Nor was that the first time
her beauty had been revealed to me, but she was seldom seen to be
beautiful by the great world, and the pleasure of this recognition was
very great to those who loved her.
She was never afflicted with a personal consciousness of her
reputation, nor was she trammeled by it. The sense that a great work
had been accomplished through her only made her more humble, and her
shy, absent-minded ways were continually throwing her admirers into
confusion. Late in life (when her failing powers made it impossible
for her to speak as one living in a world which she seemed to have
left far behind) she was accosted, I was told, in the garden of her
country retreat, in the twilight one evening, by a good old retired
sea captain who was her neighbor for the time. "When I was younger,"
said he respectfully, holding his hat in his hand while he spoke, "I
read with a great deal of satisfaction and instruction 'Uncle Tom's
Cabin.' The story impressed me very much, and I am happy to shake
hands with you, Mrs. Stowe, who wrote it." "I did not write it,"
answered the white-haired old lady gently, as she shook the captain's
hand. "You didn't?" he ejaculated in amazement. "Why, who did, then?"
"God wrote it," she replied simply. "I merely did his dictation."
"Amen," said the captain reverently, as he walked thoughtfully away.
This was the expression in age of what lay at the foundation of her
life. She always spoke and behaved as if she recognized herself to be
an instrument breathed upon by the Divine Spirit.
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