Twain vs. Stowe

In Uncle Tom’s Cabin, Stowe introduces possibly the most well-known bi-racial characters in literature. While she conforms her Black and White characters to the conventions of the time (Blacks speak with the garbled language of the uneducated while Whites speak with clear and proper English), her bi-racial characters, specifically seen in George (a mulatto) and Eliza (a quadroon) Harris, present somewhat of a conundrum. Eliza  and George both speak with the perfect, flowing, flowery language used to represent Whites. Is Stowe’s depiction of these slaves accurate or has she romanticized reality in order to sell her story?

Mark Twain, on the other hand, depicts his bi-racial characters (who are “less-Black” than Eliza and George) with the broken, garbled language of the other slaves. Roxanne, though only one-sixteenth Black, speaks no differently than the slaves with a more solid heritage.

So, which author is properly depicting the bi-racial slaves? Is it Stowe, the little lady with a message, or Twain, the sarcastic humorist, who can give the reader a realistic picture of life in the 1830-50s?

While I thoroughly enjoyed Uncle Tom’s Cabin, I must admit, my confidence lies with the crass and sarcastic Twain.

Why? Let’s look at the lives of the authors.

Stowe was born and raised in the North—in fact, she never actually lived in a state that allowed slavery. Her story is based on a belief and written from testimonies and distant observation. She never actually experienced or observed the brutality of slavery. Does that make her story less pertinent or her cause less just? No, but it may mean it is less realistic.

Twain was born in a state torn in half by the slave issue. Though it entered the Union as a slave state, Missouri citizens were unsettled concerning the slavery issue. In The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Twain creates a fictional story with factual basis. Huck’s greatest struggle rests on his belief concerning Blacks: are they people or aren’t they? He boldly lays aside his life for his belief that the slaves are the same as anybody else and deserve the same freedom.

Kinda sounds like an uneducated version of Stowe’s thesis, huh?

But Twain’s depiction of the bi-racial characters is in direct opposition to Stowe’s—how can this be? The difference exists because Twain drew from personal experience. He wrote of the life he heard, smelt, and felt as a young boy. His dialectical representation can be trusted because he doesn’t use it because of conventional beliefs—he uses the native language of common people to create realistic characters, with all their quirks, that will forever represent the small, river town of Hannibal, Missouri.

(442)

Nature vs. Nurture

Puddin’head Wilson presents an age-old question: which is more affective to child rearing, nature or nurture?

The advocates of the nature argument say that the child is what he is because of his heritage and circumstances. A child becomes a thief because of his heritage or ethnicity or because he was driven to do so by circumstance. The child’s attributes are inherent. In Twain’s day, slaves were characterized as troublesome and mischievous because of their heritage and because of their circumstantial environment of being a slave (nevermind that they had no opportunity to change their circumstances due to the slave system).

The advocates of the nurture argument propose that a child is what he is because of how he is treated. The nurturing hand of his mother (father, grandmother, or guardian) determine the characteristic outcome of the child. The child’s attributes are learned. In complete contrast to their assumptions of slaves, the Whites of the 19^th Century believed that the good and bad attributes of “free men” (generally middle to upper-class Whites) were learned from a variety of influences. If a man became a drunk it was because he learned to do so. If he became a good, compassionate master, it was because his father was one.

Twain challenges the reader’s stance concerning nature and nurture when Roxy “saves” her son by switching him with her master’s son. Which argument is Twain defending? Does he support nature or nurture?

In my own humble opinion, he supports neither—and yet he supports both.

The outcome of the lives of ‘Tom’ and ‘Chambers’ can be defended by both parties. According to the era’s assumptions of nature, ‘Tom’ behaves like a thieving, mischievous slave and ‘Chambers’ embodies the  . . . uh . . . humility of his aristocratic ancestors. And yet, the boys’ nurture must receive some credit—would ‘Tom’ have become a drunken gambler if he had never been to Yale? Would ‘Chambers’ have been as strong had he not fought for ‘Tom’? Did the constant rebuke and reminder of his status make ‘Chambers’ humble?

While studying education, I have come to a similar conclusion. The answer is not nature OR nurture, but nature AND nurture. The two work together to create a man. One cannot be separated from the other. I am who I am because of my heritage, circumstance (environment), and the instruction and models of those authorities in my life.

(402)

Clemons' Frankenstein

While sitting at a party with her husband and friends, Mary Shelley created the world’s most well known and beloved monster: Frankenstein’s monster. Since Frankenstein’s exclamation “It’s alive!” critics have disputed the humanity of the creature that has become a household name.

But this post isn’t about Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein.

