phelps, Andover, Mass.

Mr. and Mrs. Edward L. Pierce, Milton, Mass.

Mr. and Mrs. N. T. Pulsifer, North Manchester, Conn.

Mr. J. Pickering Putnam, Boston.

Miss Sallie Putnam, Boston.

Mr. Samuel M. Quincy, Boston.

Mrs. Abby Sage Richardson, New York.

Mr. William IL Rideing, Boston.

Hon. William A. Russell and Miss Russell, Lawrence, Mass.

Mr. and Mrs. Frank B. Sanborn, Concord, Mass.

Mrs. J. T. Sargent, Cambridge.

Mrs. Samuel Scovillc, Norwich, N. Y.

Mr. and Mrs. Horace E. Scudder, Cambridge.

Mr. and Mrs. Samuel E. Sewall, Melrose, Mass.

Mrs. M. E. W. Sherwood, New York.

Mr. and Mrs. Charles W. Slack, Boston.

Miss Annie P. Slocum, Newtonville, Mass.

Mr. Winfield S. Slocum, Newtonville, Mass.

Mr. and Mrs. Azariah Smith, Boston.

Prof. Edward P. Smith, Worcester, Mass.

Rev. George B. Spalding, Dover, N. H.

Miss Spalding, Dover, N. H.

Mr, Edward Stanwood, Boston.

Mrs. Lucy Stone, Boston.

Prof. Calvin E. Stowe, Hartford, Conn.

Rev. and Mrs. Charles E. Stowe, Saco, Me.

Mrs. Bayard Taylor, New York.

Miss Liiian Taylor, New York.

Mr. and Mrs. L. R. Thayer, Newtonville, Mass.

Mrs. Thorp, Cambridge.

Mr. J. G. Thorp, Cambridge.

Mrs. E. P. Tileston, Milton, Mass.

Mr. John G. Tompson, Newtonville, Mass.

Judge and Mrs. Albion W. Tourgee, Philadelphia.

Prof, and Mrs. John Trowbridge, Cambridge.

Mr. J. T. Trowbridge, Arlington, Mass.

Rev. Kinsley Twining, New York.

Mr. D. Berkeley Updike, Boston.

Mr. F. H. Underwood, Boston.

Mrs. Lawson Valentine, New York.

Miss Mary Valentine, New York.

Mr. J. H. Walker, Worcester.

Rev. Julius H. Ward, Boston.

Mrs. Kate Gannett Wells, Boston.

Mr. and Mrs. E. P. Whipple, Boston.

Mr. and Mrs. S. B. White, Boston.

Miss Lilian Whiting, Boston.

Mrs. A. D. T. Whitney, Milton, Mass.

Miss Anne Whitney, Boston.

Mr. John G. Whittier, Danvers, Mass.

Mr. Justin Winsor and Miss Winsor, Cambridge.

Mrs. Abba Goold WoolSon, Concord, N. H.

Mr. and Mrs. J. A. Woolson, Cambridge.

Mr. and Mrs. John C. Wyman, Valley Falls, R. I.

The day was perfect for such a festival. June never brings a day more exactly tempered and perfumed for a high holiday than was this at Newtonville.

From three o’clock until five was spent socially. As guests arrived they were presented to Mrs. Stowe by Mr. H. O. Houghton, and then they gathered in groups in the parlors, on the verandas, on the lawn, and in the refreshment rooms.

At five o’clock they assembled in a large tent on the lawn, and after a song by Mrs. Humphrey Allen, Mr. Houghton spoke as follows : —


We have met two or three times within the last few.years to set up, as it were, milestones in the lives of some of those who are justly esteemed the creators of American literature. On this occasion one thought oppresses us all: Two of the most eminent, whose grace and benignity cheered and exalted our former gatherings, are with us in bodily presence no more. The voice of our beloved Longfellow is hushed, but the cadences of his sweet songs will vibrate in our memories while life lasts. We shall never look again upon the benign countenance of our revered Emerson, but his precepts are written, as with the point of a diamond, upon our hearts.

We come together again to celebrate a birthday, but what is the number of the birthday we will not inquire. If we estimate the age of our beloved guest by the amount of work she has accomplished, the number of her years would rank with those of the antediluvians. But if we judge by the vigor and freshness of her writings, and by her universal sympathy with young and old, we must say that she has discovered the fountain of perpetual youth, somewhere else, if not among the everglades of Florida, where Ponce de Leon sought it in vain. You have all doubtless heard the apocryphal stories of the difficulties encountered by the author of Uncle Tom’s Cabin in getting a publisher, and of the marvelous sales of the first editions ; but few here probably realize how great is its circulation to-day. This book began by being a prophecy, and is now history, and it is the rare felicity of its author to realize this fact in her own life-time.

The wanderings of Ulysses, the exploits of the heroes of the Iliad, and the trials of Æneas, because so intensely human, are the bonds which unite us to the civilizations that existed centuries ago ; but the great epic of our age is the narrative of the wanderings and sorrows of Uncle Tom ; and his trials and the victories which he wrought for this epoch are to be our Iliad and Æneid for centuries to come.

Providence selects its own instruments, and rules in the affairs of individuals as of nations. Behold the training which was necessary, and the fruits of which are seen in the author of Uncle Tom’s Cabin ! Descended from Puritan stock, of the straitest sect; educated in the severe school of Now England Calvinism ; living in her early married life in the great West, on the borders of a slave State, where, as a young housekeeper, she had to struggle with the whimsicalities and impracticabilities of Topsy, and where the real tragedies as well as comedies of slavery were acted daily before her eyes ; where the very atmosphere favored a broad charity (not so congenial to New England), which pitied and sympathized alike with the slave and the slave-holder, while intensely hating the system of slavery itself; again removing to a quiet New England village, where her time was divided between exacting household cares, the instruction of pupils, and the contemplation of the great problems of sin, retribution, foreknowledge, and free will, — with such a training and such experiences, who can wonder that, while sitting at the communion table, and meditating upon the infinite sorrows and ignominy of Him who gave himself for the redemption of humanity, she should have been inspired with the vision of another life of suffering and sacrifice, by which a race should be redeemed, and that while she mused the fire burned, and from the white heat came forth the vivid picture of the death of that other man of sorrows, so like its great prototype,—as like as a human copy can be to a divine original ? I1 need go no further. What followed the issue of this truly wonderful book you all know, and in the struggle many of you took an active part. from that day when her two children, ten and twelve years of age, convulsively wept over the sorrows of Uncle Tom, and one of them exclaimed, “ Oh, mamma, slavery is the most cursed thing in the world ! ” the story has been repeated under every sky, in every land, and translated into nearly every tongue. Crowned heads, statesmen, scholars, and the people have alike read, wept over, and applauded the simple story. And to-day our own beloved country is redeemed. Slavery, with all its attendant evils, has disappeared forever, and no one, either North or South, desires it back again.

