What Iowans Were Reading in 1876

 

In 1876, books were like pets. You didn’t have many, and if you lost one, you never got over it.

 Iowans were still clutching Uncle Tom’s Cabin like it was the last moral compass on earth. It had been out for years, but everyone was still crying over it. Pretending they’d learned something about humanity. Spoiler: they hadn’t.

 

Little Women was everywhere. Every girl wanted to be Jo; nobody wanted to be Beth (because, you know, death). The boys pretended they didn’t read it while secretly flipping through for the fight scenes. Louisa May Alcott had basically hacked the female brain: and given them sisterhood, heartbreak, and just enough sass to make it feel rebellious.

 

Charles Dickens still haunted America. Christmas wasn’t Christmas without A Christmas Carol, and you couldn’t swing a cat without hitting a copy of David Copperfield or A Tale of Two Cities. Every time someone picked one up, they said, “I’ll just read a few pages.” Three weeks later, they were still trapped in Victorian fog.

Religious books sold like hotcakes. There were titles like The Young Man’s Guide to Upright Living and Moral Lessons for the Home, which were basically 300 pages of “Don’t have fun.” Every household had one, hidden away in a corner or propping up a table leg.

 

Mark Twain came on the scene like a drunken uncle kicking down the door. The Adventures of Tom Sawyer dropped in 1876. It was messy and funny and full of lies—like childhood itself. Tom tricked his friends into painting a fence, faked his own death, and made mischief sound like an art form.

 

Twain’s genius was that he made sin fun. Kids did dumb things for good reasons, and somehow it all made sense. Adults clutched their pearls, but secretly they got it. Tom was the kid they used to be before life buried them in chores and sermons.

 

Other authors were trying to teach morals; Twain was just trying to tell the truth. The river, the cave, the treasure—it was all alive, loud, and American. Reading Tom Sawyer felt like sneaking out after dark.

 

So that’s what Iowans were reading in 1876: Alcott for sweetness, Dickens for guilt, Stowe for righteousness, and Twain for fun.