On November 30, 1835, a young lad was born in the little Mississippi River town of Hannibal, Missouri. Samuel L. Clemons grew up dreaming of life on the river. As a young man he fulfilled his dream by becoming a riverboat captain on the Mississippi. For Sam, life moved with the ever-changing flow of the river. The river was his life source and passion. But the river was also the inception of Clemons’ own monster.

After the death of his younger brother, Clemons left Hannibal and the Mississippi for the booming West. Out west, Clemons revived his writing talent and published several short stories in the local paper, the most famous of which is “The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County.” As his popularity increased, Clemons created his alter ego—his penname—Mark Twain.

The monster Clemons created displayed a will of its own. Just as the monster Frankenstein created by grafting together dead body parts. The creator no longer had reign over his creation. Frankenstein spent the bulk of his existence chasing the shadow of his monster. So much so, that our culture attributes the name ‘Frankenstein’ to the creation, not the creator.

Such is the life of Samuel Clemons after the introduction of the bold, sarcastic, and brilliant Mark Twain. Though Twain’s works creatively retell the memories and adventures of one Samuel Clemons, no one remembers the old riverboat captain. In fact, I would go as far to say that most of the world would be stumped if asked, “who is Samuel Clemons?”

Samuel Clemons struggled against Mark Twain’s overwhelming popularity for the rest of his life. No one cared about Sam Clemons, the family man—they wanted to know Mark Twain the humorist and brilliant author of common American life. 


Clemons created his monster and spent his life reeling in the shadows of Mark Twain.

(358)

Impractical Religion

Scripture is the backbone of Uncle Tom’s Cabin. Page after page of the novel contains some reference to Scripture—I don’t think two pages go by without the Bible being referenced in some way. Obviously, Stowe sought to defend her abolitionist views with the same weapon of the slave owners: the Bible. As I read Uncle Tom’s Cabin, I was encouraged spiritually—Stowe’s use of Scripture challenged me to use and demonstrate my faith in every area of my life.

But, I must agree with the critics that Stowe’s use of Scripture may have created an impractical character.

Jane P. Tompkins, a 1970s feminist critic of Uncle Tom’s Cabin, outlines Stowe’s thesis as one focused on “the saving power of Christian love.” Stowe demonstrates and personifies this thesis through Uncle Tom and Evangeline St. Clare. Both characters humbly give their lives in service to others. Uncle Tom sacrifices himself for the salvation of Shelby’ other slaves and eventually gives his life for the freedom of Cassie and Emmeline. Eva, the little evangelist, takes the sin and trials of others to heart. She dies calling her loved ones to Christ, just as her name suggests. I love these pictures of faithful Christian witness.

At this point, the title to my blog post may confuse you. I am not suggesting that Stowe should not have used personification of Biblical characters in her novel. Quite the opposite, in fact. But I must grudgingly admit that some of the critics were right when they concluded that Uncle Tom was too religious to be real.

So, what got me to this point—that Uncle Tom is impractically religious? In the article that appeared in London’s The Times on 3 September 1852, the journalist notes that not even pre-fall Adam could life up to the perfection Stowe gives Uncle Tom. At first, I wanted to disagree. I wanted to shout, “BLASPHEMY!” so all could hear my distain for such a comment. But then, I started thinking about Uncle Tom—a man who was saved in late life at a camp meeting, a man who served as a pastor, a man who consistently witnessed to those above him, a man who died bringing others to Christ—all while under the bonds of slavery. Would I be able to show such faith under the same circumstances? As I read, I began to realize that Stowe may have, indeed, created an impractical religious character.

As George Holmes cynically noted in his criticism, “Finally, brethren, whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report they are found in Uncle Tom.”

(477)

Oh the Irony

While I thoroughly enjoyed Uncle Tom’s Cabin, I must admit that several situations in the novel were, well, a little too ironic for practicality. Yes, the story captivates the audience, but there were a few occasions when, with a squint in my eye and a twist in my neck I cringed as I “accepted” a situation that just seemed out of place.

For example, Eliza flees unprepared into the night to protect Harry from being taken by Haley. No one knew that Eliza was leaving. She runs North to Canada only because George had mentioned doing the same thing. Her plan is impulsive—she has only one goal in mind: cross the Ohio River. What will she do next?

George carries out his plan and escapes to the North dressed as a Spaniard the day after he hears of Eliza’s flight. George acts with boldness and caution as he travels through Kentucky. He has taken every necessary precaution—he has colored his skin and mutilated the scar on his hand—to ensure that his escape would be successful.