But the production of Uncle Tom’s Cabin is not the only service done to literature by our honored guest. Her other writings are inimitable in their way, as illustrating New England life, and teaching the homely virtues of truth and duty : as, for instance, The Minister’s Wooing, Oldtown Folks, Sam Lawson’s Fireside Stories, and the other books which we all know so well. But as the sun in his meridian splendor eclipses the orbs of night, so Uncle Tom, by its universal human interest, eclipses these other books, which would make the reputation of any author.

And now, honored madam, as

“ When to them who sail

Beyond the Cape of Hope, and now are past
Mozambic, off at sea northeast winds blow
Sabean odors from the spicy shore
Of Arabie the blest,”

so the benedictions of the lowly and the blessings of all conditions of men are brought to you to-day on the wings of the wind, from every quarter of the globe; but there will be no fresher laurels to crown this day of your rejoicing than are brought by those now before you, who have been your co-workers in the strife ; who have wrestled and suffered, fought and conquered, with you ; who rank you with the Miriams, the Deborahs, and the Judiths of old ; and who now shout back the refrain, when you utter the inspired song: —

#8216; Sing ye to the Lord, for he hath triumphed gloriously.”
‘The Almighty Lord hath disappointed them by the hand of a woman.”

Mr. Houghton then presented Rev. Henry Ward Beecher, intimating that Mrs. Stowe might say something later.


I don’t know whether it is in good taste for any other member of my father’s family to join in the laudation of Mrs. Stowe, but if it is, I am a very proper one to do it. I know that for a long time after the publication of Uncle Tom’s Cabin there were a great many very wise people who said they knew that she never wrote it herself, but that I did it. The matter at last became so scandalous that I determined to put an end to it, and therefore I wrote " Norwood.” That killed the thing dead.

I will admit that I had something to do with Uncle Tom’s Cabin. I recollect that Mrs. Stowe asked me one day whether I took The National Era. I said No; but I would, if necessary. What was going to happen? She said that Dr. Bailey had sent her some money to write a story for that paper, as far as that money would go; that it would run through three or four numbers, for when she first planned Uncle Tom she thought it would probably extend through three or four issues of the paper. When, in the progress of the publication, people became very much excited, and it was resolved to publish the story in a volume, she was still writing it, and John P. Jewett, who was to be the publisher, said that the book must be limited to one octavo volume. Such was the low estate of antislavery literature that it was not believed an antislavery book of more than one volume would find readers. I thought so and wrote a most persuasive letter to her to kill off Uncle Tom quickly, and to give the world the book in one volume, if she expected it to be read. What became of that letter I don’t know, and perhaps she cannot recollect; but, with a peculiarity which belongs to no other member of my father’s family, she had her own way about it.

Now, I think we might have a good experience meeting here this afternoon, if every one would tell under what circumstances he read the book, and how he acted. I can still remember plainly the circumstances under which I finished it. I had got well into the second volume. It was Thursday. Sunday was looming up before me, and at the rate at which I was going there would not be time to finish it before Sunday, and I could never preach till I had finished it. So I set myself to it and determined to finish it at once. I had got a considerable way into the second volume, and I recommended my wife to go to bed. I did n’t want anybody down there. I soon began to cry. Then I went and shut all the doors, for I did not want any one to see me. Then I sat down to it and finished it that night, for I knew that only in that way should I be able to preach on Sunday. I know that many of you must have read it something as I did at that time.

I am in sympathy with you in your rejoicing this afternoon, and thank you for your courtesy shown to my sister and your sister, for she has won that place in the hearts of many. I leave the gratulations to you.

Professor Guyot, of Princeton, says that progress in the world is like the development of plant life. It has three periods of growth. The first is that in the soil, — growth by the root. The second is more accelerated, — growth by the stem. The third is the most rapid of all, — growth by the blossom and fruit. The world has been growing by the root, obscurely, lingeringly, slowly. It is growing by the stem now, very much faster. It is beginning to break into the blossom and fruit, when progress will be wonderful compared with our past experience in all other periods. Other years have seen great changes, but men in this generation have seen changes begin and have seen their ripening fruit. We are now living in that period of the world in which you have a long time of former life compressed, and men may see the beginning and end of a great movement. I have always been glad that that noble man, Mr. Garrison, lived to see the chains broken and the slaves go free. It took only the golden middle part of his life to see the beginning and the end. Mrs. Stowe, when a wife and mother, established in life, began her part of this great work. She yet numbers her years here, and their blossom is on her head. It lingers long, and long may it linger before it falls. She saw slavery intrenched in all the power of politics, in all the power of government, in all the power of commerce, and with the benediction of a sham religion, at the time in which she entered upon this career. And, behold, where is it today? It is in history only. Upon that black cloud which rested over all the land has risen the Sun of righteousness. In a short period have occurred these great changes, in ways that no man would have predicted, no man would have brought about. It is God who has done it.

