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Charles E. Stowe, Harriet Beecher Stowe compiled from her letters and journals by her son Charles Edward Stowe 6 0 Browse Search
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Charles E. Stowe, Harriet Beecher Stowe compiled from her letters and journals by her son Charles Edward Stowe, Chapter 8: first trip to Europe, 1853. (search)
eum out and out. The Tribune is full of it. The Observer, the Journal of Commerce, and all that sort of fellows, are astonished and nonplussed. They do not know what to say or do about it. While the English editions of the story were rapidly multiplying, and being issued with illustrations by Cruikshank, introductions by Elihu Burritt, Lord Carlisle, etc., it was also making its way over the Continent. For the authorized French edition, translated by Madame Belloc, and published by Charpentier of Paris, Mrs. Stowe wrote the following:-- Preface to the European edition. In authorizing the circulation of this work on the Continent of Europe, the author has only this apology, that the love of man is higher than the love of country. The great mystery which all Christian nations hold in common, the union of God with man through the humanity of Jesus Christ, invests human existence with an awful sacredness; and in the eye of the true believer in Jesus, he who tramples on the
Charles E. Stowe, Harriet Beecher Stowe compiled from her letters and journals by her son Charles Edward Stowe, Chapter 10: from over the sea, 1853. (search)
The first question which he proposed, with a genuine French air, was the question of pose or position. It was concluded that, as other pictures had taken me looking at the spectator, this should take me looking away. M. Belloc remarked that M. Charpentier said I appeared always with the air of an observer,--was always looking around on everything. Hence M. Belloc would take me en observatrice, mais pas en curieuse,-with the air of observation, but not of curiosity. By and by M. Charpentier M. Charpentier came in. He began panegyrizing Uncle Tom, and this led to a discussion of the ground of its unprecedented success. In his thirty-five years experience as a bookseller, he had known nothing like it. It surpassed all modern writings! At first he would not read it; his taste was for old masters of a century or two ago. Like M. Belloc in painting, said I. At length he found his friend M., the first intelligence of the age, reading it. What, you, too? said he. Ah, ah! replied the frien