The couple has separated because of necessity: one flees North unprepared, the other slips North with a cautious, meticulous plan. Their destination is the same, Canada, but it is unlike that they should ever meet again.

But wait! Under the most unlikely of circumstances, the little family meets while under the care of the Halliday family in Indiana. Ironic? Well, let’s just say my neck turned half an inch and my eye started twitching a little.

Stowe doesn’t stop there. My greatest criticism lies in the blatantly forced irony at the close of the novel. Not only does Stowe push reality with the meeting of George and Eliza, but she ties up nearly every other loose end concerning their stories! On his way back to Kentucky after finding Uncle Tom dead, Master George Shelby meets up with Cassie, the sexually abused slave on Legree’s farm. Cassie reveals that she is a runaway slave and the young Shelby assists her and Emmeline in their flight to freedom. While on the Mississippi, Shelby and Cassie meet Madame de Thoux, a former slave who married her master and is now a free woman. In less than a page Stowe reveals that Thoux is George Harris’ long lost sister and that Cassie is Eliza Harris’ mother! If your eyes and neck aren’t twitching by this point you must be blind . . . or stupid.

Oh the irony! Truly, according to Stowe, this is a small world. But she doesn’t stop there—Thoux and Cassie meet up with George and Eliza in Canada . . . then they all move to Liberia, Africa and may or may not have run into Topsy, who is now a missionary.

What audacity! After going through such lengths to create a realistic story of slavery in 1850, Stowe’s ending seems to be a conundrum. Please, Mrs. Stowe, respect your readers. The book would have done well to skip “the rest of the story” and end with the Harris’ in Canada, Uncle Tom memorialized, and Cassie free from Legree.

(518)

Critiquing the Critics

So, for a class project I got the opportunity to do some additional research on Uncle Tom’s Cabin—mostly critiques. Let me tell you, the critics from 1850 (all male) were brutal!

I read five criticisms included in Norton’s Anthology of Uncle Tom’s Cabin, 2^nd Edition, edited by Elizabeth Ammons. If you have read Uncle Tom’s Cabin and have access to the Norton Critical Edition, I would encourage you to look through the criticisms by George Sand, William Allen, George Holmes, “anonymous” (London’s The Times), Charles Dudley Warner, and Jane P. Tompkins. Their critiques give a balanced view of Stowe’s work “then and now.”

Ironically (but not at all surprising), the early critics’ greatest argument against Uncle Tom’s Cabin was the gender of the author. All admitted, though somewhat grudgingly, that Stowe’s story was compelling and emotional, but argued that she had stepped outside her bounds by writing on such a political topic. Tompkins, whose criticism was released after the feminist movement of the 1960s, was the only critic to give Stowe any credence as an author. And rightly so. When you consider the mentality of the world in 1850 (a male-dominated society), it is understandable that the men wished Stowe would have stayed at home. But she told the story the world needed to hear.

I must, however, laugh at the obstinate, bigoted criticism of George Holmes. Holmes published his critique in The Southern Literary Messenger  in October of 1852, shortly after Uncle Tom’s Cabin was published. Holmes is probably the most belligerent of the critics concerning Stowe’s gender. In relation to talent as a writer, Holmes says, “Possessed of a happy faculty of description, asn easy and natural style, and uncommon command of pathos and considerable dramatic skill, she might, in the legitimate exercise of such talents, have done much to enrich the literature of America, and to gladden and elevate her fellow beings” (505). Sound nice, right? A polite compliment of a Southern gentleman . . . but wait, there’s more. “But she has chosen to employ her pen for purposes of a less worthy nature. . . . to sow, in this blooming garden of freedom, the seeds of strife and violence and all direful contentions.” Now, I could be wrong, but I don’t think the Civil War is the fault of Harriet Beecher Stowe—even if President Lincoln did say, “So this is the little lady who started this great war.” Again, at this point Holmes probably hasn’t gone any further than other contemporary critics. Even when he remarks that Stowe (and other women of New England) should not be treated equally and should, as a female, keep her mouth shut concerning politics. He even has the audacity to quote I Timothy 2 (“Let the woman learn in silence with all subjection. But I suffer not a woman to teach, nor to usurp authority over the man, but to be in silence.”), which I’m quite sure he has taken out of context.

Holmes has other criticisms concerning Uncle Tom’s Cabin—the seeming disunity of the two stories, the fact that slaves are viewed as good and slave owners as evil, the unrealistic piety of Uncle Tom, and Stowe’s supposed misrepresentation of Southern slave laws, just to name a few. But the kicker, the remark that sent me reeling in a mix of laugher and scorn was his closing sentence: a single suggestion that the author open her Bible to Exodus 20 and take to hear the words, “Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor.” Really sir? You have the audacity to misquote Scripture, not just once, but twice and defend a practice so inhumane . . . well, at least we know how that turned out. It appears, sir, that Mrs. Stowe was right after all—American society—specifically the cruelty of slavery—had to change. And it did.