Of course you all sympathize with me to-day, but, standing in this place, I do not see your faces more clearly than I see those of my father and my mother. Her [ only knew as a mere babe-child. He was mv teacher and my companion. A more guileless soul than he, a more honest one, more free from envy, from jealousy, and from selfishness, I never knew. Though he thought he was great by his theology, everybody else knew he was great bv his religion. My mother is to me what the Virgin Mary is to a devout Catholic. She was a woman of great nature, profound as a philosophical thinker, great in argument, with a kind of intellectual imagination, diffident, not talkative, — in that respect I take after her, —a woman who gave birth to Mrs. Stowe, whose graces and excellencies she probably more than any other of her children— we number but thirteen — has possessed. I suppose that in bodily resemblance, perhaps, she is not like my mother, but in mind I presume she is most like her.

I thank you for my father’s sake and for my mother’s sake for the courtesy, the friendliness, and the kindness which you give to Mrs. Stowe.


Mr. Whittier was present, to the great satisfaction of all the company, but he excused himself from reading the poem he had written, which was read by Mr. Frank B. Sanborn : —

Thrice welcome from the Land of Flowers
And golden-fruited orange bowers
To this sweet, green-turted June of ours !
To her who, in our evil time,
Dragged into light the nation’s crime
With strength beyond the strength of men,
And, mightier than their sword, her pen;
To her who world-wide entrance gave
To the log-cabin of the slave,
Made all his wrongs and sorrows known,
And all earth’s languages his own,—
North, South, and East and West, made all
The common air electrical,
Until the o’ercharged bolts of heaven
Blazed down, and every chain was riven !
Welcome from each and all to her
Whose Wooing of the Minister
Revealed the warm heart of the man
Beneath the creed-bound Puritan,
And taught the kinship of the love
Of man below and God above;
To her whose vigorous pencil-strokes
Sketched into life her Oldtown Folks,
Whose fireside stories, grave or gay,
In quaint Sam Lawson’s vagrant way,
With old New England’s flavor rife,
Waifs from her rude idyllic life,
Are racy as the legends old
By Chancer or Boccaccio told ;
To her who keeps, through change of place
And time, her native strength and grace.
Alike where warm Sorrento smiles,
Or where, by birchen-shaded isles,
Whose summer winds have shivered o'er
The icy drift of Labrador,
She lifts to light the priceless Pearl
Of Harpswell’s angel-beckoned girl.
To her at threescore years and ten
Be tributes of the tongue and pen,
Be honor, praise, and heart-thanks given,
The loves of earth, the hopes of heaven !
Ah, dearer than the praise that sirs
The air to-day, our love is hers !
She needs no guaranty of fame
Whose own is linked with Freedom’s name.
Long ages after ours shall keep
Her memory living while we sleep;
The waves that wash our gray coast linos,
The winds that rock the Southern pines,
Shall sing of her; the unending years
Shall tell her tale in unborn ears.
And when, with sins and follies past,
Are numbered color-hate and caste,
White, black, and red shall own as one
The noblest work by woman done.


Dr. Holmes, on being presented, described the circumstances in which he first read Uncle Tom’s Cabin, and the deepening of his interest in it, so that he soon laid aside the novel of Dickens which he had been reading, and gave himself up wholly to Uncle Tom’s Cabin until he bad reached the end. He then read this poem ; —

If every tongue that speaks her praise
For whom I shape my tinkling phrase
Were summoned to the table,
The vocal chorus that would meet
Of mingling accents harsh or sweet,
From every land and tribe, would beat
The polyglots of Babel.
Briton and Frenchman, Swede and Dane,
Turk, Spaniard, Tartar of Ukraine,
Hidalgo, Cossack, Cadi,
High Dutchman and Low Dutchman, too,
The Russian serf, the Polish Jew,
Arab, Armenian, and Mantchoo
Would shout, “ We know the lady ! ”
Know her! Who knows not Uncle Tom
And her he learned his gospel from,
Has never heard of Moses ;
Full well the brave black band we know
That gave to freedom’s grasp the hoe
That killed the weed that used to grow
Among the Southern roses.
When Archimedes, long ago,
Spoke out so grandly, “ Dos pou sto,
Give me a place to stand on,
I 'll move your planet for you, now,” —
He little dreamed or fancied how
The sto at last should find its pou
For woman’s faith to land on.
Her lever was the wand of art,
Her fulcrum was the human heart,
Whence all unfailing aid is;
She moved the earth ! Its thunders pealed,
Its mountains shook, its temples reeled,
The blood-red fountains were unsealed,
And Moloch sunk to Hades.
All through the conflict, up and down
Marched Uncle Tom and Old John Brown,
One ghost, one form ideal;
And which was false and which was true,
And which was mightier of the two,
The wisest sibyl never knew,
For both alike were real.
Sister, the holy maid does well
Who counts her heads in convent cell,
Where pale devotion lingers ;
But she who serves the sufferer’s needs,
Whose prayers are spelt in loving deeds,
May trust the Lord will count her beads
As well as human fingers.
When Truth herself was Slavery’s slave,
Thy hand the prisoned suppliant gave
The rainbow wings of fiction.
And Truth who soared descends to-day
Bearing an angel’s wreath away,
Its lilies at thy feet to lay
With Heaven’s own benediction.