(646)

Modern Day Joseph

Stowe’s extensive use of Scripture throughout Uncle Tom’s Cabin is amazing. Truly, one must have a knowledge of the Bible in order to fully understand many of the author’s driving thoughts. We’ve enjoyed several laughs as the editors of the Norton Anthology consistently take Scripture references out of context or reference the wrong passage all together.

Despite Norton’s rather ineffective insight on Biblical references, I have learned much from the inclusion of Scripture in Uncle Tom’s Cabin. Multiple times throughout the novel Stowe references Uncle Tom as a modern day Joseph.

Joseph, sold as a slave by his jealous brothers, found himself in the home of Potiphar, one of the most influential men in Egypt. Though a slave, Joseph won Potiphar’s trust and eventually became the overseer of all of Potiphar’s property. Genesis 39:2-4 says, “And the LORD was with Joseph, and he was a prosperous man; and he was in the house of his master the Egyptian. And his master waw that the LORD was with him, and that the LORD made all that he did to prosper in his hand. And Joseph found grace in his sight, and he served him: and he [Potiphar] made him [Joseph] overseer over his house, and all that he [Potiphar] had he put into his [Joseph’s] hand.”

As Stowe introduces Uncle Tom’s character through a discussion between Haley, Shelby says, “Tom is an uncommon fellow; he is certainly worth that sum anywhere,—steady, honest, capable, manages my whole farm like a clock” (2). Like Potiphar trusted Joseph with all he had, Shelby blindly trusted Tom to manage everything.

After Tom is sold to Haley and then to St. Clare, Stowe reinforces Tom’s connection with Joseph. In the first sentence of Chapter XVIII Stowe remarks that, “Our friend Tom, in his own simple musings, often compared his more fortunate lot [living with the St. Clares], in the bondage into which he was cast, with that of Joseph in Egypt; and, in fact, as time went on, and he developed more and more under the eye of his master, the strength of the parallel increased” (185). The careless St. Clare recognizes Tom’s management skills and places the care of the household finances in Tom’s hands. What remarkable trust! Tom could have done anything—he “had every facility and temptation to dishonesty; and nothing but an impregnable simplicity of nature, strengthened by Christian faith, could have kept him from it” (186).

Just as Joseph fled from the temptation of Potiphar’s wife, Tom fled from the temptation of misusing the trust given him by God. You can almost hear him incredulously quote Joseph to skeptics: “how then can I do this great wickedness, and sin against God?” (Genesis 39:9).

(453)

The Flight of a Slave

Driven to debt by selfish indulgence, Shelby sells Uncle Tom and little Harry Harris to the conniving Haley to cover his debts. The plan has gone of smoothly—he will meet with his wife in the evening to inform her of the sale, too late for her to correct the situation. Everything is going as well as could be expected . . . or is it?

Eliza Harris, Harry’s mother, overheard the transaction between her Master and the slave trader. Were she asked to do anything else for her Master, she would—but part with her son? It just cannot be done. Quickly and quietly Eliza packs a bag for herself and her young son. At midnight she slips from the Shelby house and heads for the rows of slave cabins. She must find Uncle Tom.

Tom and Chloe hear a soft rap on their door just as they are heading to bed—the evening’s worship and praise service went well into the night and the last slaves just left for their own cabins. Who then, could be at the door? As the door opens, Tom and Chloe see Eliza, pale and nervous, anxiously standing before them clutching her young son. 

No power of persuasion will convince Uncle Tom to flee North with Eliza and Harry—not the cries of his wife, not the thought of the harsh slavery in the South—Tom knows his place, and it is serving his Master, whomever that may be.

But he won’t discourage another slave from running.

With a blessing from Uncle Tom and Aunt Chloe, Eliza runs into the darkness, desperately seeking to save her son from the New Orleans slave auctions. Eliza hurries along motivated by pure adrenaline until she reaches the Ohio River. Stranded on the Kentucky side until the ice breaks up, Eliza lays Harry down and rests uneasily as the morning breaks.

Eliza runs for freedom and for love. By leaving the Shelby’s, she risks separating herself from the only world she has ever known—knowing that she will never see it again. Will she and Harry make it to Canada? Will she find her husband along the way? Or is the flight of this slave just another sad story for the martyrdom?

(375)