Queen of the months of the year !
Hour of her crowning and prime !
Everything royal and dear
Comes in this bountiful time.
Everything noble and high,
Everything lowly and sweet ;
Tree-tops are grand in the sky,
Daisies in bloom at our feet;
Roses aglow in the sun,
Grass growing rich for the blade :
Summer’s sweet marvel begun
New, as it never were made.
Sunshine, and blossom, and song,
Glory, and beauty, and praise ;
Blessing and gladness belong
To souls that are born on such days.
Came she but these to inherit,
Signs of her nature’s attune, —
Joyous and affluent spirit
Born in that far-away June ?
Gladdest is ten derest, too,
Joy is diviner of trouble ;
Power hath a service to do,
Sight that is true seeth double.
“ We and our neighbors.” That word
Grew in the heart of her heart;
Haunted the life-feast, and stirred
Plea for a people apart.
“ Seest Thou, hearest Thou not ?
It faileth,” was all she said.
Leaving her prayer with the Thought
That cares for the children’s bread.
She minded the marriage board, —
The wine that had not sufficed;
And one who looked to the Lord, —
Mary, the mother of Christ.
“ It faileth ! ” was all she said.
She knew that He knew the rest;
That his ear interpreted
The longing of her request.
Unto such pitiful asking
Strange that the answer should be, —
Swift and keen with its tasking, —
“ What have I to do with thee ?
“My time yet cometh” “Ah, Lord,” —
That cry for a people’s pain
Went up afresh with a word
That would not beseech in vain,—
“ Behold the death of their living!
The anguish of thy long years !
The thirst for wine of thanksgiving,
The drink of their bitter tears !”
Thirsted and suffered they still;
Strange was the waiting and loss;
None to deliver his will, —
None to bear forward his cross!
“ Waiteth it ever for me,
Message and process divine ?
Woman, what do I with thee ? ”
Was it denial, or sign ?
Was it rebuke, or a mission,
For her who turned in a breath,
Commanding with holy prevision,
“ Do ye whatever He saith !
“ Yes, though ye hear the sentence,
Go, fill ye up to the brim
The measure of your repentance,
Fill up, and bear unto Him ! ”
Into the hearts of the human
Purification of tears, —
That was the work of the woman ;
God gave the wine of the years !
Mary, elect of the Lord,
Yield we thy praise to another ?
She who hath wrought for his word
Is daughter and sister aud mother !


was read for her by Dr. Holmes, as follows : —

Arise, and call her blessed, — seventy years !
Each one a tongue to speak for her, who needs
No poor device of ours to tell to-day
The story of her glory in our hearts.
Precede us all, ye quiet lips of love,
Ye honors high of home, nobilities
Of mother and of wife, the heraldry
Of happiness ; dearer to her than were
The homage of the world. We yield unto
The royal rights of tenderness. Speak, then,
Before all voices, ripened human life !
Arise, and call her blessed, dark-browed men,
Who put the silver lyre aside for you,
Who could not stroll across the silken strings
Of fancy, while you wept uncomforted,
But rang upon the fetters of a race
Enchained the awful chord which pealed along
And echoed in the cannon-shot which broke
The manacle, and bade the bound go free.
She brought a nation on its knees for shame;
She brought a world into a black slave’s heart.
Where are our lighter laurels, O my friends,
Brothers and sisters of the busy pen ?
Five million freemen crown her birthday feast,
Before whose feet our little leaf we lay.
Arise and call her blessed, fainting souls,
For whom she sang the strains of holy hope!
Within the gentle twilight of her days,
Like angels hid, her own hymns visit her.
Her life no ivy-tangled door, but wide
And welcome to his solemn feet, who need
Not knock for entrance, nor one ever ask,
“ Who cometh there ?” So still and sure the step,
So well we know God doth “ abide in her.”
Oh, wait to make her blessed, happy world,
To which she looketh onward ardently !
Lie distan t, distant far, ye street’s of gold,
Where up and down light-hearted spirits walk,
And wonder that they stayed so long away !
Be patient for her coming, for our sakes,
Who will love heaven better, keeping her.
This only ask we: When from prayer to praise
She moves, and when from peace to joy, be hers
To know she hath the life eternal, since
Her own heart’s dearest wish did meet her


Mr. J. T. Trowbridge read a poem, which was afterwards printed in the Youth’s Companion; and by the kind courtesy of the proprietors of that paper it is reprinted here : —


Genius, ’t is said, knows not itself,
But works unconscious wholly.
Even so she wrought, who built in thought
The Cabin of the Lowly.
A wife with common wifely cares,
What mighty dreams enwrapt her!
What fancies burned, until she turned
To write some flaming chapter !
Over the humblest household task
The vision came, it may be:
While one hand held the flying pen,
The other hushed her baby.
Her life was like some quiet bridge,
Impetuous tides sweep under.
So week by week the story grew,
From wonder on to wonder.
Wisdom could not conceive the plot,
Nor wit and fancy spin it;
The woman’s part, the wife’s deep heart,
All mother’s love, were in it.
Hatred of tyranny and wrong,
Compassion sweet and holy,
Sorrow and Guilt and Terror built
That Cabin of the Lowly.
And in the morning light, behold,
By some divine mutation,
Its roof became a sky of flame,
A portent to the nation !
The Slave went forth through all the earth,
He preached to priest and rabbin ;
He spoke all tongues : in every land
Opened that lowly Cabin.
Anon a school for kinder rule,
For freer thoughts and manners ;
Then from its door what armies pour
With bayonets and banners !
More potent still than fires that kill,
Or logic that convinces,
The tale she told to high and low,
To peasants and to princes.
That tale belongs with Freedom’s songs,
The hero’s high endeavor,
And all brave deeds that serve the needs
Of Liberty forever !
I greet her now, when South and North
Have ceased their deadly quarrels ;
And say, or sing, while here I fling
This leaf upon her laurels :
She loosed the rivets of the slave ;
She likewise lifted woman,
And proved her right to share with man
All labors pure and human.
Women, they say, must yield, obey,
Rear children, dance cotillions:
While this one wrote, she cast the vote
Of unenfranchised millions !


Mrs. Allen, daughter of Mrs. Stowe, contributed the following poem, which was read by her husband, Rev. Henry F. Allen : —

A child came down to earth
Just seventy years ago,
And round its form the angels trod,
Whispering low,
“’T is an instrument
To be played by the hand of God.”
Time sped its steadfast way;
The child grew rosy and strong;
Unconscious she sweetly played,
With music right
And discord wrong,
The song that God had made.
The notes of the instrument rose
Sweeter and better each day,
Till it sung in clearest trumpet-tones,
“Cast off the bond,
Release the slave ;
’T is thy brother who bleeds and groans !
“ Oh, hear the cry of the wronged,
The hapless children of God !
With folded hands and tearful eyes,
Hopeless they stand ;
Patient and meek,
They bow and kiss the rod.”
O'er sea and mountain and shore,
The music thundered and rolled,
Till the angels in heaven reëchoed its strain,
And the love of man,
With the mercy of God,
Revived in our hearts again.
Though the instrument’s feelder grown,
’T will sound loud and full until death,
Like a harp with its strings Æolian blown,
Rising and falling,
Whispering and calling,
With the strength of God’s own breath.


Mrs. Fields was in Europe, but she wrote the following poem in honor of the occasion : —

Birds were singing in the trees;
Summer was abroad as now,
With her troop of murmuring bees,
And blossoms 'round her brow,
When, seventy years ago, there came
A little child to view the land,
Who found a torch with lighted flame
Made ready to her hand.
Fearless she held the fiery tongue
Close to her white and tender breast;
When lo ! the pain became a song
And prayers for the Oppressed.
Mother of a new-born race,
Daughter of a race to be,
Regent through the boundless space
Of sad humanity !
Is there realm to vie with thine,
Whither mortals may aspire!
Torch of love, the flame divine,
Hath called thee ever higher.
Who has taught the seer to know
Sorrow that was not her own !
Who has made her face to glow
Glad for another’s crown !
But by home fires, when day is done,
Charming young and soothing old,
Dearest laurels you have won,
While hearth-stones have grown cold.
Friend, how calm your sunset days !
Your peaceful eyes are set on heaven,
For peace upon the promise stays,—
Who loves much is forgiven.


England has Eliot, France has Sand, to show ,
America, her Harricy Beecher Stowe!
Thy fame, like his whose greeting fails us now,
Leaving the light on his remembered brow,
Has spanned the earth, till both to all belong
One through the might of story ; one, of song.
What language where thy Uncle Tom is not?
It speaks in every tongue, —a polyglot.
While tears and laughter rolled from it; apace,
Its soul helped gain the freedom of a race;
That freedom gained, for ages yet to come
The world will laugh and weep o’er Uncle Tom.
From sea to sea hath histrionic art
Made its creations into being start,
And lonely readers, seeing all they read,
Have ached with mirth, or with oppression bled.
Would that thy genius with a kindred stroke
The chains of mental slavery also broke !
Now against that we fain would have thee deal
The massive blow that all the world shall feel;
And while they laugh and weep at truth’s own face,
Seek to burst off the shackles that disgrace!
However much already we may owe,
Make our debt larger to the name of Stowe !


were made, but cannot be given here in full, as no complete report was taken of them.

Judge Albion W. Tourgee told in detail the story of his first reading of Uncle Tom’s Cabin, —of neglecting his hoeing to do it, of fleeing from an irate father, and of finishing the book in the woods. Mrs. Stowe had come into his life so that he looked back to her as his Jeanne d’Arc. He closed by saying, “ I followed her thought. I followed her lead, gloriously, gladly, though humbly, through that struggle ; and now I come gladly, earnestly, and feelingly to give my thanks to my mother.”

Rev. Edward Beecher spoke at some length of the bearing of the works of Mrs. Stowe upon the woman-suffrage question. He told of her work with the late Miss Catherine Beeelier at Hartford to extend the education of women, and affirmed that the course of God’s events is upward and oivward to a perfect coördination of the sexes in the work of the race.

Mr. Edward Atkinson described an interview between Professor Lieber and Senator Preston, of South Carolina, who was of the extreme type of Southern men before the war. Uncle Tom’s Cabin had just appeared, and conversation turned upon it. The senator was strongly excited, and in reply to a question he said, “ We have read Uncle Tom’s Cabin, and I know it is true. I can match every incident in it out of my own experience.”

Mr. Houghton stated that Mrs. Stowe would say a few words, and as she came to the front of the platform the company rose by a simultaneous impulse of affectionate respect, and listened with eager interest while she spoke as follows: —


I wish to say that I thank all my friends from my heart, — that is all. And one thing more, — and that is, if any of you have doubt, or sorrow, or pain, if you doubt about this world, just remember what God has done; just remember that this great sorrow of slavery has gone, gone by forever. I see it every day at the South, I walk about there and see the lowly cabins. I see these people growing richer and richer. I see men very happy in their lowly lot; but, to be sure, you must have patience with them. They are not perfect, but have their faults, and they are serious faults in the view of white people. But they are very happy, that is evident, and they do know how to enjoy themselves, — a great deal more than you do. An old negro friend in our neighborhood has got a new, nice two-story house, and an orange grove, and a sugar-mill. He has got a lot of money, besides. Mr. Stowe met him one day, and he said, “ I have got twenty head of cattle, four head of ‘ hoss,’ forty head of hen, and I have got ten children, all mine, every one mine.” Well, now, that is a thing that a black man could not say once, and this man was sixty years old before he could say it. With all the faults of the colored people, take a man and put him down with nothing but his hands, and how many could say as much as that? I think they have done well.

A little while ago they had at his house an evening festival for their church, and raised fifty dollars. We white folks took our carriages, and when we reached the house we found it fixed nicely. Every one of his daughters knew how to cook. They had a good place for the festival. Their suppers were spread on little white tables, with nice clean cloths on them. People paid fifty cents for supper. They got between fifty and sixty dollars, and had one of the best frolics you could imagine. They had also for supper ice-cream, which they made themselves.

That is the sort of thing I see going on around me. Let us never doubt. Everything that ought to happen is going to happen.

Music by the Germania Band and the Beethoven Club, and songs by Mrs. Humphrey Allen at intervals during the speeches and poems, lent variety and enjoyment. After Mrs. Stowe’s remarks, Mr. Houghton felicitously expressed the gratitude of the company to Mr. and Mrs. Claflin for the kind courtesy which had, with rare generosity, given their house and grounds for the festival. The company then dispersed slowly, many gathering about Mrs. Stowe for congratulation and farewell.


Many letters of regret were received, but only four of them were read at the Garden Party. All of them were placed in Mrs. Stowe’s hands, and some are printed below: —

FREMONT, OHIO, May 31, 1882.

I think I told you of our fondness for the books of Mrs. Stowe, and especially for Oldtown Folks. Since it first appeared, Mrs. Hayes has been in the habit of reading parts of it aloud in the family circle. Our children know the characters as old familiar acquaintances from childhood. Gloomy days have been made cheerful and sunny by reading it. We have often thought of writing Mrs. Stowe, and thanking her for the happiness she has given us. Her seventieth birthday ! Surely the author of Oldtown Folks can never grow old. Present to her our warm good wishes and congratulations and thanks. Your invitation is very welcome, and we regret that it cannot be accepted.

Sincerely, R. B. HAYES.


LONDON, May 29, 1882. J

Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to join in any manifestation of esteem for my old friend Mrs. Stowe, but it will be impossible for me to join the Garden Party, and almost as much so for me to write anything for the occasion, occupied as I continually am with matters so alien from poetry and sentiment.

I hope your Garden Party may have the success it deserves, and that Mrs. Stowe may survive many years to enjoy the honors she has so fully won. Faithfully yours,



STATEN ISLAND, N. Y., June 10, 1882. }

I am sincerely obliged by your kind invitation, and I regret exceedingly that it is impossible for me to accept it. It is the great happiness of Mrs. Stowe not only to have written many delightful books, but to have written one book which will be always famous, not only as the most vivid picture of an extinct evil system, but as one of the most powerful influences in overthrowing it. The light of her genius flashed the monster into hideous distinctness, and the country arose to destroy him. No book was ever more a historical event than Uncle Tom’s Cabin. In all times and countries women have nobly served justice and liberty, but it is doubtful if any single service to the good cause in this country is greater than that of Mrs. Stowe, You could have no guest more worthy of honor, and none to whom honor would be more gladly and universally paid. If all whom she has charmed and quickened should unite to sing her praises, the birds of summer would be outdone. Very truly yours, GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS.

ELMIRA, N. Y., June 10, 1832.

I regret that distance and occupation (in search of health) will not permit me to attend the Garden Party which you give in honor of Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe. With due respect to other able and charming writers, I put Mrs. Stowe at the head of all living American novelists, especially in the characteristics of power and sincerity, both of feeling and style. No intelligent contemporary can ignore, and the centuries to come will not soon forget, the immense influence which she has exercised over the history of our country. She has had, and will keep, a fortune of fame, and, by her talents and the nobility of her motives, has deserved it. I beg that you will present her an expression of the profound respect which I owe her as an author, as an American citizen, and as a man. Very respectfully yours, J. W. HE FOREST.


NEW YORK, June 7, 1882. J

No lady has done more by her pen to make a distinctively American literature than Mrs. Stowe, and every true American is proud to know that among women there is no name in letters more widely known to fame than hers. With many thanks for your invitation, I am very truly yours,


BOSTON, June 7, 1882.

Thanks for your invitation to the gathering in honor of Mrs. H. B. Stowe.

No tribute could be too great to her. I wish I could join in it, but the state of my family prevents. Yours respectfully,


NEW HAVEN, CONN, June 7, 1882.

No one has a higher admiration than myself of what this noble lady lias done by her pen for humanity. It is a great deprivation not to be present. Most truly yours, J. M. HOPPIN.

BOSTON, June 6, 1882.

I much regret that a previous engagement on the 14th instant must prevent my acceptance of your kind invitation for that day; the more that it would give me special pleasure to honor the birthday of one for whom I have so high and long-standing a regard as for Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe. Faithfully yotirs,


NEWPORT, R. I., June 7, 1882.

I exceedingly regret that I cannot join the “troops of friends” who will, by your kind invitation, unite in celebrating the birthday of one whom I have never had the pleasure of seeing, but shall always have the pleasure of reading, remembering, and admiring. With sincere regard, CHARLES T. BROOKS.

NEW YORK, June 8, 1882.

I thank you for the invitation to the Garden Party to be given in honor of the most renowned of our countrywomen, and I regret that I can find no way of escaping from arrangements already made, so as to give myself the pleasure of being present on that occasion. Mrs. Stowe’s well-deserved literary fame has had but one dangerous rival, namely, the world-wide celebrity of her brilliant and never-to-be-forgotten services opportunely rendered to humanity. It seems a trifle to add, but it marks a nature generous in small things as well as great that the author of Uncle Tom and of the Minister’s Wooing has always known how to show the most graceful and grateful kindness to younger and less famous writers.

Thanking you again for your kind invitation, I am, gentlemen, yours very sincerely, EDW. EGGLESTON.

LEXINGTON, VA., June 8, 1882.

It would give me very great pleasure to attend the Garden Party given in honor of the birthday of Harriet Beecher Stowe, did my college engagements permit. Mrs. Stowe’s brilliant genius deserves all possible recognition, not only from the North, but from the South, now “ the institution ” has passed away, and I should be one of the first to acknowledge its far-reaching power. I have the honor to be very truly yours, JAMES A. HARRISON,


June 0, 1882. f

The loss of two children recently has unfitted me for participation in any social pleasure, else I should eagerly embrace the opportunity to do honor to a gentlewoman who has done more, perhaps, than any other one person to influence the character and destinies of our land.

May she continue for many years to enjoy the serene consciousness of work well done, and of the abiding respect and affection of her countrymen. Sincerely yours, GEORGE CARY EGGLESTON.

NEW ORLEANS, June 9, 1882.

I thank you most gratefully for the kindness that remembers me at such a distance, and regret extremely my inability to respond in person. To be in New England would be enough for me. I was there once, — a year ago, — and it seemed as though I never had been home till then. To be there again, to join friends in rejoicing over tire continuance on earth of one who has earned the gratitude of two races of humanity, is greater than the measure of my cup. I can only send you, Blessings on the day when Harriet Beecher Stowe was born. Yours truly,



PHILADELPHIA, June 12, 1882.

Mr. Davis being absent from home, it is left to me to say liow sorry we are that we cannot be with you on Wednesday, to offer our friendliest greeting to your guest at this pleasant halting-place on her journey. She reminds-me of that noble lady in the Arabian Nights, who sent before her to the king seventy slaves, each bearing a golden casket full of jewels. As at seventy, however, you men and women of New England only begin to understand your full vigor, there will be many birthdays yet to come, on which we may hope to take her by the hand, and tell her how thoroughly we honor her and her work.

Yours sincerely,


WASHINGTON, D. C., June 5, 1882.

I am very much obliged by your kind and thoughtful invitation to be present at a party in honor of the birthday of Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe. I should be delighted to be present on such an occasion, for to no one person has it been given tc move so many minds and hearts in behalt of the lately enslaved as to Mrs, Stowe, Hers was the word for the hour, and it was given with skill, force, and effect. Let us honor her birthday, and hold up her example of great talents devoted to a great cause to the appreciation and edification of present and future generations. Respectfully,


ATLANTA, GA., June 20, 1882.

I owe a great deal, in one way and another, to the author of Uncle Tom’s Cabin. In 1862, when quite a youngster, I chanced to get hold of a copy of the book, and it made a more vivid impression upon my mind than anything I have ever read since. It may interest you to know that I read it on the plantation where Uncle Remus held forth, and within a stone’s throw of where ex-Secretary Seward taught school when he was a young man. Yours truly,


MADISON, WIS., June 9, 1882.

It would afford me the greatest pleasure to accept your kind invitation to be present at the Garden Party in honor of the birthday of Harriet Beecher Stowe. I am a great admirer of Mrs. Stowe, and am proud of her reputation for her own sake, and not less for the sake of our country.

Yours faithfully, R. B. ANDERSON.


June. 9, 1882. f

Please accept my hearty thanks for your invitation to the Garden Party in honor of Mrs. Stowe. The press of previous engagements renders it quite impossible for me to join you and her other friends in celebrating the “ threescore and ten ” of the woman whose one work did more to educate the North and make emancipation possible than anything else which was done. It is fitting that she should be greeted anew by the generation that read her story and recognized it as a battle, as well as the generation that lias grown up since it became a classic. Mrs. Stowe has the good fortune of combining the genius of a remarkably gifted family with the strength and tenderness of New England womanhood. She has antedated immortality by all the years since her worth was recognized and her fame was assured. It is her happiness to live in the atmosphere of friendship aud admiration she herself has made, as the suit moves in the splendor his own shining creates. Sincerely yours,



June 9, 1882.

Alike as a woman, an author, and a philanthropist, Mrs. Stowe has honored the country of her birth, and Americans will honor themselves in recognizing her exalted worth and the great value of her labors. As an abolitionist I am deeply grateful to her. It was in 1852, just after the last desperate effort of the slave power, by the aid of its Northern supporters, to overwhelm and crush the antislavery movement, when humanity was shuddering in view of the atrocities of the fugitive slave law, and the fires of persecution were raging furiously around the champions of freedom, that Uncle Tom’s Cabin came from the press to kindle fresh sympathy for the bondman throughout the civilized world, and fill the hearts of his enemies with despair. For twenty years the abolitionists had struggled against all the prejudices of caste, the hostility of political parties, and the combined opposition of the great ecclesiastical bodies of the land to create a public sentiment that would destroy slavery; and at the very moment when the prospect of success was eclipsed, and the hearts of multitudes were filled with fear and dread, Mrs. Stowe’s great work turned the tide of battle; and from that day forth the hosts of freedom, with constantly augmenting strength, marched with unfaltering step toward their great victory. All honor, then, I say, to Mrs. Stowe, and may her old age be crowned with light and peace. Yours respectfully,


BROOKLINE, MASS., June 10, 1882.

Mrs. Stowe commands my most affectionate admiration and reverence. I suppose she will be instantly recognized as the greatest of all American humorists, not only that she, like Cervantes and Molière, has elicited and delineated the fine lights and shades of character, but used her humor for the purpose of putting great social wrongs and vices out of countenance. Her tender and pathetic pictures of old New England life and character will, I believe, give to her in future years a place iu your literature; historical, like our English Fielding and Smollett, but with a purity and piety to which they have no claim. It would have been a great pleasure to me to tell Mrs. Stowe how often I have announced in my church in England some of her sweet verses, and heard them sung with hearty enjoyment by great congregations.

If your meeting of next Wednesday were in England, I think I could not forbear from calling, in our old English fashion, for three cheers for Old Tiff and Topsy. Please accept my grateful acknowledgments and regrets, and believe me, in hearty sincerity,


BROOKLYN, June 9,1882.

It would afford me great pleasure to be present on that occasion, as I hold Mrs. Stowe’s contributions to the world of letters in high estimation. Who has not suffered with that hero, Uncle Tom ? Who

has not wished to take part in the Minister’s Wooing? Who would not learn the genesis of that delicate creation, the “ Quaker settlement,” and buy a corner lot there ? Who has not felt that the pen which outlined the life and death of little Eva was guided by an angel hand? Respectfully yours,


ELMIRA, N. Y., June 9, 1882.

The original Uncle Tom (the only one known as such by thc children of her who has given the name a world-wide reputation) regrets his inability to share in the festivities of the 14th instant, to which you invite him,

He will not be, however, unmindful of his sister’s birthday when it shall come, and is grateful to you and to other distinguished friends for the honors with which you are planning its decoration, and he remains, gentlemen, with sincere regard,

Yours truly,


CINCINNATI, June 9, 1882.

Nothing could afford me greater pleasure than an opportunity to unite in honoring a woman who has done so much for the cause of humanity. Mrs. Stowe’s pen did more to strike the chains from four million slaves than the sword. She is justly appreciated in her own day, and her name will occupy in history one of its brightest pages. Do me the favor to convey to Mrs. Stowe my regards, and the wish that her useful life may be long continued and enjoyed.

Truly yours,


BROOKLYN, N. Y-, June 12, 1882.

It gives us great pleasure to learn that you propose to celebrate, by appropriate honors, the birthday of one of the most gifted of American authors. The writings of Mrs. Stowe have been our familiar reading, from her earliest sketches in the Mayflower. We have followed her brilliant career as an author through all the varied productions of her pen, which have won for her a world-wide reputation, wherever English literature is known. She ranks, by universal consent, among the foremost of female writers; surpassed by none, and approached by few. What is still higher and nobler than mere literary merit, the tendency of her writings is uniformly healthful, and their moral and religious influences are always elevating and inspiring. We have long enjoyed the personal friendship of Mrs. Stowe and her honored husband, and we would gladly share in the festivities in honor of her birthday, were it in our power to leave our home at this time.

Very respectfully,

T. J. and E. C. CONANT.


30 CLINTON BEACE, NEW YORK, June 12, 1882. )

In common with the many thousands who have been delighted and thrilled by the words her pen lias written, — thousands in this, and thousands in many another land, — I wish for her yet long and faithful years on earth, and the joy that may come as she understands how her name will be cherished in the years still beyond.

Thanking you for the honor of your remembrance, I am, with great respect,

Yours sincerely,



June 9, 1882. J

I know of no one whom it would delight me more to honor than Mrs. Stowe. She has indelibly impressed the most important era of our country, and made us a grander and nobler people. Hundreds of thousands of young people like myself were brought to a higher appreciation of humanity through Uncle Tom’s Cabin than they ever could have had without that wonderful book. Please give to your honored guest the congratulations of one who from his boyhood has been an ardent admirer. Yours truly,




June, 10, 1882. '

My remembrance of Mrs. Stowe is always associated with delightful June days at the old Stowe Cottage in Andover. I am glad that her birthday is to be celebrated by a Garden Party, and not by a great dinner. She always, I remember, preferred a picnic to an evening party. She loved nature, and for her there was a charm in the natural and characteristic expression of men and women (of even the lowliest) that she could not feel in the elaborate utterances of the most brilliant orator. She almost demanded of poetry that it should be an improvisation, and this love of the natural is the key to the understanding of her own work, and has been the secret of her power, which has not been a literary power only ; it has been illustrated by events within her own life-time.

It was my good fortune to receive through Mrs. Stowe my first introduction to the world of letters, —that is, as a writer, — and I cordially unite with her friends in their tribute to her genius, and in that which is more precious to her, the tribute of affectionate remembrance.

Regretting that I cannot he one of your Garden Party, and thanking you for your courteous invitation, I am sincerely'yours,


NEW YORK,June 13, 1882.

It would be a great pleasure to me if I could unite with you and your guests, on the 14th, in doing honor to Mrs. Stowe. Rut as I am unable to be present at the Garden Party, I must content myself with being one of the vast body of absent friends and well-wishers who rejoice in everything that adds to Airs. Stowe’s honor and happiness.

Yours very truly,


OTTAWA, IL., June 12, 1882.

Did circumstances permit, nothing could give me more pleasure than to join you in doing honor to one who has so largely contributed to American literature, and done so much to elevate its tone and extend its fame. May she live to witness many returns of that happy day which gave to the world a light whose radiance has illuminated all lands where letters are cultivated and refinement is appreciated. But circumstances forbid my personal attendance, though in thought I shall he with you.

Most respectfully yours,



BOSTON, MASS., Jane 15, 1882. j

I beg to congratulate you upon your privilege of thus honoring this so much esteemed and distinguished lady, and upon the remarkable success and historical character of the occasion. It was an event of which your house may well be proud.

Thanking you for the compliment, which the Fates seem to have miscarried, believe me yours very truly,



June 14, 188-2. j

Mrs. Stowe’s noble work in the cause of the freedom of man makes her birthday one of the anniversaries oE humanity, and I should be glad to testify my deep respect by my presence.

Very kindly yours,



It would be to me a special privilege and pleasure to participate, if it were possible, in the event that is intended to be a tribute of respect to the author of Uncle Tom’s Cabin, which ushered in the dawn of the new and glorious day that gave liberty to the slave, and made human freedom in America an actual verity, rather than an empty boast.

I bow with profoundest respect and veneration to the noble woman who has done so much for our country and for humanity.

Respectfully yours,


GENEVA, OHIO, June 7, 1882.

Your kind invitation, which makes me guest-elect at the Garden Party of June 14th, gives me very great pleasure, exceeded only by the regret I feel at my inability to attend. To meet the lady whose birthday is honored has been a long-cherished wish, and I scarcely permit myself — for aggravation of disappointment—to think of the many others among the dii majores of our literature who will doubtless be present, and whom I must forego seeing. Believe me, with grateful appreciation of your courtesy, very sincerely yours, EDITH M. THOMAS.

Letters of regret were also received from Rev. William H. Beecher, Gov. John D. Long, Judge E. H. Bennett, Rev. Phillips Brooks, President Eliot, Dr. Samuel Eliot, Prof. Alexander Agassiz, Mr. John T. Morse, Jr., Mr. Henry Cabot Lodge, Prof. Moses Coit Tyler, Hon. Carl Schurz, Mr. E. L. Godkin, Mr. John Burroughs, Mr. Whitelaw Reid, Col. John Hay, Mr. Henry James, Rev. Samuel Longfellow, Mr. Ernest Longfellow and the Misses Longfellow, Dr. E. W. Emerson and Miss Ellen Emerson, Mr. and Mrs. William H. Forbes, Mr. J. Elliot Cabot, Gen. A. C. McClurg, Mr. Robert Clarke, Mr. J. W. Harper, Jr., Mr. Alexander Williams, Mr. E. P. Dutton, Rev. J. M. Buckley, Rev. H. L. Wayland Mr. Murat Halstead, Judge Nathaniel Holmes, Gen. F. A. Walker, Judge Charles A. Ray, Rev. Dr. C. A. Bartol, Prof. J. W. Churchill, Prof. Charles Eliot Norton, Miss L. M. Alcott, Mrs. Julia Ward Howe, Col. T. W. Higginson, Mr. S. L. Clemens, Mr. John S. Dwight, Mr. Francis Parkman, Mr. Josiah Quincy, Mrs. Owen Wister. Rev. Dr. F. H. Medge, Rev. Edward Abbott, Mr. Wendell P. Garrison, Miss Anna E. Ticknor, Rev. T. T. Munger, and many others.